#twatd

[jessread-s]

✩🧞✨Review:

Ahdieh’s retelling of “The Arabian Nights” is made magical by her prose. 

Unfortunately, I did not love this book as much as I would’ve had I read it in middle school. As someone early in their twenties, I found myself getting frequently frustrated by the rash decisions made by Shahrzad (Shazi)—the novel’s sixteen-year-old protagonist—and how quickly she abandoned her revenge plot even though I likely would have had the same impulsive behavior at that age.  

I also had trouble investing in the romantic relationship between Shazi and Khalid (her love interest and the Caliph of Khorasan) because it developed too quickly for my tastes and did not seem believable as a result. Shazi claimed to hate him so much because of the women he killed, his difficult personality, and the numerous secrets he kept from her, but then fell for him at a moment’s notice citing his dashing appearance. Both characters presented many red flags, Shazi especially for initiating strange sexual encounters that I could not wrap my brain around.

While their romantic connection forms almost instantly, the novel’s main conflict does not present itself until the very end, which is frustrating. I did, however, enjoy Ahdieh’s beautiful, immersive prose. She uses language that is reminiscent of her source material to build a world with magic and deadly curses that the reader explores through alternating points-of-view. 

➤ 4 stars

Cross-posted to: Instagram | Amazon | Goodreads | StoryGraph

[macbethz]

Going back to reading gillen after so many bad and mid comics is like a breath of fresh air finally someone who can write

[flower-cage]

Scratch That

by @flower-cage

Ao3 | Masterlist | NEW! Part 2: Denial

Aemond Targaryen x Sister!Reader

Summary: His sweet little sister has an itch only he can scratch.

Words: 4,246

Warnings: 18+ only; Targcest/incest, Perv!Aemond, Manipulative!Aemond, smut, fluff, purity culture, Aemond likes that she is naive and takes advantage of it.

A/N: lol remember when I said I didn’t want to write incest. Instead of writing TWATD, I’ve been working on this. It is unbeta’d and it is cursed and I will write more parts to it probably.

Minors do not interact.

You had always been a fierce crier, his sweet little sister. As a babe, you drove your mother and wet nurses to tears themselves with your wailing. As a child, just about anything set off your sorrow: a scrape of your knee, Aegon’s pinchings and teasings, thunderstorms... And as you grew to become a young, fair maiden, this childish trait persisted.

It had never bothered him - your crying - though it did others, and for that reason, it was he that you sought after for comfort. And he always took you in his most loving embrace, for no one had cried harder the night his eye was taken from him, no one had shared his pain of injustice quite so vividly, so everlastingly.

You had walked in as your mother and older sister disputed in the large hall, having had your rest interrupted, so clearly fatigued and holding on to your favorite plush doll. He knew it was coming before it happened. You always looked for him first in a crowded room, eyes scanning right past your family as they altercated. When your eyes found him, he saw it coming in the their wettish gleam and in the trembling of your bottom lip. You had run to him fast, your small frame mostly undetected as it moved through the crowd in desperation. 

None took note of the youngest Targaryen as you clung to him and descended into dejection, with your nose tucked to his neck and his arm wound tightly around you. None but for him, for nobody loved you as he did, and no one would ever deserve you as he did.

As children, you had been close, seeking each other’s company to chase one another around the gardens in the Red Keep, play fighting and picking flowers alike. But after the night he claimed Vhagar, you became positively inseparable - be it because you sought to comfort him for his mutilation, be it because you were the only company he wished to keep. Your child’s play became bound to the walls of your private chambers more often, away from the pitying and terrified stares of the nobility and the commoners who lived and worked at the castle. Though you had watched his demeanor become harsher and colder, to you he had remained warm and loving. In your growing youth, you evolved into each other’s confidant, each other’s most beloved companion, as your interests grew away from those of children.

Your chasing turned into challenges of knowledge and dragon-riding and your play fights into flying away from court to read for hours in each other’s embrace. He loved more than anything to fly away with you when the sun and the breeze invited you to do so, whenever your older brother drove him mad, or even when the ladies of the court teased you for your naïveté.

In truth, regardless of the years that passed, you remained clueless to the malice of the world, and as your older brother, he saw it as his prime duty to watch over you. That, in the body of the beautiful young woman you had become, attracted the lecherous sights of men and the envious sights of women, turning you prey to the very ill will to which you remained blind.

It was only at the celebration of his fifteenth nameday that he perceived his sentiments for you surpassed that of a protective brother.

It had always been your favorite celebration and every year you doted on him like the King he coveted to be: broke your fast with him, gave him presents, brushed his hair, and clapped the loudest and smiled the brightest at every toast at his feast. He watched you carefully and dutifully as you played with Jahaerys and Jahaera, minding especially inebriated men who dared look your way longer than a second when it happened.

You bent forward to pick up a wailing child, and your maturing breasts threatened to spill over the tight seam of your dress. He felt his cheeks burn in shame, and he rose and stormed toward you in hopes anger would subdue his indecent inquietudes.

He had scolded you then, quietly, and was astounded to realize you simply did not understand. He watched as the tell-tale signs of your crying formed on your face.

“It’s alright, my darling,” he shushed you, rubbing your hands soothingly, “It’s merely that-” he gulped, both thanking and cursing the Gods that your Septa had been useless in her teachings of womanhood. 

“There are parts of you that must be kept sacred,” he whispered, “secret to only yourself and who will one day share your intimacy.”

He watched your brows unfurrow as confusion was overtaken by curiosity, and watched your tears turn into a smile when he asked you for a dance.

“Come,” he had said, “I’ll request your favorite song.”

And it was later that day when he came to your bedchambers, as he often did so you would read together before sleep, that you shared words of your love for the first time. 

His cheeks flushed in shame and want similar to how they had at the earlier feast when you opened the door.

“Sister!” he hissed, “You shouldn’t have opened the door in this way if you knew I was coming!” 

He averted his eyes frantically and closed the door quickly so that none else would see you in your indecency. He kept his back to you, hands on the wooden pane, willing his nervousness to wane and praying that you would cover yourself in more layers.

“No,” you urged him softly, pulling him around by his elbow, “dearest brother, I love you the most,” you uttered lovingly, looking up at him as if he carried all your joy and dreams in his only eye; his sweet little sister who couldn’t see the malevolence in the world, especially not within him, who simply didn’t understand.

“Who else would I possibly want to share in my intimacy?”

He watched your hair, free of the restraints of courtly propriety, felt the soft cotton chemise typically bound to the privacy of your chambers, to your eyes only, breathed in the sweet fragrance you wore before bedtime. There you were, inviting him in.

“My little darling,” he exhaled brokenly, kissed your forehead, “I love you more than anyone, more than anything.”

When he pulled away he saw your eyes glisten for the second time that day.

“Come,” he said, his heart beating wildly in his chest in joy and desire and, most of all, in love, “Let us read something of your choosing.”

But you pulled him back once again as he made to move toward the plush chairs by your fireplace.

“Will you let me see you as well, then? If it is I who you love the most?”

He could never deny you anything.

You were crying the first time he ever kissed you too, ages after he had first sparked in you an interest in love.

In the years that had followed in your maidenhood, he had restrained himself from advancing with his inappropriate thoughts no matter how terribly his desire matured, waiting for you to reach your own awakenings. But he allowed the touches and intimacy you sought after in your innocence.

You had barged into his room in the early evening one day, wailing, unbothered by the glint of his blue gem as you were by the lack of a shirt on his body.

“Brother!” you cried against his naked chest, wrapping your arms around him tightly as your shoulders bounced from your sobs.

“What is it, little sister?” He was unfazed at your outburst, it being as common as the rise of the sun at every morrow.

“Brother,” you sobbed one more time, “I am not loved, and I never shall be.” 

You placed your chin upon his pectoral to regard him from under your eyelashes, tears streaking along your complexion.

“What are you on about?” he chuckled, “Don’t I tell you I love you every day?”

“But yours is brotherly love, Aemond!” you protested, annoyed at his mocking, “It is not true love.”

He hummed, delighting in your aggravation. Even so, he soothed you by running his palm firmly along your spine.

“And what is true love, little darling?”

You swallowed down more tears and composed yourself marginally.

“Lady Cora says it is when someone gives you a true love’s kiss.” 

He couldn’t hold back the grin that slowly split his face in half. 

“Such as when a knight kisses a damsel, or a Prince kisses a Princess-” you scoffed and slapped his hard chest, frustrated at his continued jesting, “Aemond!”

It had him laughing harder, your frustration. And it was with the greatest care he was capable of that he cupped your face in his large hands and brushed your noses together lovingly, before placing the gentlest kiss on your wet lips. He only let go when he felt you melt against him.

“There,” he murmured, smiling softly still, “I am a Prince and you a Princess, and I’ve kissed you.”

He watched as your countenance changed from surprise to sheepish delight and you buried your face in his neck once more.

“Don’t believe everything Lady Cora taunts you with, little darling,” he pulled you from your hiding place, taking your hand in his and kissing your palm, “I assure you none love her as I love you,” he kissed your wrist, your forearm, the dip of your elbow, your lips again, “and no man will ever love you as much as I do.”

It became customary for you to show your affections by kissing him in your moments of privacy. They were always soft, lovely brushes of your lips against his. You adored being kissed, every time he could see in you the childish adoration you had always reserved for him. To you, it was a demonstration of true love greater but no less innocent than holding hands or resting your head on his shoulder when you sat together, even if, in him, it elicited a burning lust that immediately tightened his pants.

The addition to your interactions had sparked a want that threatened to consume him, more than any of the more intimate touches he would sometimes risk in your aloneness. More so than when he would hold you at night as you doze off on his bare chest, your bodies separated merely by the thinnest of your gowns. He would often bare you off the heavy blankets, only so that your nipples would pebble against him in the cold or your leg would shift over his stiff member as you sought his warmth. It had always been enough, those accidental touches. Until you began to seek and yearn for the touch of his lips.

Then, he could never restrain himself as he once had.

When you flew off to your secluded, secretive haven at the top of a hill near the Kingswood, he would hold you in his arms as you read aloud, with his back against a tree trunk, much like you had done since you were children. Unlike then, you shared gentle kisses and he would run his hand up your naked thigh, under your summer skirts, stroke under the curve of your bottom to have you shiver and falter in your speech.

When you broke your fast with him, he would wipe off the remaining sugar from your dainty fingers with a stroke of his tongue to watch your lips pop open and your pupils dilate in arousal you didn’t even comprehend. He would pepper sweet kisses along your cleavage and delight in the desperate rise and fall of your bosom against his face. He would squeeze your waist and pull you to his chest as he held you tightly, as you squirmed from the loving words he murmured teasingly against your sensitive neck.

He could only coach you, tease you, spark in you something new with each touch in hopes that, one day, you would ask him for more.

That one day came when he visited you in the early morrow with a gift in his hands, one he was swift to discard so he could busy his hands with touching you. He woke you with kisses to your face and nudges to your side. You had been quick to wrap your arms around his neck and pull him into your bed fully when you came to.

“Aemond!” you yelped joyfully. “You’re back!”

He had traveled along with Ser Criston to watch a tourney at the invitation of the Prince of Dorne. His trainer had insisted he learned the techniques of the Dornish, convinced it would make him a far more distinguished fighter. And because Ser Criston wouldn’t fly with him on Vhagar, they had sailed to Sunspear, taking him from you for nearly two moons.

You had cried and cried to mother to let you accompany him. And you had cried and cried on the day of his departure. You had ridden with him in his private carriage all the way to the pier, grasping his hand tightly and sniffing against his shoulder the entire journey. He kissed you lovingly as he always did, just the sweet, soft slide of your lips against one another, in attempts at comfort. Though he wanted nothing more than to finally allow himself to deepen it, to commit your taste to memory before he had to endure so many nights without your touch, from it he refrained. Instead, he breathed in deeply, freeing himself of his nefarious thoughts and reminding himself to be patient, or else he risked frightening you. He kissed you firmly, fiercely, a final time before stepping out of the carriage and pulling you after him.

He continued to hold you in the circling of his arms while the last of his bearings were carried into the undersized vessel, swaying you side to side soothingly.

“Tis time, my love,” he spoke softly against your temple, eliciting a few sobs to tumble out of you. 

“Think of me as I will you each day,” he said, cupping your wet cheeks in his hands, and kissing your forehead. He couldn't keep at bay the smile that surged at your fierce display of melancholy. Though his heart ached at your distress, he delighted in your vehement devotion. “And remember that I love you more than anyone and more than anything.”

“Brother,” you hiccuped around your tears, “Please, kiss me one more time.”

Then, the very breath was knocked out of him and your desperation for his touch drove his heart to wild beatings. His grip on you tightened and he grasped at the very ends of his sanity to not give in to your temptations. This would be the one time he would have to deny you.

“Do as I say,” he said gruffly, voice heavy with the effort of restraint. 

“Think of me, of my touch, of my kiss, and of my love every night before you drift off to sleep, and I promise you, when I come back, I shall kiss you with more passion than I have ever done, and give you immense pleasure only my love is capable of delivering.”

And you hadn’t failed him.

“How I’ve missed you, little love,” he whispered against your lips, watching you with all the adoration that he bore within. And then he kissed you and you clung to him firmly. You dipped your fingers in his hair, arched your body to press against him, chased his lips with yours when he threatened to pull away, and he realized you yearned to feel closer to him just as much he did. 

To the best of his abilities, he removed his clothing while keeping his lips upon yours as you continued to demand of him. The carnal desperation you showed perhaps for the first time threatened his hardened cock to spill in his undergarments at the slightest touch.

“Mine as well,” you asked between erratic breaths, pulling on the sleeves of your night slip, “Please, brother, I want to feel your skin on mine.”

His whole body shuddered at your request, and he all but stifled a moan as he pulled soft silk down soft skin. You discarded his eyepatch as you often did when it was just the two of you, but he took no notice of it. He stared at your perky breasts instead, just beneath his chin, pointing up in arousal you mistook for simply missing his company. His mouth flooded with the hunger he had for the taste of them, and his lips tingled as the very last of his self–control fought against his crazed desire. He couldn’t be sure of whether he would have resisted it if not for your calling.

“Brother,” you urged and he moved to face you again, “I was– I did as you told me,” you breathed hurriedly, “I thought of you every night as I lay in bed.”

“Did you, little love?” He smiled fondly and proceeded to plant long, firm kisses at the expanse of your neck, eliciting shivers and goosebumps to litter your skin. He was eager to learn which fruits he would be able to pick from the seed he planted so many nights ago.

You hummed in agreement. His calculated though sensual ministrations of your body, his firm grips and strokes of your waist, thighs, hips, had you breathing harshly as you attempted to reason further. His digits, cold from the long travel, pressed upon your burning hot skin, heightening the sensations he wished for you to revel in.

“I did and it-“ you bit your lip hesitantly, “it caused me a strange affliction.”

He halted his touches to prop himself over you once more.

“How so?” He sucked in his cheeks to prevent a smile; every nerve ending on his skin sensitive to the words he desperately wanted you to utter. His cock twitched in his smallclothes as it hovered between your legs.

“It felt as though I had a fever!” Your eyes bulged in your worry, naive and so dependent on your older brother to teach you of the world. “Though, it did not bring me any pain. A strong itch spread across my skin and-”

“Go on,” he whispered, heart hammering, blood boiling.

“It settled between my legs,” you murmured lowly. Even if you didn’t understand the depravity of your words, you were ashamed to speak of the body parts you knew to be intimate; the parts to which you understood only he was allowed to be privy.

“I thought it was my missing you,” you whined and the sound sent his liquid pleasure to drip and wet his clothes, “but with you here, it’s become more powerful. It is pulsing, brother,” you whined once again.

Aemond let out a shaky breath in response. He positively felt his only pupil dilate as his arousal intensified.

“Do you know what that is?” He asked gruffly. “Have you told anyone?”

You shook your head rapidly.

“It is our love, sweet thing,” he murmured against your lips, “Our love makes us feel this way. Do you remember what I told you the day I left?”

I shall kiss you with more passion than I have ever done, and give you immense pleasure only my love is capable of delivering.

You nodded.

“It is how I’ll scratch that for you.”

And with that, with a calloused thumb, he pulled your bottom lip away from the trappings of your teeth. And when he placed his lips upon yours he let his tongue slowly crawl in between them to caress your own.

He held you by your jaw at an angle which allowed him to explore your mouth freely. Each touch of your tongues had him yearning for more, and you drawing sharp breaths as you felt pleasure for the very first time. He reveled in the sensation of your breasts grazing his naked chest as you struggled for air. Your hands held on tight to his long hair as if grasping onto a sense of lucidity that threatened to leave you rapidly. 

He only broke from you when he had savored you completely, learned your taste and taught you his. When he did, you followed his movement to reunite instead your glistening lips. He smiled and tried to hold you back, talk you through the sensations so new to your flesh, but when you whimpered his name with darkened eyes, no godly power of the Seven could have prevented him from devouring you the way he did.

He ran a hand down your body again, reacquainting himself with your warm skin and your supple curves. When he squeezed your breast and rolled your sensitive nub under his thumb, you thrashed underneath him, rolling your body to touch his and whining into his mouth. You whined freely in the room and with abandon when he replaced his finger with his mouth, tonguing and nipping at your hardened bud.

“Gods,” he stopped when your noises threatened your privacy, “I have wanted to taste you for so long.”

“Brother!” You gasped, attempting to control your breathing. “It is so much!”

You squirmed still underneath him, closing your thighs and rubbing them together in an unconscious search for release. He shushed you by planting a sweet kiss on your wet lips.

“My dearest love,” he cooed, littered kisses on your face adoringly, “Doesn’t it feel good?”

“It- it does,” you muttered trepidly, “But it’s become so much stronger... the itch.”

You stroked his chest as if to assure him you enjoyed his passion and tucked his hair behind his ear where it had come loose. 

With little patience to word his explanations, he captured your lips in a sensual entangle of your tongues as one of his hands descended on your naked body. Swiftly he discarded both your small clothes and with a hand hooked around your knee, he pulled apart your legs to press his rock-solid member against your wet privates.

“Oh,” you moaned as his engorged head bumped against that little button of pleasure of which you had no knowledge.

You clung onto his shoulders desperately, trying to make sense of the sensations that dominated your body; stemming from his insistent touches of your most intimate parts and disseminating upwards to your hardened nipples and downwards to your toes. You moaned continuously as he ground his cock along your wet folds and against your pleasure pearl, provoking wave after wave of that same intense itch.

“This is what you needed,” he growled close to your face, watching as your confusion slowly gave way to carnal bliss. “Was it not, little sister?”

“Aemond,” you moaned, your bulging innocent eyes fixed on his lustful one, “what is this I’m feeling?”

“It’s pleasure, little darling,” he explained, “a pleasure only I can give you, only my love can give you.”

“You love me this much, brother?” You asked between whimpers and gasps that drove all the blood that fed his thoughts to his leaking cock. 

Tears rolled from your eyes, ones he recognized to be from his love confession. Even when he had you bare beneath him, committing unspeakable sins and giving in to cravings of the flesh, you sought the reassurance of his love.

“More,” he grunted and as if to prove the extent of his adoration, he quickened his pace, rutting against you with renewed vigor, groping your plush behind and moving you along his cock forcefully.

The wet sounds of your flesh coming together in passion and your surprised, wanton moans, heightened the sensations that gathered on his cock, making it pulse as if it desired to get bigger and allow for more arousal, as if it were to explode in its lust. So long had he waited for that moment, so patient he had been, now he delivered all of his raw, burning desire with abandon.

“That’s it, my little darling,” he murmured as you threw your head back in excruciating pleasure, “Relish in all of my love, in all of my affections.”

“You were such an obedient girl for your older brother,” he moaned, “You deserve this. Take it.”

He took your hands as his pleasure neared its peak, lacing your fingers together and bringing them to rest against the bed, above your head. He thrust slower, more powerfully, hoping to bring the climax of your enjoyment along with his.

“Aemond!” You cried among your gasps of arousal. “Something is happening!” 

He watched as your eyes bulged in desperation, wet with streaking tears, equal parts frightened and aroused. 

“Please,” you whined, “It is so much!”

“Give in to it, my little love,” he gasped harshly as his own arousal threatened to break through that maximum threshold of pleasure. “Trust me.”

He watched with his mouth parted in awe as your eyes rolled to the back of your head and your lips fell open in a silent scream of utter satisfaction. He felt himself explode between your bodies before he registered his tremendously overwhelming orgasm, so enraptured he was by yours. He rode the waves of your peak until they became mere jolts of your body against his, his own electrifying his flesh in their wake.

And then he kissed you and kissed you until your jaws became numb with the effort.

A/N: I know I've robbed you of the aftercare but I'll write a part two!

[fantasybooktournament]

favorite tags:

#lumatere is underrated because of its sad covers but it is so good#polls (@logarithmicpanda)

#lumatere chronicles first in my heart#I know it would win if more people read it (@spazz-tak)

#text post: literature#how dare you make me choose between TWATD and the Lumatere Chronicles (@aradiantsun)

[inspiredbyabook]

female awesome meme: females in literature [1/10] ↝ shahrzad al-khayzuran

this dangerous girl. this captivating beauty. this destroyer of worlds and creator of wonder.

