#until then you are nameless and a blur to me

[seafarersdream]

Last Friday Night | Modern AU! (Cregan Stark x Y/N)

In the realm of scandalous misdeeds, slumbering with your brother’s best friend should be a cardinal sin—dangerous liaison that Y/N Velaryon ought to steer clear of, now nor in any future reincarnation. But, oh, how the rules bend under the weight of temptation. A night of drunken sex with Cregan Stark, Jace’s insanely hot best mate and a towering 6-foot something alpine skier with ice in his veins. What a night it was! Only problem? They were both so tipsy that the details are a hazy blur, and now they awaken in a tangled mess beside each other. Word count: 5,6k

TW // Strong language and profanities, sexual content, mentions of alcohol, smoking.

“Fuck.”

That was the first coherent thought Y/N Velaryon had when she opened her eyes. Her head throbbed like a drum, each pulse a reminder of why tequila shots are the devil’s work. The room was unfamiliar—definitely not hers. The bed was too big, the sheets too expensive, and the body lying beside her too…well, fuck again.

She turned her head slowly, hoping against hope that her suspicions were wrong. Maybe it was some rando, some nameless, faceless guy who she could shove out the door with minimal awkwardness. But when she finally caught a glimpse of the dark, messy hair and the broad, bare back that could only belong to one man, she groaned internally.

Cregan fucking Stark.

Of course, it was him. It couldn’t just be some forgettable one-night stand. It had to be her brother’s best friend, the guy Jace had always been crystal clear was off-limits. And here they were, in bed together, like the setup to some bad rom-com, except this was way more fucked up.

She pressed her palms to her eyes, trying to piece together what the hell happened last night. There were flashes—Jace convincing her to go to some ridiculous party at a mutual friend’s country estate (more like a palace really), the champagne flowing, the ridiculous number of shots, and the way Cregan had looked at her from across the room. Not that she'd paid much attention, or so she thought.

And then…nothing. A blank slate. Well, at least until now, when the reality of waking up next to the man Jace had declared off-limits hit her like a truck.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Y/N muttered under her breath, shifting slightly to get out of bed without waking Cregan. But the sheets rustled, and before she could even swing her legs out, a deep voice rumbled beside her.

“Morning.”

Her heart nearly jumped out of her chest. She froze, mid-escape, and slowly turned to face him. Cregan was wide awake, propped up on one elbow, smirking at her like the cocky bastard he was.

“Morning,” she croaked, her mouth dry as hell. “This is, um…”

“A fucking disaster?” he suggested, his grin widening.

“Yeah, something like that.”

Cregan chuckled, the sound rich and annoyingly sexy, even through her hangover. He looked far too pleased with himself, considering the circumstances. His dark eyes held hers, and for a second, Y/N was painfully aware of the fact that she was still very much naked under these sheets. So was he.

This was beyond bad.

“I remember bits and pieces,” she admitted, rubbing her temples. “But not…this. Why didn’t you stop me? Or yourself?”

“You think I could have stopped you?” Cregan raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “You were pretty damn determined.”

Y/N groaned, slumping back against the pillows. “Fuck. Jace is going to kill us. You know that, right? He’s literally going to skin you alive.”

“Pretty sure he’s got more important things to worry about than who his sister hooks up with,” Cregan said, stretching lazily. “Not that I’m planning on telling him.”

She shot him a look. “And how exactly do you think we’re going to keep this a secret? He’ll know. Jace always knows when I’m up to something. He’s like a damn oracle.”

Cregan shrugged, like he wasn’t at all fazed by the prospect of Jace’s wrath. Which, Y/N supposed, he wouldn’t be. Cregan Stark was all ice and steel when it came to handling pressure. Professional alpine skier, always on the edge of danger—like he didn’t have enough adrenaline in his life without adding ‘sleeping with his best friend’s little sister’ to the list.

“We just pretend it didn’t happen,” Cregan suggested, as if that was the easiest thing in the world. “Last night was a blur, and this morning’s just a bad dream. We’ll go our separate ways, no one’s the wiser.”

“You really think that’ll work?” Y/N asked skeptically.

“We won’t know unless we try,” he replied, his tone almost teasing.

She couldn’t believe this was happening. She’d just finished uni, started her internship at a nice law firm, and was supposed to be focusing on her career. Instead, she was tangled up in the sheets with Cregan Stark, about to engage in the most complicated cover-up of her life.

“Fine,” she finally said, exhaling sharply. “But if Jace finds out, you’re the one explaining it to him.”

“Deal.” Cregan’s smirk softened into something almost genuine, and for a moment, Y/N’s stomach did a weird flip.

She quickly pushed the feeling down. This was a one-time thing, a mistake—one she couldn’t afford to repeat, no matter how tempting it might be. The last thing she needed was more complications in her life.