[feysandfeels]

Top 5 enemies to lovers series?

I was going to take a nap but I saw this and I was like "oh i need to tdo this noooow!"

So lets get to is shall we Nonnie?

Top 5 6 enemies to lovers series:

For the sake of talking about another thing besides Sarah J Maas' books I will say that ACOTAR is top in this list. ACOTAR is an amazing iteration of the enemies to lovers that has all the staples that you love in the trope but also I think challenges it in a way that adds depth.

These Violent Delights by Chloe Gong. If you have been following me since July then you know that I have been trying to spread my TVD agenda. It's an R&J retelling that gives you text book enemies to lovers but to the 100th power. I cannot talk about how amazing the chemistry in this book and how nice the characters manage the dynamic. It gives you angst and the step by step of the trope without feeling repetitive because everything is taken to the limit of the emotion. PLEASE READ THIS BOOK PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE.

The Folk of the Air by Holly Black. I mean.. I mean Jude will hold for dear life to the enemies while Cardan just like can we please be lovers now. Kiss me, kiss me until I am sick of it. Who is doing it like them? no one. Their chemistry is as intoxicating as Cardan's wine.

The Invisible Life of Addie Larue by V. E Schwab. I have done a whole post on why this is an archetypical Enemies to Lovers that goes to the core of the trope and makes a dance out of it. But like don't read it if you have not read the book.

Kingdom of the Wicked by Kerri Maniscalco. What I love about these books is that even though they give you a pretty staple enemies to lovers arc, it also offers an interesting ACOMAF type twist...another way to understand the enemies component of these arcs. This is your daily reminder that not only can Prince Wrath get it any fucking day and that we share the same tattoo.

The Bridge Kingdom by Danielle L. Jensen. They are classic enemies to lovers. Like the og recipe just like your filthy into smut grandma used to make it. Just what the doctor ordered.

The Wrath and The Dawn by Renee Adieh. Talk about a fucking underrated duology. A 1001 nights retelling it is engaging and interesting. The context is rich and the world luxurious in its imagination. It's very much a "I need to kill you but maybe I like how the sun makes your eyes shine" book. Not so much a slow burn but still doesn't take away from the tension it aims to build.

Bonuuuuuuussss: I have not finished this series so I can't tell you exactly how they go, but so far The Conqueror's Saga by Kiersten White delivers a very good enemies to lovers to be continued. Retelling of Count Vlad, bit of violence, bit of betrayal, bit of passion and love.. and we're good to go.

An Ember in the Ashes by Sabaa Tahir. Frankly I am saddened by the lack of content and hype around this books. Set in an "ancient rome" inspired world a Laia seeks answers for the loss of her brother and ends up working at the seat of the military power of the oppressive regime. Enter Elias, a boy that even though is disenchanted with the life he has been living as a student in the same seat of military power, still marches to the beat of the power that gave him a privilege upbringing. It is amazing it is filled with angst and slow burn enemies to lovers.

Ask me my “Top 5″ anything

[lexxwithbooks]

📖: 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑾𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒉 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑫𝒂𝒘𝒏 (𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑊𝑟𝑎𝑡ℎ 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝐷𝑎𝑤𝑛 #1) 🏹🌅🦅

✍🏽: 𝐑𝐞𝐧𝐞é 𝐀𝐡𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐡

[briandthemoon]

The designs are subject to change but here’s the sketches for my The Wicked And The Divine AU:

Remy Teo, Nyx, Trans man he/him, former bartender, specialises in Rave/Club Music

Roman Reyes, Venus, Genderfluid he/him mainly but uses all pronouns, specialises in theatrical music and pop

Virgil DiMarco, Arachne, NB they/them, specialises in your classic ‘emo music’ i.e. pop punk, etc

??? ???, Janus, Agender all pronouns but really likes she/her atm, big into swing and jazz music sometimes trying out electro swing

Remus Reyes, Loki, Genderfluid any pronouns as well as neopronouns, 100% Heavy Metal, mostly specifically pirate metal (think Alestorm for an example)

Logan Bertram, Thoth, Trans man He/Him, goes with operatic ballads publically but also does slam poetry and rap battles in the subways at night

Patton Hart, Dagda, Cismale (questioning) he/him, mostly does stuff like golden oldies and Post Modern Jukebox kinda stuff

Emile Picani, Lono, Genderfluid they/she/he (will indicate which on a given day), lots of cutesy bubblegum pop and a ton of indie music --- There’s four more characters in the au but their designs aren’t done yet. Most of the above are subject to change so yeah, I know it’s a niche au but I hope you all like them anyway.

If you get the chance PLEASE read The Wicked And The Divine, it’s so cool!

[DO NOT REPOST THIS ART OR COLOUR OR LINE IT WITHOUT PERMISSION]

[ohwarnette]

yalitmeme: [7/10] book/series

the wrath and the dawn

my soul sees its equal in you.

[babyfairybaekhyun]

The Wrath and The Dawn by Renee Ahdieh “Love is a force unto itself, sayyidi. For love, people consider the unthinkable…and often achieve the impossible. I would not sneer at its power.”

[just-call-me-the-intrusive-thot]

It’s Tough To Be A God

Second fic for this year’s @sandersidesbigbang !

Thank you to my beta, @kaythegay2022 for doing their best on the shortest notice (and getting super into the lore of the fic and yelling at me about it /affectionate <3)

A huge thank you to my artists too! The wonderful @purplecrayonismine who made this lovely piece and the awesome @charlie-dawg who drew this tense scene.

Once again thank you to the lovely @nyxi-styx for letting me include their OC, Eden Sanders/ Olmeda for the purposes of the gay, just bass boosted this time.

If you’d prefer AO3, you can read it here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/41640597

(Tumblr really ate the formatting so sorry about that)

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The Wicked And The Divine AU: The characters are reincarnated gods, they live as celebrities for two years then they’re gone for 90 years. (highly recommend the comic series it’s very good)

Word Count: 12285 words (woAH)

Pairings: OCxOC (Marcus x Eden), hinted Prinxiety (current), Dukeceit, hinted Roceit (past), hinted Intrulogical (past)

Content Warnings: Remus being Remus, swearing, sexual jokes and references (no actual sex though), murder mention, hinted abusive past relationships, hinted past toxic relationships, flirting, Remus has some Hot Takes tm - Be warned, there’s some funky chronology for this fic - Rated: Mature (see above)

Summary: Scoring the interviews of their lifetime, Eden and Marcus dive into the world of the Pantheon; fame and fortune, endless worship, a life of luxury and unbridled power. All fighting with endless scrutiny, misery, the loss of their former lives, and limited time on this Earth.

It’s tough to be a God.

~~

“Alright, now Marcus, remember to-”

“To make sure the camera’s working, yes, I know.” 

Marcus mumbled as he checked the settings were in working order, “It’s like you actually think I’m just that incompetant…”

Eden rolled his eyes, “I’m merely taking the initiative to remind you. We can’t afford any slip ups, we get one shot at each interview. I’d rather not try to live to be over 100 years old just to try again if we mess up now, especially after everything we just went through.” “I know, I know.”, Marcus sighed,an exhausted irritation in his tone, “Trust me, I can do something this simple without fucking it up, I promise.” Eden’s expression softened into a worried, somewhat guilty glance, “Marcus– ” A knock at the door sounded, interrupting their conversation. Eden stood quickly, gathering his notes while Marcus held the camera and the equipment bag. A light, dreamy voice came from the room on the other side of the door, “You can come in now.” With a moment taken for them to mentally prepare, the two entered the room.

Venus’ boudoir was as fanciful and expensive as they’d both imagined; rococo decals, a four poster double bed adorned with rosy silken sheets and crimson sheer curtains. A lavish wardrobe loomed over the cream shag carpet while an ornate white vanity table edged with rose gold cradled an impressive array of makeup and jewellery. Dresses that cost more than Marcus’ first car hung on a clothing rack next to a folding screen printed with rose patterns. Overkill came in the form of a chandelier above the bed.

Luxury was an understatement as far as Venus was concerned.

Venus sat on the end of the bed clad in an off-white poet’s shirt coupled with a burgundy long skirt; his leg sat crossed over the other while he leant forward, allowing his right arm to rest along his leg and his chin to rest on his left palm. His smile glistened – something Marcus had thought was a bullshit fanfiction trope up until that moment – but his eyes never once left the duo as they entered the room.

“Please,” Venus purred in a shiver-inducing dulcet. “Take a seat.”

Eden did as instructed, sitting in the provided armchair while Marcus set up the tripod for the camera. Venus gave a fond smile, “It’s been a while since I’ve been on camera.”

“Weren’t you recently cast in a commercial for your recent perfume line?” Eden asked.

Venus hummed, dismissing the rebuttal with a wave of their manicured hand, “Yes, but that’s par for the course when you’re this famous. It all begins to blend into utter mundanity, however this kind of plebeian, vlogger journalism affair is far more of a rarity when you’re someone like me.”

Marcus rolled his eyes but said nothing, letting Eden do the interview properly.

“Right, well, just think of this interview as one would think of a catch-up with an acquaintance; we have personalised questions that fans of yours have been keen to receive answers to. You needn’t be formal with your responses nor should you feel the need to censor yourself in any capacity.” Eden added with a touch of levity, “We’ve already interviewed everyone, including both Nyx and Loki, so take that as your cue to be as open and brutally honest as you’d like.”

With a sharp inhale, Venus adjusted his seating, “Ah. I don’t envy you. Loki especially has always been… like that.” 

He sighed, “How naive I was to assume I’d stop apologising for their behaviour once we aged past ten. But never mind that! This isn’t the time for such a topic, what questions do you have for me?”

Eden made a mental note to come back to the family topic and moved on, “Well, the main question we found coming up quite often was simply to do with your skincare routine. Would you be willing to share that with us?”

With an excited grin, Venus complied, “Well, an air of mystery is important, buuuut I suppose I can give you the basics-”

Marcus hid a quiet sigh; he’d watched Eden do this over and over today; throw a few easy questions, let them lower their guard, then come in with the hard hitting questions. The results … varied, to put it lightly, but they always got results.

Wincing at his thoughts, Marcus let his thoughts wander, taking in more of the room. It occurred to Marcus that not everyone could stomach having a lifesize portrait of themselves in their bedroom — and he was one of them. It made him uneasy, really. Why go to the trouble of having so many effigies of yourself? A painting here, a statue there, several posters, figurines, and other items of merchandise.

It was a little nauseating, so Marcus focused on keeping his gaze moving. A corkboard of playbills, the odd gift from fans, and the photo frames placed upon higher shelves just out of view made this ‘god’ feel a little more human. Cursing his own refusal to actually wear the glasses he needed, Marcus squinted a little as he caught sight of a particular photo frame cast aside to the point it was nearly entirely hidden. He tried to make out what it was of, only being able to deduce the faintest glimpse of what looked like Venus himself–

“Anything catching your fancy?”

Marcus snapped out of his thoughts, meeting eyes with an amused Venus and an unsurprised Eden. He shook his head, “No, just… looking, I guess.”

Eden huffed a small sigh, “Please try to keep an eye on the camera, Marcus.”

“Now, now, it’s alright. I don’t mind.” Venus assured them both. “Though I do prefer to be the centre of attention myself.”

“Believe us, we’ve noticed.” Eden retorted playfully, though his tone slipped back into the matter-of-fact interview style he had employed time and time again, “Is that why you came to Ananke begging her for godhood just a month after your twin was reincarnated as Loki?”

The shift in the room was palpable. Venus had hardly shifted, but their posture tensing combined with the subtle drop in his expression made the room feel suffocating. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand what you mean. We’re chosen, we don’t get to simply request godhood.”

“Really? You see, we heard directly from Loki that –”

“They’re my twin, and it’s no secret we’re rather… adversarial at the moment given recent circumstances. There’s not much they wouldn’t say to get under my skin.” Venus bristled behind their saccharine sweet smile.

“Well, that might be true. But we were given a similar account from Nyx as well via his twitter.” Eden added, continuing, “I don’t think–”

Venus’ eyes locked onto Eden’s in an instant, the action threatening, but with what, neither interviewer could say. “This is Nyx we’re talking about, he’s a nosey little gossip who likes to stir up drama and cause trouble anywhere he goes. There isn’t much he wouldn’t do to be the centre of attention, even the local authorities know that very well by now.” Their tone grew venomous, “Again I remind you of the facts; we’re all chosen. Even if I had been desperate enough to beg to be one of the Pantheon, if it wasn’t meant to be, then it wouldn’t be. I’m here for a reason, and that makes me just as special and worthy as any of the others, including Loki–!” 

He took a breath in, calmly collecting himself, “Now then, shall we talk about something less awful? I have a new range of cosmetics lined up to release for–”

“Is it true you and Janus were seeing each other?” Eden interjected. He wasn’t about to go easy on Venus now. 

They scoffed offendedly, “Janus and I? Please, she’s thoroughly unpleasant. And a habitual liar. I can hardly stand to share a room with her.”

“Maybe now, but we have sources that say that you and her had been romantically involved in the early days of the pantheon–”

“It’s funny you should be so concerned about my relationships.” Venus responded firmly, a half smirk tugging at his lips, “I’m much more curious about yours. Specifically with Marcus here.” A swirl of scattering crimson and rosey reds danced in Venus’ eyes like falling petals; Eden and Marcus both felt a chill run through them, like Venus was staring into their very souls.

The God of Love smiled, sweetly, as if nothing were amiss, “It’s fascinating, seeing true love in action.” He mused, ignoring the stunned looks from both parties, “How rude of you to hide your relationship around me, of all people.” His smile grew knowing, more of a smirk, “I can feel it, clear as crystal. You both tried your best to hide it but your love for one another is overwhelming. Even now, it’s potent; the desire to be closer, wishing you were laid in each other’s arms, the undying love and devotion you both shine with…” 

Venus gave a dreamy little sigh, “Oh to be so enraptured with another as you both are. I could only dream of such a life, but as things stand,” The god’s expression flashed a momentary look of longing. “That kind of thing, for someone such as I, is out of the question.”

That look disappeared as quickly as it came and Venus flicked their wrist dismissively, “You know, you can wear your rings now if you’d like. Despite that disgusting rumour going around I don’t get off on other people’s relationships.”

They grinned, “Without their express consent, of course.” In spite of the reassurance, Eden defensively held his questions tighter to himself, pulling the papers closer as if to shield him from Venus’ sensory abilities. Marcus found himself crossing his arms in a blocking gesture; partly protective, partly self soothing.

“Venus, with all due respect, please refrain from doing anything like that again. It’s invasive and unpleasant.” Eden scolded in a firm tone. 

Venus simply snorted, “I don’t think you get to make that call, Olmeda. Not when you’re digging for private information of mine. I also find your prying invasive and unpleasant.”

Knowing Eden was growing frustrated, Marcus spoke up, “How about a deal? Information for information. You give us answers that the people want, and we tell you whatever you want to know about our relationship.”

Intrigued, Venus studied Marcus with a curious glance, “And what’s to stop me from simply gleaning that information for myself, hm?” 

“Easy. We’ll leave if you refuse. You admitted you love attention, and you’re clearly enjoying trying to work out what our love life is like, so if we leave now that’s gonna suck for you. That and you’ll have the shortest interview with us. Something tells me you won’t like Loki, Nyx, and Janus having more of a presence in our article than you.”

Eden gave Marcus an uncertain side glance, and Marcus began to momentarily wonder if Venus wouldn’t just tell them to leave anyway. Instead, Venus gave a thoughtful hum, “Alright. Very well, you’ve made your point.” He drummed his fingers atop his knee, 

“To answer your last question, yes. At first, I pursued Janus. She’s an avid lover of theatre, has a rather artistic eye, and is a connoisseur of all things luxurious. I misguidedly assumed she and I would get on like a house on fire. Now I find myself wishing she’d get locked inside said house and burn.” 

Venus huffed in annoyance, “We were carnally involved for a while before we tried going on an actual date. She seemed like fun, honestly; a little domineering and such, but if I’m to be truthful, that was part of the appeal at the time. On our first date she seemed to be enjoying it just as much as I was; I regaled her with tales of my exploits, and she found me charming – or so she said at the time. But then I went to her twitter the day after and lo and behold, she’s vague-tweeting about me!!”

He agitatedly gesticulated as he explained, “She called me arrogant! Of all people! That alone I could perhaps forgive her for, but she ruthlessly slandered me for forty tweets!! Forty!! Calling me self-centred, egotistical, frivolous, you name it I can probably dig up a tweet where it’s been applied to me by her slanderous words!” He cleared his throat, “So naturally, our second date ended in a row and several destroyed Olive Garden tables. If her same twitter thread is to be believed, she also had the gall to steal our table’s breadsticks. Ever since then, I have made it a mission to avoid her at all costs.”

Eden exhaled, unaware he’d been holding that breath for a moment, “Well… that’s certainly one way to break up.”

“Indeed, if you can even call it that. But enough about me, I want you both to tell me all about your most intimate moments.” Venus leant forward, eyes rosey aglow with curiosity and intrigue, “What did it feel like to realise you were madly in love?”

-

“It was fucking terrifying.”

“I can imagine. It must be a lot of pressure to find out you’re the reincarnation of a mythological figure, Arachne.”

Arachne gave a huff of a reply, “No kidding. You go from being a regular person to this idol for people who wanna pretend their lives don’t suck, who want you to take all that away for a couple hours. For the first couple of shows it feels good. Really good. You feel… genuinely special. You’re out there giving your gospel and people are looking at you like you matter.”

They anxiously shuffled their position on the pitch black chaise long, “And then all of a sudden you’re just numb to it. Sometimes you walk out on stage and you think “Holy shit, I’m dying before I’ll ever see thirty for this?”.”

Eden nodded, listening with a quiet sympathy, “To continue from your point, how do you all come to terms with your mortality? As I understand, you’re all invulnerable to most damage, it must feel unfair that you’re only given two years left to live from the moment of your awakening.”

Arachne shifted again. From behind the camera, Marcus felt the pangs of empathy tug at him whenever they’d fidget like that. Being first up on the chopping block to field these kinds of questions must be daunting enough as it is, let alone when you’re someone with a clear anxiety disorder of some kind.

“It… sucks. I mean, obviously it does. I don’t think any of the Pantheon is happy about it – and if they are then good for them I guess – but none of us have a choice anyway so why should we keep thinking about it every damn day?” Arachne took a deep breath, in and out in a steadying gesture, “Everyone knows they’ll die someday, but they keep living. The only real difference between us and some regular people is that we know when that day will come.“

“Why waste time worrying.” Marcus echoed the sentiment. Arachne nodded.

“Exactly. We’re all on the same boat and this motherfucker’s going to sink eventually. So why not try to enjoy the ride before it hits the iceberg? At least, that’s what Lono and Dagda keep saying. Personally, I’m wishing I never bought the stupid boat ticket in the first place.”

“That’s understandable. I can’t imagine you get much time to adapt.” Eden mused as he flicked through his question sheets. He reorganised them and asked, “On that note, how do you all handle romantic relationships? It must be hard to form them knowing you’ll only have two years to explore anything on a deeper level.”

The question looked like it threw Arachne for a loop. Their black fingernails tapped against the edge of the chaise as they worked to find an answer, “Well, outside of one night stands, most of us avoid that whole thing. Sure, some of us are a lot closer than others, but we have an understanding. No deeper feelings, no expectations, no fruitlessly wishing things were different. At least, that’s the agreement Princey and I have.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow, “Princey?”

Arachne tensed for a moment like they’d been shocked, “Oh. Uh, Venus. That’s just something I call him. It’s stupid, whatever. Can we talk about literally anything else?” 

“Unfortunately, that leads too well into our next question; you’ve recently been spotted out on what appear to be dates with Venus. Despite your previous sentiment, people have come to suspect you two are more involved than you claim. Is that true?”

From the tips of Arachne’s fingers slowly grew tiny silken webs. They clung to the edge of the chaise and soon reached the floor, flowering out like frost gathering on a window pane. The odd little white spider travelled along the webs in panicked tandem with Arachne’s racing thoughts. 

“That’s a bit personal, Venus and I are friends. Don’t make things out to be something they’re not.”

“You did say we could get personal-”

“Yeah, in regards to myself. Not the people around me.” “You were more than happy to discuss your feelings regarding the others, namely Nyx in particular.” Eden flipped through his notes, “You had quite a bit to say about him on your public blog.”

Arachne huffed. They tilted their gaze in thought, the silvery webs hidden in their hair softly swayed with the movement like afterimages, “That’s different.” They looked like they wanted to say more but instead of elaborating, they picked up their wine glass and gulped it down. Now that the duo could get a better look at the colour, Eden and Marcus could tell that it was full of what looked like gatorade. Neither one made a comment on it.

“How so? I would imagine anything you say here would be better worded than a blog post made out of frustration.” Eden queried.

Arachne scoffed, “Made out of frustration. You say that like I regret anything I said about that asshole. Besides, I’m not the only one who thinks he’s the worst. I’m pretty sure everyone does, with the exception of Dagda, and maybe Lono. I’m pretty sure they’re both incapable of any kind of malice. Even after everything Nyx put us through.”

Marcus snorted, “Sounds about right. I’ve never seen either of them in concert, but from what I hear it’s like being drowned in sunshine and marshmallows.”

That got a chuckle out of Arachne, “You’re right, it’s overwhelming and really fucking suffocating. ‘Aggressive Positivity’ Dagda calls it. It’s awful. I don’t see the appeal in unending ‘good vibes’.”

Eden finally located the notes he’d been looking for and put them aside for later, “Well, some people like the comfort and reassurance of security. For some, there’s safety in that kind of stability.”

“It’s anxiety inducing, that’s what it is.” Arachne scoffed, “I can respect Lono’s stance on it. They’re always saying it’s on your terms to come to them with your problems. But Dagda’s always trying to get me to join in his gospel, saying it’ll help me relax, but it feels so forced all it does is make me feel…”

-

“... trapped.”

Eden nodded, a note of sympathy in his tone, “I see. You’ve never spoken publicly about your previous situation before becoming one of the Pantheon, Dagda. So why now?”

The jovial man sitting opposite them shrugged, “Well, you two aren’t working for some huge news network or any papers, I don’t have to worry about you taking my words and twisting them.”

Oh boy. Marcus bit back what he wanted to say for the sake of the interview. This guy was a good three years their senior and yet he was still so naive. He could tell in the way that Eden was sitting that his boyfriend was already feeling sympathetic towards Dagda. He couldn’t blame him. Marcus found that generally a lot of the people who met Dagda either pitied him, protected him, or had no time for him. From their research, a majority of the Pantheon seemed to fall into the latter category.

“I appreciate your faith in us.” Eden responded, “Now, would you care to elaborate on what you told us? About your life before the Pantheon making you feel ‘trapped’ as you put it?”

Dagda exhaled a soft breath, “I can’t say a whole lot on account of privacy and such, but –”

The god in front of them paused and cast a glance back at the doorway they’d entered through. Eden seemed to put it out of mind, but Marcus felt a shudder rattle him. He focused back on Dagda who continued from where he left off.

“Sometimes,” he began, running his middle and index fingers of his right hand along the ring finger of his left, “you try and put yourself into a role because you’re taught it’s what’s right. And sure, maybe you’re not happy right then, but you will be soon. Or you’re supposed to.” Dagda exhaled, quickly clasping his hands; an effort to stop his nervous tics no doubt. Marcus watched a faint blue shape flutter by Dagda’s left shoulder for a moment before it faded away. He convinced himself it was an optical illusion and trained his attention back on the celtic god.

“But then one day you’re halfway into your twenties and you’re married to someone you don’t even love.” 

His posture slumped, the sparkle in his eyes utterly gone, “But you can’t leave because you went and had kids together – because that's what you’re meant to do – and if you leave you’re the monster even when you never got a say in them being conceived, and it’s not even your fault you only like men—!” 

Dagda gasped softly. Without a word, the duo watched the god wipe his eyes and plaster on a smile. Eden and Marcus didn’t need more than a glance between them to know they both felt terrible for him. 

“Sorry about that! Jeez, I brought the mood down, huh? Let’s see, what should we talk about instead?”

Eden nodded, “Of course. Perhaps we could change the subject and talk about–”

-

“Ananke? Like, why do you care about that old hag when you’re here with me, babes?”

Nyx pointed at himself lazily but with a practised flourish for emphasis. 

“I’m totes more interesting than her. Besides, none of us like, knows anything about her anyway. She just showed up one day and went “congrats, now you’re totally a god”! Like sure, it sucks total cactus dick only getting two years to be a literal celebrity then dying, but it’s not like we haven’t all agreed to just deal with it.”

“... Right, well, if you insist on talking about yourself, is it true that you’re able to move the stars themselves for your performances when such a feat should be catastrophic on a planetary scale?” 

Nyx snorted at Eden’s question, making Marcus bristle. He didn’t like this jerk one bit, yet he said nothing for now.

“Okay, so, that’s like, an exaggeration of what I do, but kinda.” Nyx explained, “It’s like I turn up their volume. Make them like, brighter. The universe is my lighting rig, if you get what I mean.”

Nyx rolled onto his stomach on the backless chaise he lay on; clad in a blue sheer silk nightgown over a crop top and booty shorts, it was hard to tell if he was just being ‘playful’ or if he was really treating their interview with as little respect as it seemed he was.

“If you’ll forgive me–” Eden began.

“You’re forgiven.” Nyx winked.

Marcus seethed.

“Yes, now back to our questions; you’re rather outspoken on all forms of social media, do you worry about your privacy? Perhaps about anyone tracing your previous accounts from before you became a god?”

“Fuck no. I don’t hide that shit like, at all. The others are all like “Oh we need to keep everything separate! Someone finding out who we used to be is so bad!” Blah blah blah, it’s all total bullshit, babes. Ananke has everyone so spooked about people cyberstalking them or whatever, but it’s like, gonna happen someday, might as well be honest about it.”

Marcus deadpanned, “It just sounds like you’re the only one who really can’t hide their identity if you tried. It’s not like your face is all over the internet on every conceivable social media site or anything, right?”

Nyx clicked his tongue indignantly, “Sarcasm and jealousy make you like, way uglier, just an FYI sweetie. Not that that dollar store tangerine head condom was doing you any favours before but~”

“... Eden, hold the camera-”

“No.” Eden stated firmly, “We’re not getting thrown out because you brawled with one of the Pantheon, mi amor.”

Marcus still wanted to kick the shit out of the rude brat in front of them but he listened to Eden and took a deep breath. He was about to apologise when Nyx chimed in, “Wait, you’re dating him?” 

Nyx snorted, talking past Marcus to Eden, “You, a literal ten, are dating like… a four at most? Weak shit.”

“If we could avoid aiming insults at the love of my life, I’d like to continue with the questions if you’d please, Mr. Teo?”

Nyx gave an unimpressed glare from behind his sunglasses, “Using my family name is like, the dumbest way to try and provoke me, babes. Like you said, people know it. It’s out there. You’re gonna have to try way harder, sweetie–”

“So remind me, what exactly happened with that officer at the Ragnarok concert? We all saw the footage, so I’m wondering why you’re still sitting here and not in a jail cell.”

Marcus interrupted bluntly. He knew Eden would have worked up to it instead of just blurting it out but fuck it. This little shit wanted to toy with them and Marcus wasn’t having it anymore.

The question sure did its job. Nyx immediately became defensive, on edge like a cat waiting to strike.

“Wow, you’re gonna just come for me like that, huh? Sorry, but I’m not explaining jack fucking shit to you.” Much to Eden’s dismay, Marcus couldn’t resist snarking right back at Nyx.

“So that’s a ‘No Comment’ then? Kinda cowardly with all the shit talking you’ve done up til now. But I guess I’d wanna avoid talking about how far Ananke and the rest Pantheon will go to cover shit up. Even first degree murder-”

In a swift movement that left his silk nightgown to ripple behind him like a trail of stars, Nyx stood in front of Marcus, hand outstretched with his fingers poised to snap. Nyx’s eyes – cold and unsettling in their resemblance to twin full moons against azure black starry skies – bore into Marcus’ soul like he was trying to burn him to cinders.

“You have like, no fucking idea what you’re playing with here.” Remy hissed, “But if you’re that desperate to die, be my guest.”

Marcus glared back at Nyx. It’d become a matter of pride at this point.

“I could do it, like, so easily. Just one click of my fingers,” Nyx trailed off; his thumb circled around the tip of his middle finger, then his eyes snapped back to Marcus’, “And your entire head’ll explode like a watermelon.”

Studying to be a medical student, Eden was used to stressful situations. Open surgery, making split second decisions, those things never really phased him in text or practise.

Watching a literal reincarnated God pettily threaten to pop his stubborn fiancé’s head mid-interview was the most stressful thing he’d ever experienced in his life.

“... We should drop this.” Eden finally managed to say aloud, but neither Marcus nor Nyx seemed to be listening. 

Both were locked in a silent but deadly glaring contest. For a moment, Eden wondered if he really saw Nyx’s hand shake, however his attention was focused on Marcus. His fiancé was stubborn to a fault – Eden knew that all too well ever since they’d met as children – but even he could see how terrified Marcus was underneath his mask of anger. They both knew the entire Pantheon were all capable of what Nyx was threatening, so it wasn’t a question of if he could do it, but more so if he would do it.

Seconds felt like an eternity, each waiting for the other to give up and back down. It wasn’t until Marcus anxiously spotted Nyx’s fingers tense, readying to move. His breathing was quiet but still felt so heavy, until he finally uttered. “Don’t-”

Nyx snapped their fingers. 

Marcus’ eyes clamped shut in fear.

Eden let out a strangled noise, somewhere between a yell and a gasp.

And then… nothing.

Marcus opened his eyes, rattled to his core. His hand nearest Eden felt like it was nearly being crushed by his fiance’s strong terrified grip. 

Nyx still stood in front of him, looking apparently apathetic to the torment he’d just caused. In the God of Night’s hand was a pin from his last concert. As if it was all just a terrible magic trick, Nyx let the pin fall onto Marcus’ lap.

“Get your shit and leave. Like, now.”

Eden was happy to oblige. He turned off the camera and packed the bags quickly; he would’ve let Marcus do so, but his fiancé was still sat shell shocked. He was still shaken to his core and Eden couldn’t blame him; they’d both seen the Ragnarok footage, everyone knew what the Gods were capable of. One snap, that was all it took.

Bag packed, Eden knelt by Marcus’ side, “Mi amor… we need to go. You just need to stand up and we can leave, okay?” 

He made sure not to touch Marcus without his consent, though Eden gently waved a hand in front of Marcus’ face, “Nod or blink if you can hear me, then again if you’re ready to leave.”

Shakily, Marcus nodded – once, then again – and Eden moved back to let him up. Once Marcus was on his feet, he had to lean against Eden for a moment so he could stop trembling. While he cradled the love of his life in his arms, Eden caught a glimpse of Nyx’s expression; with Nyx’s eyes free from their usual shaded confines, he could read the night god’s expression clear as day. 

Concern and remorse.

Eden wasn’t a vindictive person, hardly a petty one, but as he felt his fiancé’s rapid heartbeat against his chest, all he could think was, “Good. You should be fucking sorry.”

Once Marcus had calmed down, Eden sent him ahead with most of the bags, barely noticing Nyx approaching, “... I totally wouldn’t have done it. Like, not for reals-”

“I don’t care.” Eden responded harshly, “You scared the love of my life near to death. You may have forgotten, but he’s human with feelings and fears.”

Eden put his notes back in his bag and slung it over his shoulder. He had already soundly shut the door behind him when Remy mumbled, “None of us have forgotten, you asshole…”

-

In the hallway nestled between their equipment bags, Marcus sat with his back to the wall; he’d pulled his knees up to his chest, burying his face into them while his arms were the barrier that kept out the straggling cracks of light.

He shouldn’t be surprised, he goaded a literal god into action for the sake of their recording.

He literally poked the bear and now he’s mad it nearly mauled him to death.

A shaky whimper left him just as he felt a familiar warmth to his left followed by the subtle rustle of fabric.

“... We should give up.”

Marcus lifted his head slowly – eyes red and still shiny with tears – to meet Eden’s warm worry-filled gaze, “What-?”

“We should give up on this and go home. We still have other interviewees waiting but I quite frankly don’t want to keep this up if there’ll be a repeat-”

“There won’t.”

Marcus wiped at his eyes, trying to sound like he hadn’t been inches from sobbing again.

“E, we need this. We just… I just need to not speak as much as possible.” He unceremoniously wiped his nose on his jacket’s sleeve, “Every time I open my stupid fucking mouth I just make shit worse — !”

Before he could blink, Marcus found himself held tightly in Eden’s arms; comfort bled into his bones instantly, were he not still reeling from the run-in with Nyx, he’d have fully melted into his fiancé’s love.

“I keep telling you, you’re not stupid. You’re reckless, but never stupid.”

The two of them were quiet for a moment before Eden finally spoke up, “We’ll finish our work. Our last three gods, then we’ll go home but I want you to promise me that if anything like what just happens occurs again, we leave immediately.”

He softly tilts Marcus’ chin toward him, “Do I have your word, mi amor?”

How could Marcus refuse Eden when he’s being so tender? So sweet?

-

“Yes, of course.”

Lono merrily tapped her pastel nails against her She Ra mug.

“I mean, life in the Pantheon is great, but it’s a little stressful, what with me playing therapist one moment then having to whip up some tech alongside Thoth the next.I prefer to be useful though, even if it’s a little much. I just don’t want to feel like I could’ve spent my time more wisely before It happens.”

“By ‘it’,” Eden began, pen poised to continue his notations, “you’re referring to your Death Date, correct?”

Lono gave a solemn nod, her melancholic smile remaining, “Yep. I take it Arachne probably filled you in on it already then?”

“To a degree, yes. However, they neglected to answer part of the inquiry we posed; what actually happens when your time is up? There’s speculation, and previous footage and documentation regarding the Recurrences of the past are vague at best and inconsistent at worst. Would you happen to give us any insight as to what will actually happen?”

Humming, only the rhythmic clink of Lono’s nails against her necklace could be heard for the moment. Being a god associated with music, it wasn’t surprising to note that each tap sounded far more enticing than regular tapping stims.

“It’s actually a mystery to most of us as well. Ananke just tells us we’ll know what to do when it’s our time, and Thoth is pretty avoidant of the whole topic. So we’re just as clueless. We know it’s some form of mortal death where our bodies die and our spirits live on somehow, but other than that… I can’t give you a solid answer.”

Her attention changed from Eden to Marcus, “... Is the topic a little heavy for you? I can answer another question.”

Marcus snapped out of the daze he was in, “Oh, um…”

He hadn’t even noticed he was still rather shaken with the topic.

“Uh, sure. Sorry.”

Eden’s fingers softly laced with Marcus’ own. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to; Marcus gave him the most gentle little squeeze in response. A non-verbal I’ll be alright. Lono watched the exchange with a sad smile, gently tapping on the pretty coloured glass panel of the coffee table between them rather than outright interrupting their moment.

“I think you two need some tea, to help calm that tension you’re carrying.” She stood up, reassuring them before Eden could protest, “You can still ask me your questions, I can brew it pretty quickly.”

To that end, Lono took out a dainty little glass teapot, a brewing stand, and placed a flowering plant Marcus had never seen before. Immediately the gloom hanging over him seemed to shift. Eden could hardly hide his relieved smile, it felt far less daunting to see Marcus’ mind focus on something besides their run-in with Nyx. The back and forth with Lono and Marcus – the latter excitedly probing the god as to which plants they hybridised to produce the final flora while the former refused to give away her secrets with a merry little chuckle – took precedence for the moment, letting Eden silently admire his fiancé under the guise of going over his notes.

Vaguely aware of Lono brewing the tea by the time he clocked back into the conversation, Eden watched the indigo blue tea begin to boil. The smell was intoxicating, a mix of floral and surprisingly fruity scents: lemon, wood, and something akin to hibiscus but not quite that.

Thankfully, he didn’t have to ask for clarification, Marcus spoke up, his floral expertise shining through, “There’s definitely lemon balm in there.” 

Lono smiled, nodding, impressed,  “Mhm. Any other guesses?”

Marcus pondered for a minute or two, taking a couple more smells, “... Well, the colour and back aroma tells me you definitely spliced in some Butterfly Pea Flower, but there’s this root-y smell I can’t place without tasting it… but if I had to guess… Valerian root?”

The god looked utterly delighted, “Ding, ding, ding! All correct!” She carefully turned off the brewing stand and began to pour some out into teacups, handing them to both Marcus and Eden.

“I’ve tried a number of hybrids lately but this one’s my favourite. It looks so nice and it goes really nicely with a sweetened still lemonade.”

Marcus and Eden took a sip as Lono spoke. The flavours caressed their mouths and throats bringing with it a calm, full body warmth in its wake. It was probably the closest either of them assumed they would get to tasting the elixir of the gods.

“It’s delicious…” Marcus uttered in awe at it. Eden agreed, “It’s so refreshing, do you ever plan on selling your teas, Lono?”

Lono, satisfied with the reaction, gave a hum in thought, “Not commercially no. I think I’ll put it up online anonymously.” She picked up her own cup, “I really don’t want some company monopolising and overpricing my plants when I can have my family and friends run a quiet little Etsy shop where people can get it for pennies.”

“That’s very kind of you.” with another few sips Eden finished his cup, “It’s a good thing that you have such trust in your family not to sell the seeds behind your back. Many in your position would be wary of such a thing.”

Lono didn’t seem phased, she simply looked… disappointed? Or perhaps she pitied Eden, assuming he spoke from a place of experience. “You’ve a rather pessimistic outlook, Eden.”

“I prefer to think of myself as a realist.”

“I understand. But I assure you, my family aren’t the type to ever do something like that. We’re very close, every time I have a chance I sneak out to visit them and catch up on all the family gossip.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow, “Huh. I think that makes you pretty rare around here.”

Lono looked confused, “How so?”

“Just seems everyone else we spoke to doesn’t really keep in touch with their family anymore for whatever reasons. Whether it’s shitty parents or just… not wanting their family to be so sad when they go for good.”

She nodded, placing down her teacup, “Everyone has their reasons, and I respect them. It’s natural to want to put distance between things that are as heavy and uncomfortable as the death of a loved one. As for myself however I would rather spend the time that I can still being with them. It’ll be sad when I’m gone, I know. My mother took the longest to come to terms with it, but she’s a strong one; I don’t need to worry that she can’t cope without me. She’ll miss me, I know that, but she’ll keep the family together.”

The beat of silence while Lono sipped their tea felt heavy but in a way that was inherently comforting; a weighted blanket placed upon what should have felt like a sad conversation.

“Now, before I get too carried away, we should get to some questions.” Lono brought them back on track, which Eden was grateful for - though he didn’t regret letting Marcus and Lono have a moment to discuss horticulture.

“Thank you. One question we often found cropping up on your fansites and all over twitter was actually as to your freedoms; how much as you actually allowed to do or say without direct permission and or guidance from Ananke.“

A tenseness settled into Lono’s shoulders but upon seeing how the change in mood immediately affected the poor beanie-clad cameraman, she forced herself to relax and smile once more.

“Well, she’s kind of like our manager so that covers the usual things; representation, schedules, making deals, that kind of thing. None of us have to worry about bargaining for a TV slot or being the face of a brand with her around.” 

She bit the inside of her cheek, “But she also lays out the ground rules for us. Things like “refrain from performing miracles publicly if you can help it” or “try not to cause trouble that could make the Pantheon look bad or dangerous”...” She winced and Eden had the feeling Lono may have been referring to a specific incident. He said nothing though. He refused to poke that sleeping bear again.

“That sounds a tad suffocating. What stops you from seeking other representation?”

“Simple; she knows things that we don’t. She can answer questions for us that no one else can. Playing by the rules makes her more open to your inquiries; that’s the only reason Thoth and I are so filled in as we are. Dagda and Venus play the part too but they don’t often go digging for any information, Janus is content to just enjoy her two years without much explanation of the wider picture, and the others spend their time trying to get around her rules.”

Lono gesticulates gracefully, her Steven Universe charm bracelet clinking like wind chimes, “On the one hand, you have Re- Nyx and Loki,” she quickly corrected, “who just want to push entirely back against Ananke’s rules because they don’t like being told what to do. They want their total freedom and they’re so willing to just take it.”

She softly fixed a coil of her hair away from her eyes, “And then you have Arachne, who rebels in subtle ways; they’re happy to avoid the potential scoldings, but they have their ways of feeling less controlled. A secret Tumblr blog here, a side Spotify account posing as just another regular person, sneaking out to go buy comfort snacks and pretending they’re normal again for just a little while…”

Lono gave a tiny smile, “That’s the kind of rebellion I like best. Being restricted feels suffocating, but doing little things to feel in control helps me cope.”

Eden nodded slowly, “That’s understandable.” He took out a small business card Lono had given him and Marcus earlier, “Is that why you gave us this,” he spoke the name like he was talking to an old friend, “Emile?”

Lono – Emile – immediately brightened ever so slightly, nodding, “Yep. Gosh, it’s been a while since someone’s called me that.”

Marcus frowned, “Your family don’t call you Emile?”

“No, no, they do, I just… haven’t been able to see them so much lately. I used to be able to sneak away three or four times in a week, but now I can hardly sneak away once a week if I’m lucky. All of a sudden a lot of brands and TV shows want me to come talk to them or be part of their campaigns. On top of my performances, it’s getting harder to find the time; I did try and talk to Ananke about it but she just reassures me that it’s a good thing.”

Lono didn’t seem convinced. Eden and Marcus shared a glance and seemed to decide to press the topic very gently, “While we’re on the topic, do you mind telling us how you view Ananke? How would you describe her?”

Lono circled her finger around the rim of her teacup in thought; well, they said she could be as candid as she wanted, right? “I suppose I’m… torn about it. My opinion of Ananke is…”

She inhales, “I think she’s a very sweet and comforting old girl when she needs to be… but sometimes… she can be-”

-

“- a real shady bitch. But goddamn she’s hot when she’s tearing you apart with her words. And with her huge di-!”

“Thank you, Loki,” Eden interrupted, face wrinkled in repulsion, “but when we asked you what you thought of Janus, we didn’t mean specifically in reference to her performances sexually.”

Loki cackled, suspended still from their rig. Lord knows why ze decided to hold zir interview mid-rehersal for their upcoming performance, but if it was the only free time ze had then Eden wouldn’t complain. Neither did Marcus but Eden suspected he was enjoying himself rather than being annoyed by Loki’s antics.

“Fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine!” Loki groaned, “She’s cool. And sexy.” Ze started fiddling with another strap on their vest rig, apparently trying to loosen it despite the fact that they were a good seven feet off the ground. Eden began to thank his stars he was medically trained at this rate.

“Nothing else? Just cool and sexy?”

“Well, she does this thing with her tongue that-”

“Moving on.” Eden interrupted, ignoring Marcus’ snickers from behind the camera, “Since you’re eager to give us answers – whether we want them or not – do you mind fielding some incidents about the Ragnarok Incident?”

Ze looked ready to answer when ze unclipped something and zir rig flipped zem upside down. Cackling, Loki gleefully responded, “Sure specs, lemme just un-Prince myself.”

“Un-what yourself?!” Marcus half laughed. “Un-prince myself! What, you’ve never seen the Fresh Prince?!”

Marcus was having a grand old time it seemed, and as much as Eden loathed to do it, he had to get things back on track, “Marcus, mi amor, please focus.”

Rolling his eyes, he complied, “Okay, okay, sorry.”

“Thank you-”

“Word of warning,” Loki began, zir face a little flushed from the blood running to it while they tried to flip themselves back around, “You’ll wanna hold off on the gross romantic shit around Venus when you get to him. The freak gets off on love; you two walk into his interview doing that cutesy ‘mi amor’ shit and he’ll be finished before you get a word in.”

Loki wiggled zir eyebrows with a grin, “If you get me~.”

Eden cringed, “Unfortunately yes. We’ll bear that in mind. Now, back to the question at hand-”

“One sec, specs.” Ze wriggled for a moment. Whatever ze tried to accomplish must’ve failed because ze pouted, shouting over to a member of the staging crew, “Hey, someone pass me some scissors and the toolbox they keep in the back!”

A young lady in a T-shirt plastered with Loki’s face and decals nodded, calling into a walkie talkie, “We need scissors, bring ‘em to the main staging area…” She walked back to where she’d come from and – once they were the only three present – Loki immediately righted themselves back upright with one perfectly calculated forward roll.

“So, you wanna pick my brain about what all happened at Ragnarok? ‘Thought it was pretty obvious from the footage; everything was going pretty good, I got to go get wasted solo while everyone else put on a show, then the next thing my hungover ass hears Nyx made some pig’s head pop like a gore-filled firework.”

Ze explained in a nonchalant manner, as if ze weren’t talking about a horrific live incident.

“Don’t see how anything else I could add would make a difference.”

“We were more so hoping to get an answer as to why you didn’t show up in the first place. Why organise a whole event with no intention of performing?” 

Loki grinned knowingly, unsettlingly, “Don’t you dorks know your mythology?”

Eden looked over at Marcus who gave a puzzled look back then realised.

“Ah. Right. Look, just because most if not all the Norse sagas, myths and legends were written in Iceland doesn’t mean we intrinsically know every single one, E.”

Eden raised an eyebrow and Marcus sighed, “... Yes, fine. I read about Ragnarök. Ragnarøkkr, if you wanna be Lokasenna about it.”

Marcus looked back at Loki who looked all too excited to have him explain it, “It’s basically a long poetic edda, and a bunch of shorter poems here and there, all about the apocalypse, and a bunch of pretty big names of the Norse pantheon end up biting the dust.”

The realisation hit him and he sighed, “One of those people… is Loki.”

Loki gleefully applauded, “Finally! Someone knows their shit!”

“I see,” Eden nodded, “That explains why your fans were so surprised at the announcement. I did wonder why so many were asking why you didn’t save Ragnarok for the title of your final concert.”

Ze giggled, “It was real hard to keep the punchline secret, but it paid off.” 

Swinging gayly in zir rig, Loki added, “Pretty fucked up someone still died though, but hey, it wasn’t me so I can’t complain. Besides, who’s gonna be sad over a gross pig getting beheaded? Happens all the time in the meat industry but one loses their head at a concert and it’s a whole mess ending in a near arrest and a twitter trending moment.”

“Quickly moving on from that… minefield of a take, your fans have been wondering if you had any ideas for what you’ll actually call your final concert?” Eden asked.

Loki excitably answered, “No fucking clue, but I wanna theme it around my death as foretold in  Ragnarok. Gonna have a whole choreographed battle on stage and everything! I’ll have to hire some fans or something to be the frost giants…”

Ze posed like ze was leaning on a wall as ze addressed Eden, “How about you lemme borrow your dedicated simp to play Surtr for me? He seems fiery enough! Maybe you can be my Heimdall, seeing as you’ve got the arms for it!”

Marcus blushed embarrassedly and Eden cleared his throat, “I’ll have to pass, thank you. Heimdall isn’t a figure I’m all that familiar with.”

“Boooooo.” Loki huffed, turning to Marcus, “What about you? Wanna be the big ol fiery boy?”

“It sounds fun, but I might have to pass.” Marcus looked over at Eden, giving a sweet, shy smile, “If things go right, we’re hoping to adopt by then. Can’t be Surtr if I’m a dad, sorry.”

Ze made an expression Marcus couldn’t place for a moment, like ze was trying to put together a puzzle but they couldn’t find the right edge piece to get started. For a moment, Marcus wondered if it was because Loki could no longer fathom that kind of life; a life where you have a long future with a partner and potential children to plan for. Or even just living to see what the next decade will be like.

The look disappeared almost as soon as it appeared, however, and Loki huffed, “You’re both no fun!”

Loki was about to continue when ze spotted the stage hands ze sent to get scissors earlier come back and subsequently flipped zemself back around like ze were when the stagehand left. As if ze hadn’t just been able to right zemself, Loki flailed a hand to grab the scissors and with a few haphazard snips, ze made… a somewhat successful landing; ze all but belly-flopped onto the stage and dusted zemself off once ze got to zir feet.

“Olympics eat your heart out!” Loki giggled, hauling zemself atop zir nearest speaker set, “Now, did you wanna ask me anything else~?”

-

“No.”

Eden looked taken aback. “I’m sorry?”

“Why? You’re unapologetic in your endeavours, why would you be sorry?” Thoth retorted, just as detached and uninterested as he’d seemed for the entire interview.

“It’s a figure of speech-”

“I’m aware. My response was intentional wordplay while also doubling as an astute observation of your attitudes. I thought that was obvious.”

Marcus rubbed his face annoyedly, he’d need headache meds after this and they’re barely halfway through the Pantheon.

“Yeah, we got that. Maybe just assume we understand basic wordplay and tell us why you’re suddenly declining our interview?”

Thoth shot them a stony glare laden with sheer distaste.

“Because I know full well what your intentions are with this farce, and I decline to be a part of it.”

Eden and Marcus shot each other a side glance of worry without moving their heads. 

“I assure you we have no ulterior motives-”

Unsure of when Thoth had picked up and opened a thick, hardcover book, Marcus nearly leapt out of his skin when the god snapped it closed.

“Falsehood. Everyone has an ulterior motive, whether consciously or not.” Thoth put the book back with an ease the couple could only remember librarians possessing from their years of dates in their local library. “Yours I find to be rather unsavoury in particular.”

Being the tallest in the room, it wasn’t hard for the God of Wisdom to look intimidating. Each step he took along the shore of his vast bookshelves felt like the steps of a giant while Eden and Marcus were measly humans trailing in those same footsteps.

Eden would argue til he was blue in the face that he wasn’t an egotistical man, but he also didn’t appreciate it being bruised like this, “Enlighten us – as is your want to do so; what exactly do you think our ulterior motive is?”

“Monetary, of course.”

“Well, I guess ad revenue from our blog counts-” Marcus began, but Thoth interrupted him harshly.

“From the tabloids who offered you no doubt a pretty penny per interview. Make this seem like you just want some one-on-one time with each God for your petty little blog, but the truth is you’re here to provoke a response. You’re here to stir up trouble, then sell the footage, and profit from our misery. You’re vultures aiming to make a living using our limited time to your advantage; why would we waste time going after every tabloid and scathing hit piece when we’ll be gone in two years?”

Eye contact like daggers, Thoth faced the duo, “But I won’t be giving you the satisfaction.”

An uncomfortable silence stretched for long enough that Thoth could tell he was on the right path, however, judging by the way he sighed in such a pitying manner, Marcus assumed the god could tell they felt genuinely terrible about what they were doing.

Sighing in irritation, Thoth spoke up.

“... Give me your reason.”

Eden gave a surprised uttering of, “Excuse me?”

“You’re excused.” Thoth gestured to a pair of chairs one side of a modest coffee table. Unlike what they’d expected, Thoth’s room was – lavish drapes and seemingly endless bookshelf space aside – rather plain despite its grand space.

“Now, tell me; what is your reason? Why are you going through with this? If I were to guess, I’d wager student loans or some other form of debt, but I’d like to hear it from yourselves.”

Eden and Marcus shared another mutual glance before Marcus covered that aspect, “Well, partly. Eden’s a med student-”

“Admirable.” Thoth nodded.

“Yeah, E’s always been-”

“E?” The god looked perplexed. Marcus’ cheeks flushed softly, “Yeah, uh, it’s a nickname. E, Eden, y’know.”

“I… see. I would argue it’s more of an initial than what could be considered a proper nickname, but do go on.”

Marcus did so, a little intimidated still.

“Anyway, Eden’s got medical school to pay for, and I’m hoping to open up my own florist’s shop. But money’s been tight, and we’ve sorta been planning on getting married for a long, long time now. We could wait but uh…”

He blushed bright red, “It’s sappy but it’s like every day I’m not his husband is physically painful.”

Eden slipped his hand into Marcus’, the gesture so sappy and soft, Thoth looked like he wanted to be anywhere else.

“Right. And despite realising that you could simply wait a little longer to go through with a wedding – frankly, I don’t see the appeal myself, it’s all an overpriced spectacle that offers nothing besides tax benefits – you still want to put yourselves through all of this? Coming face to face with gods themselves, putting yourself in that kind of danger… it’s a risky move to make money.”

“I’d hardly call it dangerous, but wedding and future plans aside, Marcus and I do need the money to pay off some current bills.” Eden continued in Marcus’ stead.

Thoth stared at them incredulously, which was a feat considering he managed to do so while still maintaining the aloof aura he’s had since they’d walked in the door. Without much warning, the god’s head tipped back slightly and he let out a single “ha”. He faced the fiancés once more with no hint of humour, but a sparkle of amusement.

“You really have no idea of the lion’s den you just figuratively waltzed into. If you’re familiar with the phrase ‘cat among the pigeons’, you are both helpless pigeons strutting amongst ravenous lions.” 

“I would have to disagree. Personally, I doubt we’re in any more danger than one would face simply crossing the road in the morning.” Eden responded.

With a low, condescending chuckle, Thoth adjusted his glasses, “Oh, you have no idea what you’re getting yourselves into.”

He gestured across the table, as sophisticated as before, but with an air of almost knowing.

“You’re both going to get – and pardon the phrase – eaten alive in here.”

—

“Come now, I won’t bite.” Janus called from her boudoir to the fiancés. “You can come closer.”

So much more cautious than they had been before, Eden and Marcus took their places; Eden sitting and making sure his notes were ready to go while Marcus set up the camera. 

“... My, my, you two are awfully quiet. I had expected a little more chatter.”

“Apologies, I assure you we’ve had a somewhat long day.” Eden lightly massaged his left temple.

Janus gave a hum, “I’m well aware. You’ve both been through quite the emotional ringer if my precognition is to be believed.”

Marcus exhaustedly asked, “Sorry, your what?”

Janus humoured him, “My future sight. Well, past sight I suppose now, considering it’s already happened.”

A groan escaped Marcus in annoyance and Eden swooped in to handle things, “To be clear, you do indeed see the future?”

“And the past, yes. In perfect clarity, though the future is a fickle thing. Sometimes I see multiple future outcomes.” She clarified.

“Ah,” Eden turned to Marcus, “Think Garnet from Steven Universe–”

“Yeah, I get it now, babe. I promise.” He hadn’t meant it to sound so biting but in his defence, it’d been a rough day. Marcus did catch himself though and apologised quietly, “Sorry, E..”

“It’s alright, mi alma.”

“It’s alright, mi alma.”

Eden startled at Janus perfectly syncing their responses. She chuckled, gesturing to her golden eye caressed by a scale-like marking that cradled her left eye, “I told you, future sight.”

The god sat reclined and comfortable on her lavish sofa, amused by the duo if the expression on her face was anything to go by.

“I do hope you have other questions to ask me, hm?”

Eden nodded, “Yes, topically in regard to your future sight. Is it true that-”

“Yes, my right eye sees the past, my left the future.”

She perched forward slightly; the gesture itself wasn’t inherently intimidating but the way she did so felt powerful without being much more than a slight bend in her body.

“I’ve seen some… interesting things as of late. Regarding this interview and further beyond.”

“That’s interesting; so you know every question I’m about to ask you?”

“Possibly.” Janus checked her nails despite distinctly wearing gloves, “As I said, sometimes future events conflict; sometimes people change their minds, things pop up, there’s any number of reasons a future can be ushered in over another.”

Marcus, apparently not fully learning his lesson from today, dryly joked, “Wanna give us a reading? Tell us what’s in our future?”

Janus’ eyes were on him in an instant. Her mismatched stare emitted a soft glow akin to a tealight, or perhaps a firefly. She vocalised a hum; not threatening, but unsettlingly. 

“You don’t want me to.”, she began, ignoring Marcus’ slight recoil as she continued, “Besides, telling you a future usually makes it come true or prevents it from happening. I prefer to let things play out as they will.”

Eden cast a scrutinising gaze at Janus, “That’s not what we’ve been hearing.”

“Oh?” She leaned forward, fluid and graceful, “Do enlighten me.”

Her eyes seemed to sparkle at the notion even; like being caught out in a lie was exciting to her. Marcus figured it was to be expected. Not that he was all too versed in the Roman pantheon just yet, but he knew only two things about the mythical Janus; he had no Greek equivalent – a real oddity between the two pantheons – and he possessed two faces. When you’re the origin of the phrase ‘two faced liar’ it makes sense you’d be adept at falsities. 

Like he was reading a charge sheet, Eden listed, “Well, according to Arachne, you interfered with one of their concerts resulting in the rescheduling of their debut; Dagda informed us that you tampered with his calender and caused him to miss a wedding he’d been invited to attend; Lono caught you multiple times tampering with her greenhouse; and Thoth has assured us you were the reason he stopped – as he put it – engaging in casual dalliances with Loki.”

Janus was visibly amused while Eden continued, “That hardly sounds like you’re ‘letting things play out’ to me.”

She clicked her tongue in thought, “I suppose it doesn’t, does it?”

Without elaborating further, she prompted, “So, your next question–”

“ – Will be asked once we have answers to the current question. Please.” Eden retorted.

“You really are perfect for each other.” Janus retorted right back, catching Eden off guard. “You’re both stubborn, far too headstrong…”

Her gaze drifted towards Marcus, “Or perhaps I should say, far too eager to lose your heads.”

Marcus’ stomach clenched in recollection, “... Didn’t need the reminder, thanks.”

Janus waved a hand, “Oh I think you both do, actually.”

A snap sounded, Marcus recoiled, and the camera’s recording malfunctioned. Eden felt something loop around his ankle, something moving. He looked down to spot a shimmering golden tendril slither around his ankles and disappear under the sofa. The room’s lights dimmed to the point that Janus’ eyes were close to the only light source. Flickering foreboding candles in the darkness.

“You were both warned – by a god of wisdom no less – that if you continued on your path you’d regret it. And yet you still sit here now.”

Her lips moved, but her voice echoed from every inch of the room; dulcet whispers that were both several feet away as well as inches from their ears.

“If none else could do so, I’d be more than happy to put the true fear of a God in you. Nyx may have spared one of you a violent death but I can assure you should you attempt to provoke me in that same way, I won’t hesitate.”

The duo both sought each other in the dim light, never once taking their eyes off Janus.

“Who are you both to come here in your hubris demanding answers? Provoking Gods?”

She stood, and the lights went dark. Her voice still loomed, her glowing eyes multiplying as her voice had. Golden glares peeking from the shadows. The reverberations of her voice made it impossible to know where she was at any time.

“What business is it of yours that I may have tampered with one measly little concert to save Arachne from an awful case of stagefright that would’ve turned them into a shut-in for the rest of their two years?”

Marcus felt breath on his neck.

“So what if Dagda missed the wedding of a friend who used and abused that friendship? Where he’d have spent those hours sitting there, regretting the entire ordeal and wallowing in absolute misery, just because he believes in his silly little heart that missing it is morally wrong?”

Eden felt fabric brush the back of his palm.

“Who cares that sometimes Lono’s little plant splicing experiments produce deadly results that could maybe not kill her, but any poor souls who purchase them from her ridiculous little marketplace?”

All at once the thousands of ominous eyes slammed shut. The pitch darkness strangled a gasp from Marcus, but thankfully it ebbed quickly. Janus was sitting once more on the sofa opposite their own. Unphased, as if she hadn’t just pulled some Eldritch nightmare fuel levels of fuckery, Janus chuckled.

“As for Loki’s ‘dalliances’ with Thoth, let’s just say I was a little jealous~.” She rotated her wrist dismissively, “Besides, I just sped up a process that would’ve happened anyway. And far less messily than it could have been.”

Shakily, Marcus released Eden’s arm lest his fiancé lose all feeling in it. He didn’t want to let go of Eden, but he wanted to retreat back to his position behind the camera. Upon checking it, it seemed to be functional again.

The rest of the interview was brief; with only Venus left to interview next, Eden and Marcus were both eager to get things over with at that point. 

“Thank you for your time, Janus.” Eden offered politely in spite of every cell in his body screaming for him to just forsake common courtesy and run.

“No, no, thank you both for an amusing distraction.” Janus purred. “It’s been a while since I could relax like this.”

Marcus packed the camera equipment, checking the handheld camera to be sure it wasn’t broken for good. He gave a quiet huff, “Odd way to relax, but go off.”

Eyes luminous as they’d been before, Janus slowly blinked at him. She stood up and a tremor of fear ran through Marcus. Janus closed the gap near immediately with her long, elegant stride. Leaning in, she whispered something into Marcus’ ear while Eden watched in concerned confusion. Marcus’ expression shifted from panic to confusion until Janus pulled away.

“It’d do you best to remember that.” Eden caught her saying quietly before she sat down again, lounging lazily. She waved them off, “Now, do go enjoy your interview with Venus, I’m sure he’ll be just as delightful as he always is.”

The duo didn’t need to be told twice. Once outside the room, Eden turned to Marcus curiously, “What did she tell you? You needn’t say if it’s perhaps personal or for your ears only but…”

Marcus shrugged, “I don’t think it’s all that personal. She told me to “make sure our bonds are secure before we leave.”. I dunno what she means by that…”

Eden hummed, “Perhaps we should check our bag straps to be sure. In case she’s more literal than figurative.”

“Not sure, but we should prepare for Venus’s interview. Then we can go home, sell this shit, and forget this ever happened…” 

—

“And here you both are.” Venus’ expression was soft and sweet. “How lucky you both are, to have met one another and fallen so passionately in love.”

Marcus wasn’t sure when in their retelling of their relationship he and Eden had moved to sit by each other – him all but snuggled up to Eden’s side – but he wasn’t complaining. Of all the ups and downs of today, they had needed this.

“I count myself lucky every day I wake up next to my husband-to-be.” Eden spoke softly. He may have been answering Venus, but his eyes were locked on Marcus’. In his head, Marcus knew that they probably wouldn’t have been this openly sappy without Venus’ influence but he couldn’t bring himself to feel embarrassed enough to say anything about it. After everything, it was so welcome to feel at ease even in the presence of a God.

Maybe this was what Janus had meant? Making sure their bond was secure. Today had put them both through Hell, but they made it through, and now… now they could finally breathe.

Venus cleared his throat fondly, “As much as I’d love for you both to continue, I believe our time is up.” 

He smiled, “I only have so much time these days, you both ought to go home and enjoy yours.”

The fiancés couldn’t agree more. Marcus untangled himself from Eden to pack up the camera equipment, while Eden put his notes away, “Thank you again for this, Venus.”

Venus gave a happy little huff of a noise, “No need to thank me, you both provided quite the entertainment. It’s delightful to hear tales of true love.” The love God’s expression softened to one of melancholy, “Takes away the pain of never getting to truly experience it myself.”

Eden wasn’t sure what to say to that, neither was Marcus, so instead, they took their leave, putting their engagement rings back on. Walking the halls of the Pantheon felt so different now; at first it was like stepping into Cinderella’s castle; awe and wonder, and such an imposing feeling of distance. Of never being on the same level as these titans in human form. Now though, the halls felt as hollow as the price of Godhood. Truly, is it worth trading a long life for two years of fame that often turned out to be a double-edged sword?

Marcus didn’t think so. And he was pretty sure Eden agreed. 

“Once we get home, we should rest before we pass on the footage.” Eden reasoned, “After today, I think we’ve earned some time to ourselves.”

“For sure. I don’t wanna think about it ever again after this.” Marcus sighed, anxiously fixing his hair and replacing his orange beanie, “Never let me come up with ideas again, E. This was a nightmare.”

Eden chuckled, “Pity, I think it was a rather clever idea.”

Marcus gave Eden the softest smile, “Hey, I’m not the one who managed to talk Ananke into letting us do this.” As they walked through the doorway, Marcus laced his fingers with Eden’s, “That was all you, mi vida–”

He stopped, “Oh, Eden, your ring’s gone.”

Eden frowned in worry and looked at his hand, noticing the ring’s absence, “Damn, I definitely put it on…”

“Go back in and check, I’ll look for it out here, okay?” Marcus assured him.

“Alright,” Eden leant in to steal a quick kiss, joking playfully. “Don’t go anywhere, I’ll be right back.”

“Yeah, yeah, just go you big sap.” Marcus chuckled, shoo-ing Eden back inside. Watching his fiancé go back into the building did trigger a little pang of anxiety, but Eden would be fine. If there was ever anyone who knew how to stay safe, it was his fiancé.

“Ah, you’re still here.”

Marcus turned and just behind him on the paved road to the gates of the Pantheon building was an old woman, clad in black with an equally charcoal veil that covered her face ever so slightly. Her face gave nothing away, stony and skilled into apathy, yet her eyes were foreboding. Daggers into one’s soul.

Ananke.

“Yeah, we’re just leaving so don’t worry, we’ll be on our way soon.” Marcus assured her.

“Actually,” Ananke began. “I was hoping to talk with you.”

“Oh, uh, okay. I think Eden’ll be back in a moment–”

“No. With you, specifically.” 

The atmosphere seemed heavier, and despite being outside, Marcus found it hard to breathe. All at once, he felt the ground beneath his feet shift like he’d been knocked off balance.

“It’s been far too long since you’ve made an appearance…”

Ananke’s voice felt so distant, his weight shifted.

“... Surtr.”

And then he was falling.

-

Eden was relieved to find his ring untouched or damaged; thankfully Arachne wasn’t the type to swipe anything they found laying on the floor. He hadn’t meant to keep Marcus waiting but a quick exchange of thanks with Arachne was in order. His mother raised him right.

With a happy relief, Eden made sure his ring was secure, smiling at it adoringly. He couldn’t wait for the day he and Marcus could finally get married; they’d spent so long as a part of each other’s lives, perhaps it was inevitable they’d fall in love but regardless he never wanted anyone but Marcus.

Childhood best friends to lovers. Who didn’t want that?

Roused from his thoughts, Eden spotted a figure in black outside as he approached the front door. And next to her…

“... Marcus?”

Ananke didn’t react while Marcus turned to face Eden; he looked so different, only his orange beanie could identify him as Marcus.

His reddy leather jacket had been replaced by a black one sporting split sleeves decorated with neon orange flames that matched his now orange gloves. Pumpkin hued ripped tights laid under a long wrap-skirt that faded from coal to magma red to glowing oranges and yellows. Straps of leather, zips, and chunky black boots, all of it screamed fiery inferno punk. The blonde hair that peeked out of his beanie was a burnt black colour with his peach streak standing out as a fiery rust.  Even Marcus’ casual eyeshadow had changed, ringing his eyes in smokey embers. His green irises now resembled swirling magma as he looked at Eden with an expression of utter horror.

“Eden…”

— — — 

[caitsbooks]

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[flower-cage]

The Wolf And The Dragon | Chapter Seven

by @flower-cage

Aemond Targaryen x Stark!Reader

Summary: The war between the Greens and the Blacks has begun and the youngest of the Stark heirs is sent on a secret mission to King's Landing. In its course, she will learn to accept the power that was never meant to be hers and the love she never thought she deserved.

Ao3 | Main Masterlist | TWATD Masterlist | Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | NEW Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 coming soon

Chapter Seven: The Wolf and The Dragon II

Chapter summary: The several days that make up your recovery are bright and fanciful like this in his company, despite the looming promise of battle.

Words: 6,192.

Warnings: 18+ only; explicit sexual content, mentions of blood.

A/N: This is such a filler chapter - all fluff and longing and smut, barely any plot. Smut has entered the chat. Minors, do not interact.

Tall, warped, and grey is the world that enshrouds you. It flashes past your eyes as you pierce through it unwaveringly. Towards where your legs take you, you are unsure, for an innate calling takes the lead and you trust it fully, you trust it blindly. Thick and hot as it drips down your flushed flesh, flying off and fouling the air with the taste of iron is… your blood? Pain is there too within your bones and desperate agony thrums and stings in your gut.

When it all stops, you know not where you stand, only that it grants you relief so great you surrender yourself to your exhaustion. The world that was once frantic turns void and silent.

When you wake up next, it is to the warmth of the sun licking against your cheek. It melts away your heavy drowsiness slowly and, gently, you stir your limbs to wakefulness, relishing in the silken linens and in the satiation of a full night of rest.

The low murmur of the comings and goings of the palace and the city below have long become a constant comfort, and this room, whose purpose you initially suspected was that of a glorified cage, has become a home in this land of treacherous politics.

Even if your wishes were to rise and soak in such sunlight, however, or watch the capital buzz or the sea lap its shores from your lavish balcony, a twinge in your chest reminds you there is little movement you can undertake without splitting it anew. The sting of it steals your breath so immediately, it awakens you to the ache that also persists head to toe. Alas, solemnly you lie still and impatient despite the medicine-induced lethargy that slows you, tolerating the dull throb until a maid finally disturbs your empty contemplations.

“Oh!” she gasps in delight. “Good morning, my Lady!” 

She is quick to open your curtains further and bring forth a dress and jewels, now accustomed to the commanding presence of your wolf, and prance about rummaging through the many items Queen Alicent has donned you. You take the scene quietly, yet reluctant to join in the busyness of the royal palace.

“Now then,” she claps her hands together once, eyes running across your chamber disorderly, likely cataloguing her duties of the day, “I’ll request your breakfast and summon Prince Aemond,” she announces as she curtsies and turns to exit, not quite meeting your eyes as she dashes through her own actions, her disposition much too chirpy for your still dazed mind.

“The Prince?” you break your silence, finally, when her words settle in. “What for?”

“He demanded to be informed when you rose, my Lady,” she smiles like she knows more than she should.

Heat rises to your cheeks, then, and your heart skips a beat only to kick off at full force when you are flooded with the memory of the night previous, of your unpremeditated, timid admissions.

“Wait!” you yelp as she turns to speed off once again. “Assist me in looking presentable, then.”

Your hairdo and the discrete jewelry the lively maid prepares in no time, but it is a true effort to help you into a tight bodice and a hefty, courtly gown in your state of fragility. Thus, when Aemond strides into your chambers, you are still gasping for air and in pain, sitting on the chaise in your modest living room.

“Rough start?” he quirks an eyebrow as he approaches.

There is a beat to his step and a levity to his brow you don’t think you have previously witnessed. It is but a faint trace of joy and tranquility on his typically stern countenance, one a stranger would take it for granted. You are far from strangers, however, and you cannot resist when your own expression softens at his easy disposition.

“My body is still awfully weak,” you grimace, a palm pressing below your bust, grounding you in your laborious breaths.

“It needs time to recover, is all,” he murmurs when he reaches you, towering over you.

Your heart gets caught in your throat when he bends to your height, holding your gaze, terrified to think he will claim your lips in front of the servants who set the table. In a startling motion, however, he takes your waist in his strong hands and brings you to your feet. Hardly a gesture proper between an unwed pair, his touch elicits shame to burn your face and desire to tickle where his fingers had gripped.

He allows you a moment to recover from the abrupt movement, hands steady at your quivering waist and oblivious that you take it to recover from the effect he has on you instead. His dark velvet vest glares back as you regain your grip on reason, keeping at bay the impulse to simply take him.

You have accepted your undeniable, burning passions, had a glimpse of his carnal pleasures, and admitted he has unequivocally conquered your regard. Whatever lies beyond is muzzled, indiscernible, and scares and excites you in the same breath.

His firm grip on your elbow pulls you toward breakfast as much as it pulls you from your uncomfortable wonderings.

It is another difficult, glacially slow feat to eat on your own, but you insist your body needs the practice and Aemond sits with you patiently, briefing you on the latest developments of the council and picking on your fruit. You note, without deliberation, his taste for the sour: green apples, green grapes, the slices of lemon on the lemon cakes. 

It is immensely strange to have him there in your chambers, simply keeping you company, under no pretense of duty whatsoever and of his own volition. It is immensely contrasting to the image of the Dragon Prince you know he works so hard to sustain, and it invades your chest with a tickling warmth you never knew could be attributed to him.

“Any news of my father?” you ask him when his short reports lull to a halt. He hums through a pout, a quick frown, peeling an apple. His long fingers, roughened by the sword, cut the fruit gracefully and meticulously - delicate yet sinister.

“The last we heard of the Northern army was several days ago when they were set to cross The Trident,” he tells you, unaware his every movement grasps your full attention. “The last raven has gone unanswered.”

The Trident - in between The Eyrie and Riverrun, one a sworn enemy, the other an inconstant party.

“A messenger was sent to find what has happened-”

The clattering of your silverware against fine porcelain interrupts his foreboding tellings. A shuddering breath escapes you and you stare at the delicate tabletop in search of reassurances for which you are scared to ask aloud.

Punching through your gut, stealing your composure, your icy fear flies through your veins, freezing your blood and hopes alike.

“I promise you,” he states firmly, promptly, taking your hand in unexpected sympathy and recapturing your attention. He is so warm the cold never truly reaches your fingertips. “If something has indeed passed, I will fly to them on Vhagar at a moment’s notice”

His eye is gentle yet fierce, tempting you with trust and affection.

“A letter arrived from my lord uncle in Old Town just two nights ago,” he tells you, clearing his throat and sitting back, releasing your hand and taking with him all warmth. “Though his fleet will join us, and some of his men, he is to ride to Highgarden.”

“Highgarden?” you repeat, the strategist in you instantly, thoroughly engaged. “But the way from Old Town is far too treacherous for an army,” you argue, “they could easily be stranded-”

“Not for a dragon,” he cuts you short, smirking like he had wanted for this reaction. For a moment you think he intends to forsake your plans and fly to the Reach on his own. Affronted, feeling strangely betrayed, you ready yourself to passionately oppose him. 

Then it dawns on you-

“The Blue Queen,” you conclude in awed breath.

“My brother Daeron will keep the Tyrell and their bannermen from advancing on King's Landing,” he explains, taking his cup between his smirking lips, holding your gaze and most unquestionably taking pleasure in your befuddlement.

“Do not tease me…” you mutter under your breath, huffing as you recollect yourself. “Seems most unlike this court to commit to such clever schemes,” you stir the honeyed wine in your hand, avoiding his mocking gaze, “rather than to plunge into battle.”

He hums in return and you hear, too, the smile that paints his amusement.

“We have recently learned a thing or two,” he tells you.

“Is that so?” you raise your eyebrows, meeting his eye and hiding yourself behind your own chalice.

A sweet sparkle ignites in his eye, likely meeting its twin in yours, but he is quick to turn his face and bite into his cheeks not to unveil it entirely. And you… you try not to get lost in the sharpening of his most beautiful features, in the tantalizing column of his neck that he exposes to you or the masculine lines that make his profile.

Easily you fall back into comfortable silence, picking on the remnants of your meal and enjoying each other’s, for once, easy presence. He goes to excuse himself for a council meeting from which you had been excused when your cups are nearly empty, but you insist on accompanying him.

It is a laborious task to help you to the council chamber. Your body can scarcely hold itself upward, your chest can barely bear the movement of your breaths, with each movement threatening to bleed it anew. Even so, Aemond takes up the task with patience, stopping every few steps to guide you to steady your breaths before you can even wince in warning. With an arm curled around your back and a firm grasp on your elbow, he becomes your steadfast support.

The gown that grazes the tiles and catches the sunlight does not cover your collarbones, so that your still-healing gash, too sore to cover in close-fitting dresses, is on full display. It catches the eyes of the nobility on your way through the Keep, but, perhaps for the first time, you do not feel cruelly scrutinized. 

The indistinguishable chatter that bubbles from the council can be heard many feet away, though its door remains dutifully shut. When it is pushed open for your entrance, the room becomes silent for no more than a heartbeat before it erupts again in renewed, vigorous cheers. It startles you - the claps, the hails, the cries of your name.

You look at Aemond in search of answers, finding nothing but admiration in the gleam of his eye, in the smile on his lips. The effect is so alluring, dizzying, that you force yourself to turn quickly back to the members of the council, before the craving for his full attention - his touch, his lips - traps you in immodesty.

“Hail Captain Stark!”

“Great to see you standing, Captain!”

Polite nods and smiles are all you manage in your startled state. Soon, the uproar dwindles with a stern word from the Hand of the King, allowing for the session to take place as usual. Only this time your word is not once taken for granted and Aemond does not join his mother’s side.

He comes to you often, now. Every time the thought of him is accompanied with longing, he shows up at your door, at the library, at the gardens, wherever it is you are.

Every day he comes to you, sometimes in the morrow, sometimes at tea, each time a different excuse on his lips, a different activity on his mind. It is not difficult to see right through them, but you don’t dare teasing him so he is not discouraged from pursuing you, for you crave his company just as eagerly.

“Allow me to accompany you to the shores of the river,” was his first cover, “the maester says fresh air and light walking will help you regain your strength.”

You hummed in delight, gladly abandoning the embroidery you had taken up at the encouragement of Queen Helaena to take instead his arm.

Every night you sit in a small clearing you have claimed in the woods just outside the city walls, watching and instructing him as his fists fly, his eye veiled, against a bag of dirt that swings from a tall tree. You chuckle every time it hits him powerfully in the back of the head because he allows you the trust to do so.

The several days that make up your recovery are bright and fanciful like this in his company, despite the impending promise of battle. He is silent and intense and rigid as has likely always been his nature, but he no longer assaults and insults you.

In these days of your recovery, he is generous with his amiability and his tenderness which were once rare and quickly followed by hatred. And for the most part, you enjoy the comforting quietness you have found in one another, not knowing how long this deception of peace will last.

Before you know it, his friendship becomes a grounding force in this land you still don’t belong in, in the face of duties still greater than what you were ever meant to shoulder. It brings you relief and room to breathe, but it also dulls the ardent fire that would once burst into impassioned moments of affection or aggression. Now he grants you himself so freely, all your urges turn into potent longing, ever-pounding in your ribcage and stretching on and on as it is scantily fed by lingering touches, soft smiles, gentle gestures. 

The longer you spend in his presence, the more you truly see him - the mere man he lets slip from the cracks in the shell they call Prince Aemond One-Eye, the Kinslayer - and you yearn for him ever just as ardently. Yet the lack of angry, adrenaline-filled rushes turns rational the mind that granted you the courage to deliver yourself so effortlessly to your base desires. The same effect has overtaken him, you imagine, for he, too, has not taken that dangerous leap again.

He takes you flying when your wound is but a long line of red, taut skin stretching from shoulder to shoulder.

“Vhagar needs the exercise,” he explains as he pulls on his leather riding gloves, “and you need the sunlight.”

You get sunlight from your balcony. 

Even so, you join him, and he takes you to an island perhaps an hour from King’s Landing, forgotten in the Blackwater Bay. It is but a couple of grassy hills and dried acacias, deserted of wildlife but abundant in sunlight and cool, salted winds.

Just before you land, he veers Vhagar so that her wings graze the ocean, spraying you with saltwater, and freely relishes in your surprised yelps. It is in a dream-like, high-spirited state that you dismount his dragon to stand on a hilltop and enjoy the whimsical beauty that stretches on before you.

Across the vast expanse of deep blue, you see the Crownlands for the first time in a long while like the history books and fantasy stories always described it - sun-soaked and plentiful. You close your eyes and pretend you are a simple lady who enjoys the luxuries of the capital and the attention of a Prince who courts you. You enjoy the tall grass as it grazes your ankles and the breeze that flutters your silken skirts.

What if your interests had been simpler from the start? Would you have been content with a caring husband and a simple life like your sisters? Would the duty of motherhood suffice your ambitions?

Dull, your mind corrects you immediately. It is not your nature and has never been, but you delight in the glimpses of a different life you get in these escapades you enjoy at his side.

But they don’t last long, not at the brink of war.

Though council meetings are shorter and scarcer as the weeks pass, though your days are mostly filled with quiet joy, letters from all across the Kingdoms become more frequent. Though they mostly bring good news, they also make each day heavier and darker, luring war to break out.

Our fleet has joined the Hightower’s at the Arbor, whose succor we have finally secured. We shall sail with care and wait for Prince Aemond east of the Sea of Dorne, though I fear only a fool could hope for secrecy now, writes Jason Lannister.

We have made a small siege around Highgarden, but the Blue Queen suffices in terrifying the Roses back into their walls, writes Gwayne Hightower.

Corlys Velaryon’s fleet has now fully impeded trade into the Crownlands, confirms Borros Baratheon.

Some of the men from the Stormlands have made their way into the city four nights past, the men from Harrenhal six, and Lord Borros awaits with his fleet at the ready to join the advance coming from the west, awaiting you.

And yet no word from the Northern Army.

“There is no cause for alarm, yet,” Aemond often reassures you, “this wait is not unprecedented.”

But there is much uncertainty. This quietness before the storm does not sit well with you. No dragon has been sighted flying off Dragonstone, but you cannot help but wonder if this is all part of a ruse. After all, you had been spotted that night on Dragonstone and, for every bit of undisciplined, Daemon Targaryen is also known to be exceedingly sharp and tenacious. What if he had preemptively relocated the beasts?

These doubts and more haunt your dreams the closer you are to setting off for battle and, on the eve of the first strike, they grow so great they threaten to rip you apart at the seams.

You sit with them and allow them to consume you, under the eyes of the Weirwood Tree of the Red Keep, under the light of the new moon. For long you had engaged in silent devotion, searching for peace, protection, counsel, but it does little to soothe your disquieted mind.

No word from the enemy, no word from your father, and no word from the Riverlands. Their silence deafens you.

Resting upon a log, face to face with the image of the Old Gods, you close your eyes and revel in the warm breeze you seldom get in the North. It ruffles fallen leaves and twigs, seeps through the light fabric of your nightdress, and promises an unattainable liberty. In another shot at distraction, you listen closely to its path - northward - but the sound of crunching leaves a few steps behind you promptly awakens a feeling of foreboding.

Your hand tightens around the dagger on your waist. Something creaks a step closer. Without preamble, you jump and twist, your blade finding perfect lodging against his jawline, not for the first time.

He smirks, head tilted backward, hands in the air.

“I’m beginning to believe you take joy from having me under your blade.”

“Damn you, Aemond,” you hiss, stowing away your knife and releasing a shuddering breath that, predictably, does nothing to relieve you of your torments.

His very sight aggravates your affliction, when you take note of his rare dishevelling. Similar to you, only a cloak hides the cotton chemise he should be wearing exclusively in the privacy of his apartments, and his loose hair parts in the middle to frame his amused countenance. Both reflect the brilliance of the moon to don him an ethereal glow, and his casualty tempts you to believe he has invited you into his intimacy. 

“How predictable is the troubled wolf who trails the woods in the shadows,” he mocks.

You award him a hard gaze, not partaking in his light jesting when your shoulders clench in distress.

“How despicable is the dragon who slithers in silence after her,” you bite, regretting it immediately when his smile drops and his eye softens.

He has learned your moods and attitudes as much as you have his.

“What is it that ails you?” he asks so softly you wonder when his instinct has become to extend his care in place of retaliation.

And his softness, akin to how his mother had once received you, waters your eyes in a heartbeat. You bite your cheeks, looking away so that your tears are not encouraged to fall.

“This tranquility does not sit well with me,” you whisper.

“You question yourself,” he concludes with a tone of realization, watching your lips tremble, your hands clenching closed.

“Something is amiss,” you beg, predicting his denial. Indeed, he shakes his head and takes a harsh breath as if preparing to fight you tooth and nail. “But it is, Aemond!” you insist before he gets his chance, recapturing his attention and astounding yourself with how swiftly you lose composure.

“This silence is most unnatural,” you tell him gravely. “We have had an army on the move for months, Highgarden is under siege, Daemon saw us!”

He stares at you, jaw tight, gaze hard, and unmoving.

“And they are- what?” you lick your lips, staring back with equal vehemence, but if he is shaken by your reasoning, he does not convey it. “Sitting and waiting?”

You had not known how terribly these thoughts had rotten within you, garnering a great fear furtively until this single stab allowed it to burst and eat away at you.

“We knew from the beginning they would be ready to meet us in battle,” he counters with a placidity you would never have expected just two moons ago. “We have prepared for it accordingly.”

“There has been no word from my father, Aemond,” your voice breaks, your eyes truly tearing despite your efforts, lips trembling with the toil of keeping composure. “Chances are at least one dragon has survived-”

“No,” he takes you by the elbows as you hiccup through tears, through dismay. “We would have seen-”

“And they will descend upon you and Vhagar first,” you lament, wet, glimmery eyes meeting his worried look, “and it will be my fault,” you finish in a whisper.

Your desolation takes effect on him finally, and he takes your damp face in his hands to force your attention, to force you to trust him. He brings you so close, so quickly, your hands land on his chest for balance. His fine chemise is so delicate you feel every hard line of muscle underneath and his warmth seeps in slowly through your fingertips, flaring your feelings yet further.

“That will not happen,” he emphasizes, enunciating each word carefully and surely, so that they may weigh and impress on you. His hands brush your hair from your wet cheeks, his calloused fingers wipe your tears, then descend to your chin, tilting it so that he may secure your attention.

It takes your breath away, that passionate spark of his. His diligent care - perhaps his passion - alights a warmth that fills your chest to the brim and you feel seen, wanted, cherished. And you want more of it, you want all of it.

“You will not lose me,” he whispers, almost an afterthought that betrayed him when he allowed himself the gentleness. “I will not lose you.”

Your lips part in surprise. You did not expect him to interpret your words in this way, but the tightening in your chest only confirms his bold suppositions.

“How can you be so sure?” you whisper back, afraid of breaking the delicate exchange. “How can you trust that when so much is uncertain?”

He hums, smirk pulling on his lips and trapping you deeper in your desires.

“You are certain. Nothing else needs to be.”

Driven wild by his affectionate words, your heart beats harshly in your chest, ailing your breaths and ringing in your ears. Your fingers tingle against his solid chest where they rest and refrain from bringing him closer. His gaze is firm and allows no challenge as you look at him in amazement.

“You think chance alone brought you to King’s Landing at the exact moment we needed you?” he asks though he evidently wishes for no answer.

“My father-”

“What sense does it make for the Gods to place us in each other’s path-,” your knees buckle when he grazes the lowest dip on your bottom lip, “- and achieve what we have so far, against all odds, only to fail at the very end?”

At a loss for words, you revisit the chain of truly unlikely events that have led you to this very moment. It is not that you accept his reasoning, but rather that you are overtaken by a desperate desire to acquiesce to him, to be in harmony with him now that he so eagerly seems to seek that himself.

“The Gods play cruel games, too,” you try meekly, but in the back of your mind you hear his mother's words:

The Gods have only destined us to achieve that which we are capable of achieving, and that is an encouraging thought.

Just as they did then, they compel you to give in and simply… believe.

“The stubborn Stark and her almighty direwolf,” he starts, smirking when he senses your resignation, fingers gliding softly against the side of your face, gaze admiring the skin they trail, “and the bad-tempered, one-eyed Prince, rider of the largest dragon in the world…” 

One of his hands leaves your face as the other cups the side of your neck, eliciting sparkling goosebumps to travel down your spine.

“Heirs to little more than what they have made of themselves,” his fingers travel down your arm to wrap around yours, “they seldom seem the types to end consigned to oblivion.”

You soften despite yourself, huffing good-naturedly. 

“You read too much,” you whisper.

He places your knuckles on his smiling lips, stealing your breath entirely.

“Trust your capabilities,” he insists against your skin, prompting a sob you didn’t know you still held, “as I trust your role in the great scheme of history will be equally as grand as you.”

“Aemond,” you choke around his name. 

It has become easy to regard him and see past his dragon features, past his titles, his prowess and his sins, to see a mere man. It makes you adore and yearn for all of him, in all his ordinary manners and his human insecurities and all the facets he hides from everyone else’s eyes.

“Often I have read about the heirs of the dragon,” you start, swallowing the heaviness that fights to leave you, turning your hand to hold his face in your palm, “of their bloodlust, their beasts… their pride.”

Your fingers trail up the scar that splits his brow, ever so lightly delineating its cut.

“Little did I know they could be so kind,” his one eye hardens when the tip of your thumb hooks underneath his eyepatch.

His instinct is to flinch, but you give him your best reassuring, pleading look, and when his eye softens again you know he, too, wants to give himself to you entirely, undividedly. 

“And so warm,” you take off the binding leather, “so beautiful,” you gasp.

A hand curls on your hair, fingers weaving through your loose strands to hold the back of your head.

“There is nothing cold about the daughter of the great, white North either.”

He pulls you in gently, but you reach for him all the same, and this time you meet his kiss with the same eagerness.

When your tongues embrace, his heat melts you to the core. He is not forceful, but his hunger is evident, for he kisses and takes you as though his sole purpose is to drive you delirious with pleasure. He is urgent as if he has long thirsted to have you on his tongue again, yet slow and deliberate so that he may truly savor you. It is sensual in its pace, passionate in its depth, and makes you crave for more until your head spins with your sensations.

You pull on his silver strands in response to his squeeze on your waist, and you break apart in a gasp which alleviates your haziness enough for a single trickle of rationality to defy your actions.

“We shouldn’t-”

“Then why does it feel so good?” he grunts and licks into your mouth too quickly. “Why does it feel like the best thing I’ll ever do?”

He sucks your bottom lip gently and you shudder at the sparks of pleasure that descend through you.

“Tell me you don’t want this, then,” he murmurs against your slickened lips, eye glued to them like he wishes for nothing but to devour them. 

“Tell me this doesn’t feel right,” his nose brushes against yours teasingly and your mouth waters. “Tell me-” his thumb leaves a trail of goosebumps as it caresses the hollow of your throat, “-it doesn’t feel as though every path you’ve ever taken has led you here to me.”

He rests his parted lips so lightly against your own, you are nearly convinced you have conjured the feeling yourself in your crazed yearning.

“Go on and tell me you don’t want me.”

They say that none can tell lies before the Weirwood trees of the Old Gods. And you find that you really, truly, cannot.

“I-I do,” you breathe. “Aemond, I want you.”

His every move is calculated, as though he has thought this through meticulously, has always known how he would like to touch and pleasure you. He leaves you dizzy when his mouth leaves yours at last, your lips hanging open in search of his tongue again, but through them escapes a gasp when his hot lips suck on your neck instead.

Gently he pulls on the hair at the base of your neck, exposing more skin to his wandering tongue. His kisses clouded your mind, warmed your body, drove you to hunger… But this positively electrifies your skin, pulling pleasure from every inch of your body, from your fingers to your toes, from your chest to your tingling spine.

You feel his hunger on his tongue as it tastes you persistently. His utter devotion you feel on the fingertips he presses against your waist and his desperation you hear on the breaths he takes against your skin.

Just as sure and seamless as his every touch, he wraps his arms around you, holding you tightly and bending his knees to lift and deposit you on the cold grass beneath him. He recaptures your lips when he settles between your legs, but when he grinds his hard member against your core, you part in a broken moan.

It is most unnatural, you think, how your body reacts promptly and desperately to his every stimulus. It doesn’t make sense, you think, that you find yourself so soon at the very end of your wits.

Your hands paw at his soft shirt in renewed desperation, finding his hot flesh beneath it. His own hands deftly work to lift your skirts and venerate your bare thighs. And then the world slows down to a halt, if only because you need it to finally, truly feel him.

You close your eyes at the feel of his warm, naked back, your very soul re-energizing at the bare touch. A large hand travels to your shoulder blades, underneath your gown, sparking goosebumps in their path along your spine as your flesh desperately tries to cling onto its heat. His own skin does the same as your lips stroke reverently against his collarbones, up his neck. You take in his lovely scent and he takes your lips again, kissing you at the pace that the Earth spins, grounding you in the present, in his heartbeats, in his caresses, in his warmth.

Your wandering fingers cannot help but stroke though his lush strands, nor can they stop searching for the taut softness of his back as it ripples beneath them. You tease yourself by gliding your thighs along his own and settle around his waist, getting both lost and trapped in the tantalizing caresses and the promising heat of your close embrace. 

It is with a gasp that the spell of leisurely touches shatters, when he lowers his hips and presses his hardness against your exposed sex. It all too suddenly makes room for an intensity and a want that had laid dormant in your gut.

His hands journey further south and you moan into him when he squeezes and pulls on the back of your thighs, parting the lips that progressively slicken between your legs. It makes you ache for him, makes you moan and grip his hair a bit harder.

“Aemond,” you whine against his ruddy lips, when he moves you against him, building a pulsing pleasure deep within your cunt that strikingly resembles a desperate calling.

“I have wanted you,” he murmurs into you, blue eye made dark with lust, “direly,” he rolls his hips again, “fiercely.”

“Then have me,” you whisper, begging him as you shiver in desire. 

He holds your gaze with unwavering determination while you feel him reach between you. It is as if he yearns to watch every muscle on your face twitch and slacken in pleasure under his lustful ministrations. He gets his wishes when he lodges his leaking tip between your slick lips with a hiss, and you gasp when his thumb presses against the pearl of pleasure between your thighs. He gives you no time to decipher what he will do next, stroking you in earnest and grunting as your cunt flutters and squeezes around his most sensitive tip.

The pleasure builds far too quickly - you have craved him for far too long. You feel the heat and elation travel through your flesh in all directions before you truly peak. When you do feel it, it is immediately insufficient to satiate you, and your cunt contracts hungrily against his tip, begging for more while you deliver yourself to pleasure with deep gasps.

He answers your sinful cravings before you have to utter it, before you even stop quivering around nothing, sliding in easily, deeply, stuffing you to the brim. 

You yelp around a gasp when he does so, immediately delirious in your arousal, immediately and incredibly close to another peak. You never stood a chance - he has impregnated your senses with himself, driving you to s concupiscent frenzy; his masculine scent of sandalwood is intoxicating now it is spiced with the sinful scent of your sex, his warm, soft lips lick and suck until your thoughts dissolve to smoke, his thunderous grunts shudder you to your core when he sheathes himself inside you.

His gaze has never been more penetrating, regardless of how passionate it had always been. With his sparkling sapphire eye, lips red and abused by your urgent tongue, and fine silver hair clinging to his glistened skin, he finally conquers the parts of you that had thus far remained untouched by his alluring spell.

“Aemond,” you whimper, tears gathering in the corners of your eyes, breathtaking desire and realization battling inside you.

When he finally moves, he does it studiously, coercing you to feel his every inch. There is so much of him, he drags and teases all the spots that make your knees part further for him. When he pushes back in, your eyes roll back and a moan breaks apart the sloppy snare of your tongues. 

“Nothing will take you from me,” he admits in a rough whisper, amidst a hiss and a gasp. “Not a thing will part us.”

His weight grounds you to him, protects you from all that isn’t bound to the space between your heated flesh. His freed hair shades you from the exposing light of the moon. He takes your hands from their eager exploration of his back to lace your fingers in his, restraining them against the ground.

He entertains these luscious, languid movements for the short time it takes for your slick to soak his cock, until your knees come up to wrap high and wanton around his torso. Then, with a grunt, he awards you with thrusts so powerful they punch your breaths out of your lungs, so precise they wet your eyes anew with tears of pleasure.

“Aemond,” is the only thing you can say.

“There?” he asks softly, nearly patronizingly, and redoubles his efforts.

You burn from the inside, from the mouth-watering sensations he evokes unforgivingly in your deepest, most pleasurable spot. You sweat through your clothes and your hair clings to your sticky skin. When one of his hands uncurls from your hold and gently wipes your weak tears, takes your jaw, and pulls you into a searing kiss, you think you might burst aflame, but you welcome it like you have been waiting for him to thaw you your entire life.

“I won’t be going anywhere,” he whispers against your mouth, incredibly gentle despite the rough thrusts that still deliver you closer and closer to insanity, “not without you.”

And then all your pleasure snaps like this: with your eyes locked to his, with your lips grazing his, and his words weighing heavily on your chest.

Taglist: @ficsrecsforhrnybitches @missusnora @let-love-bleeds-red @dark-night-sky-99 @arcielee @merakies @aemondsbabygirl @herfantasyworldd

[hihimissamericanbi]

The Watcher and the Dancer

Rating: T

Pairing: F/F

Relationship: James/Sirius

Wordcount: 9,857k

Summary: Walburga was still talking too loudly, unaware her eldest daughter had paused her Fall Out Boy playlist minutes ago, but Siri did nothing to disabuse her. She wanted to exist in a few more moments of precious liminality, fraught with fragile expectation: the “before” of a summer vacation, dreaming of memories caressed like worn sea glass before having to go and actually break the bottles that make them.

AKA: Dreamy sapphic summer crush fic set in New England in the aughts with a side of sister feels

Notes: Hi! Hello! I am old and don't know how to use Tumblr at all but decided to try to post this here while I wait to join AO3? For context: Wolfstar is OTP but I wrote this with OCs originally (like not as a marauders fic), then decided it could work as Prongsfoot so I made some tweaks and here we are. Fem Siri and Jamie because it's my fic and I said so. Based on my experiences so please be nice? Also kind of my love letter to Maine. Promise to write Wolfstar and Jegulus in the future, as it should be (actually, very big believer in Jegulily, might do that first...)

--

So wear me like a locket around your throat, I’ll weigh you down, I’ll watch you choke, you look so good in bl—

Siri paused her pink iPod mini as she felt the rental car slowly swing off the paved road and decelerate onto a bumpy dirt path, dusty granite crunching beneath tires while low-hanging birch boughs screeched against the windows.

“Alright everyone, electronics away, we are almost there!” Walburga yelled unnaturally loud from the front. Siri winced but didn’t say anything. Leaning against a pillow on the window opposite her, Regina blinked her eyes open and frowned. Red patches flushed high on her pale, nap-creased cheeks as she wiped a bit of dried drool from her chin with the heel of her palm. Siri snorted. Regina flicked her off, holding her hand down low so their mom couldn’t see in the rearview.

Siri rolled her eyes and returned her gaze to the window, where the trees were thinning to make way for one of the strangest views she had ever seen.

Life-sized gingerbread cottages, painted pale gumdrop colors and trimmed with lacey eves reminiscent of piped frosting, lined the street one after the other like tin soldiers in an old-fashioned Christmas movie. They stood sentry to welcome the Black family forward, Range Rover groaning as it crested the pebbled hill, Dorothy stepping from her black-and-white world into a sugar-bright alternate universe. Just beyond the houses, the Penobscot Bay shimmered blue and magical; it winked at Siri between each latticed cornice and Victorian spire as the car trundled bravely onward, following the gray-gravel road deeper and deeper into the Azure City.

“Welcome to Bayville, girls. Your father and I trust you both will be on your best behavior, and that you will remember you are young ladies. We are taking you on this very nice, very expensive vacation; we expect you to act accordingly.”

Walburga was still talking too loudly, unaware her eldest daughter had paused her Fall Out Boy playlist minutes ago, but Siri did nothing to disabuse her. She wanted to exist in a few more moments of precious liminality, fraught with fragile expectation: the “before” of a summer vacation, dreaming of memories caressed like worn sea glass before having to go and actually break the bottles that make them.

“Do I hear a ‘Yes, ma’am?’”

Siri physically startled at the warning tone in her mother’s voice. She and her sister chorused the required reply automatically.

The car squelched to a halt alongside one of the cookie-cutter dollhouses, patchy green grass muffling under tire treads. Siri took her headphones off and reached for her seatbelt; chipped silver nail polish flashed in the afternoon sun as she unclipped the buckle, and she made a mental note to redo her nails tonight before her mother saw.

She took a deep breath and opened the car door.

And oh, the smell; it wasn’t like anything she had ever experienced. It wasn’t just briny ocean and wet grass and fallen pine. It wasn’t just heady florals and baked limestone and fecund soil. This scent was far greater than the sum of its parts: stirred up in a summer-sun cauldron and poured out across the coast, it smelled like familiar laughter and promises to be kept.

It filled Siri’s nose and lungs only after it filled her heart.

It would be remembered for the rest of her life.

--

After claiming the upstairs room to the front of the little house, with a window box full of geraniums peeking from behind billowing white curtains, Siri found herself wandering down the main road, away from her father’s loud complaints about a lack of cell service for his Blackberry and her mother’s backhanded comments regarding the cleanliness of the cottage. She wanted to be long gone by the time either of them decided to turn their attention to her.

Regina tagged along. Siri ignored her.

Less than a quarter of a mile later, the knot of strange little cottages leftover from a different century opened into a semicircle, proudly overlooking a sailboat polka-dotted bay where sapphire waters faithfully reflected the cloud-clear sky.

The Black sisters stood on Bayville Beach, such as it was, only about 30 yards wide and covered in rocky pebbles turning to treacherous boulders. Primary-colored canoes and kayaks were tied up along the mouth like obedient Labradors, waiting for their masters to take them for a swim. A dock rose to the right and jutted out into the water; a cerulean-painted covering sat square in the middle of the old wooden planks. To the right of that, a tiny yacht club perched on the cusp of the ocean, triangular emblem flown modestly above the slated roof. Behind the sisters, a sloping center lawn with a few ancient oak trees and wrought-iron park benches guided vacationers down towards the water, verdant arms swept wide, beckoning, those cotton candy cottages lining the edges like flagstones.

With a toss of her dark wavy hair, frizzing fast in the ocean breeze despite the John Frieda serums and mousses with which she had diligently coated the strands, Siri hopped up onto one of the bigger rocks along the beach and picked her way across the shore. She held her arms aloft for balance, paying special care not to slip. Tiny crabs skuttled within sunken tidepools; salted kelp rocked back and forth with the waves. The fabled Maine sun caught on the edges of everything, lighting up the cove like a glittery disco. She could hear Regina whining warnings from the safety of dry land. Siri ignored her.

When Siri got as far as she could before the shoreline sheared off into untamed wilderness, she turned carefully, Rainbow flip flops catching on the occasional barnacle, and made her way back to her little sister. She was almost to the beach before she looked up.

On the path behind Regina, appearing from behind the blue structure in the middle of the dock, were a group of teenagers making their way up the grassy hill. They were in various states of swimwear; boys with baggy trunks and loose tee shirts, dampened in places by saltwater clinging to not-fully-dried skin, girls largely in cutoff jean shorts and bikini tops. All had beach towels around their necks and were laughing loudly.

Regina whipped her head around at the commotion and stared. Siri felt her cheeks flush; she was perched precariously on a boulder several feet from land, suddenly faced with a bunch of unknown peers. From behind Regina’s mop of raven curls, longer and fluffier than her own, Siri locked eyes with the tallest of the pack, a pretty girl who looked about Siri’s age, black hair piled high in a messy bun.

The girl flashed a criminally blinding grin and waved. Siri startled and snapped her eyes away.

The sudden movement caused Siri to lose her footing. She scraped her ankle on the rough granite as she stumbled ungracefully off the rock into the shallow water.

Regina laughed. Siri ignored her.

--

Two days later, and Siri was bored. The rain arrived in Bayville almost as soon as her family had, crowding out the finnicky northern sun with dull clouds and a frustratingly steady drizzle. There was only so much War and Go Fish a rising junior could play with her eighth grade sister before one became a sore loser (eighth grader) and the other got hangry (take a wild guess). So now, Siri was sitting on the front porch, stomach growling, watching the rain muddy up the gravel while pretending to do her summer reading. Huckleberry Finn. It was brutal.

Siri perked up at the tell-tale crunch of a car about to pass slowly in front of their rented cottage; honestly, she was like a dog left home alone, staring out at the street, desperate for any stimulation. The car in question pulled into view from the left, heading in the direction of town. It was a beat-up black SUV, rap music thumping over the drone of the rain. As Siri watched, a pretty face with a mess of black hair and oversized glasses appeared in the front passenger window. The face saw Siri and did a double take, craning her neck to keep Siri in her vision as the car went by.

“Young lady, what do you think you are you doing?” Walburga stuck her immaculately coiffed head out of the screen door. Her pink lipstick shone lurid in the overcast light. “Come inside before your hair is ruined.”

Siri blinked, closed her mouth. “Yes, momma.”

For the next three days, the pretty girl with the wild hair could be seen passing the cottage on a morning run. For the next three days, Siri sat on the porch to eat her breakfast, Huckleberry Finn laying uselessly on the side table.

--

Jamie Potter, Siri would soon learn, was the owner of the pretty face and the blinding smile and the morning runs that happened to take her past the Blacks’ cottage.

Almost a week into their stay, Siri was once again sitting on the front porch, sipping her coffee and pretending to read. The sun had mercifully returned; she and Regina had spent some time exploring, wearing swimsuits underneath shorts and tee shirts, venturing to the beach or the dock or the little corner store out by Route 1, faded sign reading “Cote’s Old-Fashioned Ice Cream and Burgers” hung reverently against Nantucket red siding. They had seen the group of teenagers here and there, sunbathing on the dock and flirting shamelessly with the college-aged lifeguard, or gearing up outside the yacht club for a sail, or playing basketball on the courts near the central lawn after dinner. The tall, pretty girl seemed to always be in the very middle, laughing the loudest, touching the most. Like she was the sun their little social circle revolved around. Siri had watched the group hungrily, desperate to be included but far too terrified to make any moves. Regina, meanwhile, was too caught up in having her big sister all to herself to much care about hanging around even more moony high schoolers.

Siri took another gulp of coffee and watched the morning sun catch on the graveled hill, flecks of mica sparkling beneath lingering dew. She imagined a dark ponytail swinging into view from over the crest, followed by long, powerful legs, propelling their body impressively up the incline. Then, she wasn’t imagining it; she was watching it.

Only this time, the powerful legs slowed and the girl trotted to a walk, breathing hard. A hand reached up under the hem of her tee shirt, stopping at the waistband of rolled Soffe shorts to pause the iPod Shuffle clipped there, flashing a sliver of tan skin in the process; her other hand tugged out her headphones.

Siri immediately looked down and picked up her book, not wanting to embarrass herself by inviting any sort of acknowledgement of her existence. She could feel her face turning red and her pulse picking up.

“Hey!”

Siri continued to pretend to read. There was no way this girl was actually calling to Siri.

“Hey!!”

Siri looked up with a start. Fuck. The girl was leaning over the railing of the porch, grinning right at her. It wasn’t entirely innocent, somehow.

“Hey,” Siri choked out. How were this girl’s teeth so white?

“You’re new this year, right?”

Siri’s vision was tunnelling; she was having a hard time processing the girl’s words. She wished she would stop blushing.

“Sorry?”

The girl seemed to smile even more at Siri’s confusion. It made her deep rosy flush from exercise pop beneath her complexion.

“It’s just, we’ve been seeing you around, but no one knows who you are—”

No no no no no people have been noticing her?!

“—and you haven’t come said hi.”

Siri was going to die, simply pass away from embarrassment. “Um, no, yeah, I mean, we haven’t been here before…um, so…” Siri barely remembered to smile. It probably looked more like a grimace.

“Exactly!” The girl’s eyes narrowed playfully. They were dark brown and incredibly expressive. “I would definitely remember if I had seen you before.”

Siri wasn’t sure what that meant, but the girl didn’t pause long enough for her to work it out.

“Don’t you want to hang out with us?” The girl craned her neck and leaned farther over the railing, peering into Siri’s lap where her book split open, still on page 10. Siri could pick up the fruity scent of her deodorant. The girl’s eyes flicked back up to Siri’s. “Or do you want to sit and read…"

“…Huckleberry Finn.”

“Yikes.” The girl’s teasing smile was replaced with a look of horror.

“I know.” Siri felt her mouth relax a little, a small quirk of her lips.

The girl shook her head, like a buck huffing in annoyance, bordering aggression. She cracked her knuckles, continued. “…Or do you want to sit and read books by dead white guys on your porch all summer.” It wasn’t said like a question.

“Um. Okay?”

“Okay what?” She was bouncing up and down on her toes, hunched over the porch railing. Sunkissed shoulders poking up from rolled tee shirt sleeves. Deep-sea dark eyes boring into dawning-sky gray.

“I—” This girl was very disorienting. “Sure. Let’s hang out.”

The girl’s face split back into a grin, like that was its natural state. Though her cheeks were made round and even more rosy by the smile, her eyes didn’t crinkle with it the way most people’s do, Siri thought.

“I’m Jamie.”

They stayed sharp and honed.

--

Siri’s summer looked very different after that. Following her introduction, Jamie Potter had promptly asked for Siri’s cell phone number (written on Jamie’s inner forearm with a sharpie Siri found in the little kitchen) and told her “they were having a dock day, after sailing,” whatever that meant. But Siri had agreed to meet outside the yacht club at 1pm that afternoon, promising to bring snacks and a moderately-behaved thirteen-year-old.

“Dock days,” as it turned out, consisted of spreading towels on the far side of the dock, behind the little blue gazebo (every square inch of which, upon closer inspection, was covered in scrawled names, dates, hearts and the like: a living history of summer lovin’), and eating chips and salsa while soaking up temporal sunbeams and wearing as little clothing as possible. Flirting was a prerequisite, Siri had gathered from her week-long observations from afar, but there wasn’t much of anyone she felt the need to devote such attention to. She was thrilled just being included, happy to sit quietly on her hibiscus-printed towel and follow Jamie’s cues, laughing at the right places and inserting a quick one-liner here and there where she felt confident enough to deliver.

The group ranged in age, which gave Regina a few peers to talk to while Siri fell into Jamie’s orbit. Jamie was a year older than Siri and had her childhood best friends Remus and Peter staying with her (“Their families ship them off to Maine with us every summer. They are a pain in my ass—ow! hey—but I love them.”). Then there were the twins, Gillian and Fabian, also a year older than Siri, then Tuney and her little cousin Lucy, who were a couple years younger. Tuney’s older sister, Lily, was away at some competitive chemistry program for the summer, and apparently things were much more subdued this year without her around to get everyone into trouble.

“The definition of chaotic evil,” Jamie had explained with a twinkle in her eye and a faraway grin tugging her lips. Siri was glad Lily wasn’t here this season, but she wasn’t sure why. Probably just because she didn’t like getting into trouble—at least anywhere her mother might find out.

Siri soon learned the ins and outs of the little group that pulsed the beating heart of the magical seaside village. Most had been coming here every summer since they were little, growing up on bowline knots and July sparklers and Gifford’s blueberry ice cream. They had a hearty skepticism for “renters,” as they called them: part-time vacationers who came and went without getting much involved in the community. When Siri had asked why they had befriended her, since she was a “renter,” the boys had looked away sheepishly and Jamie had scoffed. “Please,” she had said, bumping her bare shoulder into Siri’s, “Like my idiot brothers-from-another-mother would ever forgive me if I didn’t introduce you.” Remus and Peter had turned bright red and then shoved a cackling Jamie, whereas Fabian had met Siri’s gaze, unashamed, and smirked. Siri hadn’t known how to react, besides blush furiously. Were they making fun of her? She felt rather exposed. Regina had squeezed her hand protectively. Siri had squeezed it back.

By this point, Siri had already analyzed everyone’s physical shapes and quirks in comparison to her own, a foible of adolescence she couldn’t wait to grow out of. She tanned easily and had a flat stomach, badges of pride for any teenager under the tyranny of Laguna Beach and Abercrombie, but she was self-conscious about her small chest, wide hips and unshapely legs. Jamie was a star athlete back home in Massachusetts, championing in soccer and tennis, and was lean and strong, everywhere. Siri envied the way she filled out her bikini top during the day and her low-rise jeans at night.

Siri’s hair was rather untamable (“Mia Thermopolis hair”, the other cheerleaders called it), especially in the humid sea air, and never dried soft and silky like the most popular girls’ seemed to. Jamie’s hair was a paragon of that effortlessly messy look: never frizzy, but piece-y and wavy, jet-black with shots of caramel laced through from days in the sun, it reached passed her shoulder blades even when pulled into a high ponytail. Siri would discover she loved playing with it, braiding its dampened ends while Jamie lay on her stomach on the dock, water droplets sliding down the soft skin of her back, or gently brushing it out after a day of sailing, working through the knots with careful fingers.

Then there was Siri’s face. People commented on Siri’s face a lot. She generally refused to leave the house without makeup on, and had even packed waterproof formulas for this vacation. None of the other girls in Bayville seemed to wear makeup.

Siri wondered how they still looked so pretty.

She wondered why Fabian was looking at her like that.

--

Dock days turned into movie nights and lunches at Cote’s, which turned into card games on front porches and excursions to the Coffee Pot in town for “Potts” sandwiches, a play on Jamie’s last name that seemed to have existed longer than some of their younger siblings had been alive. Siri couldn’t believe that not only had she been included in this tight-knit group who were so wary of outsiders, but that their central star paid so much attention to her. Jamie, as the leader, was the one who texted Siri when plans for an adventure were being made to ensure sure she didn’t get left out. She always spread her towel next to Siri’s, yellow stripes beside pink and orange flowers, and was the first to whisper jokes and confidences into her ear. She made sure to get an extra side of ketchup in addition to her mayonnaise—“Mayonnaise is white people’s greatest invention, I’m telling you,” she would say, while mixing in pinches of extremely hot spices she kept tucked away in her bag for such occasions—when she ordered fries, in case Siri wanted some, and punched the boys wordlessly when they inevitably crossed the line (which was about seven times a day).

They took Fabian’s battered SUV inland to go blueberry picking, blasting Panic! At the Disco and Kelly Clarkson and singing along with the windows down. Despite their parents’ explicit instructions to collect more than they ate, they spent most of their time horsing around in that green-and-gold field, sated with fruit, laughing freely and dreaming loudly beneath a buttercup sun and bluebird sky.

Predictably, Fabian got bored and started throwing blueberries at Siri. Jamie got irrationally irate every time he did so, eventually turning it into a competition to pelt him with as many blueberries as possible in return. Somehow that turned into an argument over who was taller; Fabian was also athletic and played lacrosse, but was on the shorter side for a guy. Jamie insisted they go back-to-back and demanded Siri be the judge. Siri felt uncomfortable for some reason, but acquiesced. Jamie’s sparked eyes stayed trained on Siri the entire time, something plaintive behind them. When Siri objectively announced Fabian was taller, the plaintive glint hardened sharp and heavy. Neither girl smiled when Fabian whooped with victory.

Siri sat next to Gillian on the ride home.

--

Evenings in Bayville took on a completely different tone, exchanging sun-soaked shimmer and the smell of No-Ad sunscreen for the heliotrope haze of dusk, citronella wafting heavy on the night air. Those summer nights weren’t just dark and twinkling, they were laden with potential energy, the silver ball perched at the top of a physics experiment, a penalty shot lined up against a tied score and less than a minute left.

One navy night, Jamie had taken Siri by the hand, identical sailor knot bracelets scratching against each other’s wrists, and dragged her to her mom’s porch. This was an important ritual in Bayville: hopping from porch to porch after the sun sets to receive parental praise and affection and, if you were lucky, leftover lobster meat or a fresh-baked whoopie pie. This was the first time Siri had been included.

Mrs. Potter was sitting in a rocking chair, reading glasses perched on her nose and a cup of chai on the little table beside her, paperback novel splayed open in her hands. A generous lilac bush off the corner of the cottage steadily pulsed out its sweet perfume, writing itself into Siri’s memory like a madeleine on the tongue.

“Hi Mommy!” Jamie rushed up the steps and then swooped down to give her mother a sloppy kiss on the cheek. Mrs. Potter didn’t even have time to respond before Jamie gestured proudly to Siri.

“Mommy, this is Siri!” Jamie stepped back with that Cheshire grin, the one where her eyes stayed sharp, vibrating with excitement as she directed her mother’s gaze.

“My goodness, she is beautiful, isn’t she,” Mrs. Potter commented, surveying calmly. She was smaller than her daughter, with a weather-worn face typical of New England parents, dark hair shot with gray. Siri could tell, however, where Jamie got her eyes: Mrs. Potter’s were piercing and narrowed in an eerily familiar fashion. The breeze picked up; lingering sea-salted air blended dizzyingly with the evening florals and spiced tea.

Siri stammered through her blush. “Oh! Um, thank you… it’s nice to meet you.” She really wasn’t sure what she did to deserve getting double-teamed by the Potter Stare.

“Ugh, Mom, I told the boys to stop being gross about her!” Jamie whined.

“I didn’t hear it from the boys,” Mrs. Potter replied, still calm, still piercing. “There are whoopie pies inside on the counter. Help yourselves, girls.”

For some reason, Jamie flushed almost as deeply as Siri.

--

One rainy afternoon, Jamie and Siri perched across from each other on Siri’s bed, beat-up Vera Bradley toiletries bag sitting between them on top of the multi-colored patchwork quilt. Tuney and Lucy were in town at the movies with their families; Gillian was back home at a women’s lacrosse camp for the week. Regina had whined to be included, but Siri had kicked her out unceremoniously.

The two friends were meticulously stroking colored paint onto their toes: crimson red for Siri and metallic gold for Jamie. Siri’s mother would kill them if she saw they were using nail polish on the bed without a towel, but hey, Siri’s a rebel.

“Can I ask you something?” Jamie ventured without removing her focus from the task at hand—er—foot.

Siri’s breath caught a little at the change in tone. Just moments ago, they had been talking about their respective AP Lit reading lists and decrying the lack of women authors. “Sure,” she replied, keeping her voice light.

Jamie eyed the concealers and eyeliners spilling from Siri’s bag. “Why do you always wear makeup? I mean, it’s Bayville.”

Siri bristled automatically. She got teased a lot back home, either for wearing too much makeup or not enough. Always, it came back to her face, and the expectation Siri accepted unquestioningly that she owed the world perfection, and she better not dare present their judgement-day eyes with anything less than that.

She continued applying the blood-red paint to her toes, not looking up. “I mean, everyone wears makeup in Georgia,” she began defensively. “And I cheer, and I’ve done pageants—"

“Shut up!” Jamie interrupted, jaw dropped, pedicure abandoned, gold bottle of polish eagerly twisted shut and tossed carelessly onto the bed. “You’re a beauty queen?!”

Siri chanced a glance upwards. Jamie looked like Christmas had come early. It was not the reaction Siri usually got from other girls when that bit of information got pried from her.

“I mean… I never won or anything,” Siri shrugged, looking away, out the rain-splattered window. The nail polish brush in her hand hovered precariously over her left foot, threatening to drip red all over her careful paint job. “But yeah, I’ve done some of that, and like, modeling, for like department stores and stuff…” The geraniums bedded in their little window boxes outside were getting absolutely pummeled by the downpour.

“Do you like wearing makeup every day?”

When Siri returned her gaze to the room it caught on Jamie’s fish-hook stare, already angling to snag her. Siri didn’t look away.

“I like feeling pretty.”

Jamie held her gaze. “That’s not the same thing.”

Siri searched Jamie’s face for the inevitable cruelty that always slipped in front of jealousy like a vicious guard dog, brutally defending young girls against the pain of insecurity, the fear of rejection, of abandonment. Siri had wielded it thoughtlessly as much as she had been hurt by it, time and again.

But in Jamie’s brown eyes there was no trace of green, only curiosity, and maybe something a little softer? A little… safer? Jamie blinked, tilted her head and let a tiny smile crease the corner of her marble-carved mouth, encouraging Siri.

Siri sighed and dropped her eyes back down, finally closing the bottle of nail polish. She wouldn’t be able to say this next part if she was looking directly into the face of the prettiest girl she had ever seen. “I don’t like how I look without make-up. Sometimes, it’s… it’s all I can think about. How I look.” Siri had never confessed this to anyone before, this shameful, vain secret. “I wish I could be like you… you don’t need make up.”

The next thing Siri knew, warm, soft hands were gently but firmly holding the sides of her face, tilting her jaw up, making her breath catch with the sudden contact. She kept her gaze downcast until the last second, and when it finally did rise it was swallowed immediately by entire galaxies.

Jamie and her swirling orb eyes were maybe a few inches away from Siri’s, staring intently. She spoke with conviction.

“You don’t owe the world shit.”

--

Siri couldn’t rollerblade. Normally, that wasn’t much of an issue for her. It only became one when Jamie, accomplished athlete with a doe-like grace and the stubbornness of a young buck to match, found out.

So, on a Friday evening around the summer solstice, Siri agreed to let Jamie teach her. In exchange, she had bargained for minimum one hour with Jamie’s stunning face all to herself and her Vera Bradley makeup bag. Siri was chief makeup artist on the cheerleading bus for a reason; it was a creative outlet, painting on shadows and colors and creases to create a work of art you can smile and blink and laugh through. Putting makeup on others allowed Siri to embrace the artistry of it, rather than fight against the compulsivity that overshadowed her own complicated experience.

Jamie had arrived at the Blacks’ cottage around 6pm, just after an early dinner, and followed Siri up to her room where she could work her magic. Siri had been glad her parents were out for the night—she had heard enough off-color comments from her mother about “that Potter family” over the last few weeks and didn’t want to put Jamie at risk of hearing any of it. Regina, the better hairstylist of the two sisters, had been permitted to give Jamie two long French braids that showed off the subtle variations in her thick dark hair, shiny onyx strands rippled with chocolate and auburn.

Now, Siri was starting to regret her actions; the dramatic smokey eye she had indulged in creating electrified Jamie’s laser-beam gaze to the point of distraction.

It made it all the more difficult to stay upright on two thin rows of wheels.

“Jamie!” Siri squealed with a jolt of adrenaline, windmilling her arms out as she lurched forward, gaze ripped from Jamie’s face to the fast-approaching ground. The taller girl cackled but caught her with one hand all the same. Siri clutched at it like a lifeline, heart still pounding.

Their hands stayed clasped. Siri’s heartbeat stayed elevated.

They had found a bit of paved road, out closer to Route 1, and slowly made their way along the empty stretch before them, rolling farther from the safety of the familiar cottages with their slamming screen doors and sneaky garden gates, venturing onwards as the sun sank fast into an approaching dusk.

Both girls were clad in denim miniskirts; Siri’s was dark wash and kept riding up her hips as she maneuvered along the asphalt in a pair of old skates borrowed from Jamie. She had to keep tugging at it from underneath an oversized gray college-branded hoodie, so large it threatened to swallow her petite frame all together. Jamie’s mini was a light wash and fitted tightly to show off her strong thighs and butt. Paired with white and yellow layered tank tops that she filled out so enviously well, Jamie Potter looked like nothing less than Roller Derby Barbie. When Siri had told her so, Jamie had almost skated into a tree.

“We’re close to Cote’s,” Jamie commented after a stretch of not-quite-comfortable silence. Siri was grateful for the interruption; she got along better with Jamie than anyone else in Bayville, but one-on-one hang outs with her were becoming threaded with something unsettling, an uncomfortable crack of buzzed-out current that kept Siri’s body tipped on the edge of fight-or-flight. “Want to get an ice cream?”

There was something in the way she said it that made Siri look over at her friend in the fading twilight. Jamie’s eyes were practically glowing, the whites phosphorescent against her dark irises and the looming forest shadows, but there was still enough light to see her cheeks were darkened. Siri didn’t think she had put that much blush on her; she hadn’t wanted to pull focus from her eye makeup. Furthermore, in a way that didn’t usually accompany casual suggestions of ice cream, Jamie’s eyebrows were oddly drawn together. Siri wanted to reach out and smooth them, trail her fingers down her cheek, maybe hold her jaw tenderly and—

Oh.

Shit.

Siri gulped.

--

When they rolled up to Cote’s, however, the two girls were not alone. Fabian, Remus, Peter, and a couple more boys Siri didn’t recognize were sitting at one of the picnic tables out front, eating burgers and fries and making a general ruckus. It was late enough that a street lamp had flickered on, bathing the scene in artificial light. It made the faces of the boys glow eerily, joker grins and flinted eyes.

Every pair landed on Siri and Jamie and stayed there. Grins growing wider.

“Oh shit, look who it is!” Fabian was the first to crow. Remus groaned, no doubt annoyed by the unwelcomed intrusion of the two girls.

The two new boys made no pretense about continuing to stare openly.

Jamie’s grip on Siri’s hand tightened briefly before dropping.

“I was just teaching Siri how to skate. She’s never tried.” Jamie sounded uncharacteristically defensive. Territorial, even.

“What happened to your face?” Remus deadpanned. Fabian snickered.

Jamie drew herself to her full height, even taller than usual with the roller skates, and looked down her nose at the entire table. “She did my makeup. I love it.”

“It looks like you got punched,” Peter offered.

Fabian chimed in, “Why do you even wear that stuff? Girls look better without makeup, anyway.”

Siri and Jamie let that comment hang in the air for a beat or two. Watched Fabian squirm a bit.

“Gross,” Siri pronounced, once she had determined their point had been made. Jamie cracked her knuckles.

“Anyway, we were just here to get some ice cream. Come on, Siri.” Jamie made to grab her hand again and stomp them both into the tiny store, skates and all, when Fabian grabbed Siri’s other hand.

“No, Siri, stay with us. Potts’ll get your ice cream, right Potts?” He grinned up at Jamie, laying on the charm. A strange, fiery look passed between them before they turned to the girl in question.

Siri, not wanting to draw out—whatever that was—quickly agreed, pulling herself free of their grips. “Yeah, you go, I’ll wait out here.”

But at Siri’s response, Jamie’s face immediately clouded over into something downright murderous. Her eyes flashed as she turned and clomped into the store. A beat passed before Remus hopped up and announced he wanted some ice cream, too, and dragged Peter along with him. Fabian called to get him a cookie dough. Remus flipped him off without turning around or loosening his grip on Peter.

Siri carefully lowered herself to perch on the spot vacated by Remus, next to Fabian. She had her back facing away from the table along with the two random boys and was angled towards the door of the shop. She picked at a hangnail. Fiddled with a coil of long hair, dried curly after a day of dock jumping. Hoped her stupid fucking red cheeks could pass as exertion from roller skating.

She felt Fabian scooch closer. He muscled a tricep into her shoulder blade to get her attention. When she turned to look, he was leaning in, face close.

“Uh, these are my buddies from home, Benji and Caradoc.” Drew gestured to each boy across the table. “Guys, this is Siri.” He was hunched over and not quite making eye contact. He fidgeted with a few cold fries.

The weird energy pushing uncomfortably around them had Siri too agitated to remember to smile, but she did at least adjust her body to face the boys. They were built similarly to Fabian and both sported flowing locks peeking out beneath baseball hats.

Siri was outnumbered three to one by lax bros. She looked around for Satan, wondering why he wasn’t present to welcome her to what was clearly hell itself.

The boys still hadn’t stopped looking at her.

“Shit, dude, you weren’t kidding about this place,” one of the boys—Caradoc, maybe?—smirked cryptically. The other boy snorted, nudged the first.

Fabian’s eyes widened and he threw a soggy fry across the table. “Shut the fuck up,” he mumbled.

They were all saved by the tinkling of the shop door as Jamie, Remus and Peter returned, ice creams dripping from their hands. Siri scrutinized Jamie for a sign of what might be going on, but the taller girl kept her eyes averted and mouth set in a determined, hard line. Remus appeared frustrated, Peter nervous.

“Thanks, Jamie.” Siri spoke sincerely, trying to catch her friend’s eye, as a cone piled high with fruit-flecked ice cream was deposited emotionlessly into her hand.

“Welcome.” Jamie replied. She grabbed a stool from the outdoor counter, carried it over, placed it across from Siri and Fabian so the three of them formed a triangle of sorts, and threw herself onto it with her legs splayed despite her skirt. Somehow, she held onto her strawberry ice cream effortlessly throughout the process—rollerblades be dammed.

Remus, meanwhile, leaned on the end of the picnic table next to Fabian and handed off the requested cookie dough cone. He began eating his own chocolate ice cream quietly. Peter skulked behind him and slurped a milkshake.

“What flavor did you get?” Fabian asked Siri, low like he was only talking to her.

“Black cherry.” Siri spoke loudly as if it were a group conversation. “Jamie knows it’s my favorite.” She punctuated the statement with a smile in her friend’s direction, rolling over, a submissive flash of soft white tummy.

Siri’s tail went between her legs when it wasn’t returned; Jamie’s stare was trained on Fabian.

“Wanna try mine?” Fabian proffered his cone to Siri. She could hear more snickering from Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum behind her.

Siri whipped her head around. “Oh! Uh—”

“Come on, it’s good.” Fabian cracked a shit-eating grin. “My cone needs to be tasted.” All four boys, minus Remus, were snorting heartily.

But before Siri could vocalize the acerbic reply forming in the back of her throat, Jamie suddenly leaned forward off her stool and licked Fabian’s cone herself, tongue wide and pink against the creamy vanilla. Her eyes met Siri’s as she flicked the tip of her tongue up at the crest of the cone, cream dripping down into her mouth, before pulling the clever appendage back behind her teeth, swallowing, and finishing off with a final swipe of her full lips.

Oh.

Shit.

“There.” Jamie concluded, sitting back. Siri’s mind was blank. “Your cone has been tasted. No one else needs to be subjected to it. Besides,” —a cocky wink to Siri, a shrug to the boys— “it could have been bigger.”

Everyone, even Remus, howled with laughter; it was peak “that’s what she said” era.

Everyone except Siri.

--

“Truth.”

Siri and Jamie were laying on a blanket in the grass, flat on their backs, looking up at the stars. After they had finished their ice cream, Fabian had given the girls a lift back to Bayville. He had offered Siri shotgun but Jamie had complained her long legs meant she needed the front seat more. Eager to please and wanting to get back into Jamie’s good graces, unsure why she had even fallen out of them in the first place—must be an only child thing—Siri had acquiesced and sat in the back with the rest of the boys. To her relief, it seemed to have worked. Jamie was back to her usual loud, joking self as soon as Fabian had dropped them off.

They had stopped at the Blacks’ cottage to change out of their skates and grab a blanket—hot-blooded Jamie refusing to borrow a sweatshirt—before wandering down to the central lawn ostensibly to stargaze but really to giggle and gossip. It hadn’t taken long to strike up a round of Truth or Dare; Siri had just selected truth.

“What’s your number?” Jamie asked in the direction of the North Star.

Siri turned her head, traced her eyes over Jamie’s profile outlined in the moonlight. Her nose was elegant, fit perfectly to her face, her top lip pouting prettily just beneath it.

“Zero,” Siri answered after a beat. Unashamed, but also unsure.

Jamie turned her head as well, brow furrowed almost in offense, eyes deep and searching of Siri’s face.

“You can tell me.”

Siri smiled with only half her mouth, derisive. “Trust me, I would.”

Jamie’s gaze refused to let up. Siri could feel heat prickling along her hips, under her arms. “I…yeah, there hasn’t been anyone worth it, I guess.” Her pulse was throbbing harder the longer Jamie looked at her like that.

“What about you?” Siri asked, looking for relief: Jamie’s stare was like an exacting silver needle, threading the two of them together without mercy, sewing them closer and closer.

Jamie made a strange face; a little sad, a little hopeful. “Just one. My ex-boyfriend. Sophomore year.”

Siri took a breath, to work out how she felt about that. “Did you love him?” Siri decided she hoped she loved him. Hoped he loved her, more like. Jamie deserved love, all of it.

That needle-eye stare punctured the night with quiet catching sounds as it stitch, stitch, stitched away, pricking spindled fingers with gift and curse alike as Jamie Potter thought hard before answering.

“In a way, yeah, I think so.” She turned back to the stars, pulling but not snapping the immortal threads. “I definitely thought I did.”

Siri didn’t respond, but redirected her gaze skyward as well. The two girls simply breathed together, laying side by side, woven and watching as the earth turned. Nature was serenading them ardently, crickets and frogs awake and amorous, calling for mates. The gentle lapping of the bay against well-worn rocks and weathered boats and steadfast pilings and rooted banks beat in time to steady stolen hearts; the rustle of oak leaves in the trees above, caught dizzy in a midnight breeze, blew secrets in and out of seashelled ears.

Siri felt like Ariel, floating in a blue lagoon. Just missing a crooning crab.

Then, to the moon: “Was it good?”

“It hurt,” Jamie replied, also to the moon. “But I wanted to do it. I just, haven’t really wanted to… since then.”

The wind picked up and Siri looked over in time to watch Jamie shiver. Goosebumps erupted all down her toned arms and chest, across the gleaming tops of her breasts gently swollen against the moonlight. Siri allowed her eyes to continue trailing downwards, clock the evidence of Jamie’s chill even through her bra and layered tops.

Siri turned and sat up, pulled off her own sweatshirt with crossed arms, pink Abercrombie polo getting caught up a bit in her effort. When her vision reappeared from the tangle of cloth and curls, Jamie was staring at her.

“Here.” Siri tossed the sweatshirt, still warm with her body heat, into Jamie’s lap. Jamie didn’t move. Siri raised her eyebrows. “I know you’re cold, Potts, I just watched you shiver.”

Jamie didn’t smile, but sat up slack-jawed and put on the sweatshirt without protesting. That’s a first, Siri thought.

“Your turn.” Siri said once Jamie was bundled up. She missed the sight of her smooth shoulders, her sculpted clavicle, and okay, yes, her tits in those tank tops, but there was something pleasant about seeing Jamie in Siri’s clothes that made it worth it. Plus, in their new semi-seated positions Jamie had her long legs stretched unendingly in front of her, ankles crossed, as she leaned back on her hands. The top of her shin bone seemed to fucking glow, radioactive in the mirror-blue night. Siri’s legs were curved under her as she sat slightly hunched toward Jamie, close to the bend of her waist. “Truth or dare.”

Jamie surprised Siri by picking truth.

“Ok…” Siri’s eyes flicked to Jamie’s perfect mouth. She took a risk. “What’s the deal between you and Fabian?”

Siri was braced to get told off, or for Jamie to dissolve in girlish denial. Instead, she was serious, considering carefully before replying. “He used to have a crush on me.” She twisted her neck, popping the joints. Looked out towards the water. “Followed me around all last summer, like a lost puppy.”

Siri snorted at the image. “Did you like him back?”

Jamie pulled her mouth to the side, lifted a shoulder. “Not really.”

Siri thought of the boys back home, a few in particular… always lurking around hall corners and by lockers and on sidelines. She could relate.

“So what’s different this year?” Siri pressed, slightly afraid of the answer.

Jamie leveled Siri with a look, ancient amber sparked with starlight. “Well, you’re here.”

Ah, fuck.

Siri sighed, looked away. Forced herself to ask, “Are you jealous?”

“Maybe a little,” Jamie whispered.

Siri’s heart sank like the Heart of the fucking Ocean. She turned her head fully away from Jamie, looking over her shoulder at the dark trees and shadowed cottages in the distance. Most of their lights were out.

“Well I don’t really like him, like that, so,” Siri mumbled into the darkness, giving Jamie the green light. At least now it was out in the open. Maybe now they could go back to being normal friends.

Well, normal-ish, for Siri.

Jamie, however, perked up, excited. “Yeah? You don’t?” She shuffled forward, angling her face to try and catch Siri’s avoidant eye.

To Siri’s horror, she felt heat press into her sinuses, her throat, her eyes shimmering and shaking, threatening to spill at any moment. She really didn’t like Drew, so why did she care so much if Jamie did?

You know why, Inner Siri whispered.

Go to hell, Denial Siri muttered back.

She took a shaky breath in, forced her emotions back down—stomped on them with gusto, really. “It’s your turn to ask. Go.”

“Truth or dare.” The pleased smile in Jamie’s voice carried, although Siri still hadn’t turned back around to face her. Hearing it in this context felt like falling from a stunt; a deeply unpleasant drop in your stomach followed by getting the wind brutally knocked out of you.

Siri sighed again. “Truth.” She had learned long ago never to pick dare. At any rate, she found people fascinating, their secrets, their fears, their dreams: learning those intimacies and sharing them back helped her love deeper, love specific, when she chose to. Like right now, Inner Siri noted, smug. Shut the fuck up, Denial Siri replied, pissed.

“What about just kissing? How many guys have you kissed?”

Siri should have known Jamie wasn’t going to let the general topic go. She groaned and rolled her head back, exasperated, before finally lolling it around to glare at Jamie, whose braids were still holding her thick hair tight away from her face, fine baby hairs whisping in front of her ears and over her brow. Dark eyes rimmed in charcoal smoke glinted with intent: mischief, and something else Siri couldn’t quite put her finger on.

Siri inhaled, nostrils flaring. This one was less fun to talk about.

“None.”

Jamie’s jaw dropped. But her eyes. They positively lit up, bright and keen.

“None?!”

Siri shook her head. Thought, again, of the simpering boys back home, of Fabian and his friends from earlier. Sure, those guys were hot, but the thought of trusting them enough to hold her, touch her. It just didn’t make sense.

“I’ve only kissed two guys,” Jamie quickly offered. There was something unspoken behind her teeth. “My ex, and a random boy at the 8th grade dance.”

That seemed odd to Siri. Jamie was friendly, popular. Confident. Girls like that had no trouble kissing for fun.

“Okay then.” Jamie sounded like she had decided something, God help us all. She angled her body, taking Siri’s silence as some sort of invitation, and gave her an uncommonly brilliant demonstration of the Potter Stare paired with her signature smile.

“I dare you to kiss me.”

Siri gaped; blood coursed through her ears. No, no, no this wasn’t what she wanted. It wasn’t like that—a pity kiss, or, or an experiment or something silly to giggle about—

“It’s not your turn!” Siri sputtered. “And… I didn’t pick dare! I never pick dare.”

Jamie was leaning towards Siri, head tilted down so she could quite literally bat her thick, darkened eyelashes up at her. “Don’t you want to kiss me?” she pouted, smiling. Cheeky. Siri felt a shiver ignite down her helpless spine.

The problem was, Jamie had no idea how badly she did.

Siri was powerfully reminded of the first time they met. “Don’t you want to hang out with us?” She was so sure, so confident. Easy. Everything Siri was not.

Now, Jamie’s face had turned on a dime from flirty to focused. It was a little terrifying.

Because behind that carefree ease and sunlight smile, Siri knew, there was a deep and raw hunger. An ache to be needed. To be seen, and delighted in, just as she tries so hard to see and delight in everyone else around her.

Siri saw Jamie.

“I… I don’t.” Siri swallowed, tore her eyes away. “I don’t want it to be a dare.” She was grateful for the darkness, knowing that for once her berry-red face was getting some camouflage.

Jamie, meanwhile, changed tack. Siri could still feel the intensity of her gaze, but she also felt her sit up a little, square herself, blend her characteristic curiosity into that swirling stare.

“What about not guys?” Jamie asked evenly.

Siri frowned, mirrored Jamie’s body language, met her eyes once again. “What?”

She repeated, patient. Dead serious. “How many not-guys have you kissed?”

Was Jamie asking what Siri thought she was asking? Siri was silent, could only stare, searching her face for clues.

It had gotten closer to her own, somehow.

Stitch, stitch, stitch.

Jamie took a deep breath, eyes locked on Siri. “I’ve kissed… a few not-boys,” she confessed.

Did Siri imagine it, or did Jamie’s eyes flit down to Siri’s mouth when she said it?

Then, slowly, unbelievably, Jamie reached out a warm hand. Siri’s breath hitched and something flipped pleasantly low behind her tailbone as with the backs of her knuckles, Jamie tenderly brushed a lock of hair from Siri’s forehead, fingers turning and tracing down her cheek, so impossibly soft and delicate. Ice and fire whooshed simultaneously along Siri’s face where the tips of Jamie’s nails caressed her skin; Siri’s eyes fluttered shut. She leaned into the touch.

“I don’t want it to be a dare, either,” Jamie whispered, honey-glazed, low. Assured.

Siri’s heart stopped. She opened her eyes.

And Jamie’s were dancing, burning waves of desire, a whirlpool and Siri was drowning. Jamie’s fingers slid from Siri’s cheek to grip deep within her hair, hold her firmly around her jaw and neck.

She was so close now there was hardly any space left between them. Siri’s lips parted with soft pants. She could feel Jamie’s breath on her tongue, creamy and sweet.

“Siri, I—” Jamie murmured against Siri’s open mouth, nosing into her. “I want to.” She gripped the other side of Siri’s face, fierce, desperate. “I want you.”

Siri closed the distance.

And it was… Fireworks? A revelation? Angels singing Handel’s chorus in four-part harmony?

It was so easy. So easy to revel in the feel of Jamie’s lips on her own, to slowly open her mouth for her, willingly, taste her, gently. So fucking soft and warm and wet and sweet, a delightful echo of the ice cream she had so lustfully watched Jamie lick away at earlier, sugared vanilla and tangy fruit, filling up her mouth and tongue.

Jamie expertly maneuvered Siri’s face sideways with knowing hands still holding her neck, sending Siri’s stomach swooping down to her toes (though it felt more like a well-executed tumbling pass than a dropped stunt), and deepened the kiss.

It was incredibly sexy.

Jamie’s tongue was down her throat and butterflies were rioting through her body and congregating between her legs and in her pelvis and Siri pushed in, gripped the front of that damn sweatshirt, wanting more. She felt their teeth bump and their movements fall out of sync, but then Jamie merely giggled into her, the corners of her mouth pulling with her smile and pushing that fucking tongue out of her mouth just that little bit to meet her own outside their lips.

So they did that for a minute. Just took turns carefully, slowly pushing each other’s tongues back and forth, fingers dancing over smooth cheeks and warm necks and warmer waists, peppering in soft licks and nips to bottom lips, growing plumper and redder by the minute. Siri was pretty sure she was remembering to swallow, because nothing felt too sloppy, just really fucking hot.

So hot that she somehow ended up straddled on top of Jamie, skirt hiked up by those confident hands dangerously high on her thighs, rolling her hips hungrily, even aggressively, against Jamie’s body and feeling her so fucking soft underneath her.

She wasn’t sure who came up for air first. It might have been Siri, but only because Jamie tugged deliciously at the roots of Siri’s curls, forcing her head back and making her moan out to the stars and the moon above while Jamie collapsed against her throat.

“Holy fucking shit, Siri.” Jamie panted after a beat, looking up into her face, wild-eyed. Shocked.

“Sorry! Jamie, sorry, I—too much?” Siri struggled to catch her breath. She wasn’t sure how, in the span of twenty minutes, she had gone from never having a first kiss to rutting into the hottest girl alive in a semi-public area. Her underwear felt uncomfortably wet.

She didn’t hate it.

“Jesus Christ, no,” Jamie breathed through a maniacal grin. And Siri saw then that the shock was really pride.

Smug, cocky, balls-a-swinging pride.

And under that, a deep and radiant and joy-filled relief.

Siri figured it was probably reflected incandescently on her own face.

Inner Siri agreed.

--

She was sprawled on her tummy in bed, heart still pleasantly in her throat and head very much still on the lawn under the stars, when the unmistakable feeling of being watched prickled across Siri’s already-sensitive skin. Sure enough, she rolled over to find a familiarly slender shadow quietly darkening the small crack in her bedroom doorway, belied only by the faintest creak of old floorboards beneath socked feet.

“You’re back,” the shadow said.

Shortly after midnight, Jamie had walked Siri home, hand protectively around her shoulders and Siri nuzzled happily into Jamie’s chest, arms encircling her waist like a needy koala, enveloping each other in the smell of hair and skin and laundry soap as they had stumbled up the hill. Siri had taken care not to wake her family when she crept back inside the cottage, parting kisses stolen behind blind-eye hedges after giggled insistences to keep it, I like seeing it on you.

“Obviously,” Siri whispered, waiting.

Wordlessly, Regina pushed Siri’s bedroom door open enough for her to slip inside and pad over to the bed. The wrought iron frame groaned, unnaturally loud in the still of the night, as she wiggled beneath the covers next to her sister.

Regina’s copious curls spilled across the pillow, taking up half the bed with untamable tendrils and tickling Siri’s nose and neck. Siri pushed them away, pressed her icy toes under Regina’s calves.

Their breathing evened as they settled next to each other, Siri on her back, looking up at the moonlight cast in scattered shapes across the ceiling, Regina on her side with her head tucked in like a burrowed kitten.

“How was it?” Regina whispered into the covers.

“Good.” Siri replied, guarded. The butterflies she had been enjoying were flying right up her throat and out her mouth with each exhale, leaving just plain nerves in their wake. She wasn’t sure what Regina would say about, well, everything.

“I talked to Remus, after y’all came back from Cote’s.”

Siri glanced down at her sister. “Oh?” Remus wasn’t particularly intimidating, but he was a boy several years older than Regina, and Siri didn’t think they had had any direct conversations before.

“He said it got a little… awkward,” Regina tried delicately.

Siri sighed. “Yeah, that’s one way to put it.”

Regina’s eyes opened and batted up to look at Siri, eyebrows and lashes dark on her pale face. She looked impossibly young, tender, like a fawn waiting patiently for its mother in the wooded thicket. “And that someone likes you.”

Siri thought of Fabian, and Remus, seated next to each other on the picnic bench, their reactions when she had rolled up. Fabian’s immature behavior. She groaned.

“Yeah… I figured.” Honestly why did it always come back to a freaking guy? Was this really what it was always going to be like?

“So… did something happen?” Regina pressed.

Siri never lied to her sister, so she didn’t say anything.

Regina could read her like a book anyway.

“Did you guys kiss?”

Siri breathed out, barely a whisper. “Yes.” Her lips quivered. “But it’s not with… it wasn’t who you think.”

And all the emotions and the overwhelming bigness of just, everything, came crashing back, and the tears Siri had stomped down earlier finally spilled hot down her cheeks.

Regina was calm, steady. Blinked her fawn eyes gently.

“Was it Jamie?” She had always possessed a wisdom beyond her young years.

Siri turned a tear-streaked face to her sister. Cried a little harder. Nodded.

Regina shrugged. “Remus said he and Peter were pretty fed up with how she was acting. Wanted her to just go for it already. He asked me if I thought you liked her back.”

“Really?” Siri smiled, watery, hopeful. “What did you say?”

Despite her sensitivity, Regina was still a sassy little shit. She rolled her eyes. “Duh.”

And there, in the soft quiet night with silver moonbeams carrying dreams and desire back and forth across a star-strewn bay, Regina hugged her.

Siri hugged her back.

--

On the easternmost tip of the country, dashing up 95 or lazing along Route 1, over tiny suspension bridges and past sleepy lobstering towns and through fields alive with black-eyed susans and purple clover and Miss Rumphius’s famous lupine,

down dusty country roads that crunch under car tires and kick dust behind sneakers,

between paper-white birch trees and evergreen pine lined with split-rail fences and wild rose bushes hiding monarchs and honeybees,

tucked among rocky, cragged coastline where red quartz cliffs break squally sprays over pebbled stones warmed gray by the sun,

following the call of seagulls and dinghy bells and misplaced rhotic consonants within winter-gruff voices (ayuh),

where the smells of white bar soap and mineral-crusted pipes and salt, salt, salt mingle with those of lilac and bug spray and ozone,

there lies a fairytale village on a wishful blue bay.

And if you make pilgrimage to its venerable wooden dock, last stop before plunging into ocean deep,

and perhaps rest on its cerulean-bright benches, look out in wonder at how blues so blue can exist, and whites so white, and greens so green, and breathe what feels like nothing, the air so crystal clean,

and sigh and turn your head, look north, you might see

written in black sharpie, bubble letters marking permanently chip-worn paint,

the initials JFP + SOB.

And somewhere to the left of that, your curious eyes tracing, find that same sharpie and youthful handwriting among the various inking and carving,

SOB + RAB

[manikas-whims]

“What are you doing to me, you plague of a girl?”

— Khalid to Shahrzad

[cloudcloudcloud]

I just finished The Guest List by Lucy Foley, and The Wicked and The Divine. They were both excellent and beautifully created. I can’t wait to read the second WICDIV book!