“Okay, I need to get out of here,” Y/N said, sitting up and scanning the room for her clothes. They were scattered across the floor, a chaotic mix of her dress, shoes, and underwear. Cregan’s clothes were mingled with hers—of course, he didn’t seem to be in any rush to get up. Typical.

As she scrambled out of bed, trying to gather her things, she felt Cregan’s eyes on her, and when she looked back, there was something in his gaze that made her pause. It wasn’t just the lazy, post-hookup look she expected. There was something else, something deeper that she couldn’t quite place. But before she could analyze it further, he smirked again, shattering the moment.

“Need any help?” he offered, his tone suggesting anything but.

“I’m good,” she replied quickly, slipping into her dress and trying to maintain whatever dignity she had left. “I’ll just, uh, see myself out.”

“Sure thing, Y/N,” Cregan said, his voice holding a hint of something she couldn’t quite identify—teasing, maybe, or was it something more?

But she didn’t have time to dwell on it. She needed to get out of here, get back to her place, and pretend this never happened. As she slipped her shoes on and made a beeline for the door, she could feel his eyes on her the whole time, and it took every ounce of willpower not to look back.

The walk of shame had never been so literal.

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Y/N finally made it back to her flat in South Kensington, pushing through the ache in her head and the overwhelming need for a gallon of water and a hot shower. She fumbled with her keys, silently praying to every god she didn’t believe in that Jace would still be at the photoshoot he’d mentioned yesterday.

But as soon as she swung the door open, she knew her luck had run out.

Jace Velaryon was sprawled out on her couch like he owned the place—legs kicked up on the coffee table, remote in one hand, a half-eaten bowl of cereal in the other. He looked up as she entered, and his face lit up in that way only big brothers get when they know they’re about to cause trouble.

“Well, well, well,” he drawled, a grin spreading across his face. “Look who’s doing the walk of shame this morning.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, trying to play it cool. “Shut up, Jace. I just went for a…walk.” Even she cringed at how lame that sounded.

“A walk?” Jace repeated, raising an eyebrow. “In last night’s dress and heels? That’s a new one, even for you.”

“I wasn’t—” she started, but Jace cut her off with a laugh.

“Please, sis. Don’t even try it. I’ve known you too long to fall for that bullshit.” He sat up, clearly enjoying himself. “So, who was the lucky guy? Or girl? I’m open-minded.”

She shot him a glare, trying to ignore the heat creeping up her cheeks. “It’s none of your business, Jace.”

“Oh, come on,” he whined. “You’re my little sister. It’s literally my job to make your love life my business.”

She snorted, moving past him toward the kitchen. “Right, because you’re such an expert on relationships.”

“Hey, I’ve been in plenty of—” he began defensively, but she cut him off.

“One-night stands don’t count, Jace.”

He laughed, unfazed. “Touché. But seriously, you look like death warmed over. Was the party that wild?”

Y/N could still feel the blood rushing to her face, and she kept her back to him, rummaging in the fridge for a bottle of infused water. “Yeah, it was…something.”

“I knew it!” Jace crowed, slapping his knee. “I knew you’d have a good time once you loosened up. See, you should listen to me more often. You’re always so serious with your work stuff, but you gotta live a little, Y/N. You’re too young to be so…responsible.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. Because as much as she hated to admit it, Jace had a point. Her life had been all about exams and internships lately, no time for fun or the kind of reckless behavior that usually ended with waking up next to a Stark.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. Party more, work less,” she muttered, twisting the cap off the bottle and taking a long drink.

Jace leaned forward, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “So, was he hot at least? This guy you left with?”

Y/N almost choked on her water. “What? I didn’t leave with anyone.”

“Right,” he said, dragging the word out. “That’s why you’re sneaking back in at ten in the morning with bedhead and makeup smudged like a panda. Come on, just tell me who it was. Was it that guy Luke introduced you to last week? What was his name…Liam? Leon?”

She shook her head, exasperated. “Hells, Jace, can you just drop it?”

Jace grinned, leaning back again. “Oh, this must’ve been a really good one if you’re getting this defensive. Come on, Y/N, I’m dying here. Give me something.”

For a second, she considered telling him the truth—just blurting it out and watching the chaos unfold. But then she thought of Cregan’s lazy smile, the way he’d suggested they just forget about it and move on. The way her brother would probably explode into a million pieces if he knew. And she decided against it.

“Fine,” she sighed dramatically. “If you must know, it was some random bloke, okay? No one you know. Just a guy. But yes, he is fit. Satisfied?”

Jace considered this, squinting at her as if trying to detect a lie. Finally, he shrugged. “I guess. But if you don’t want me to know, that just makes me want to know more. You know that, right?”

“Yeah, well, good luck with that,” she replied, moving past him again, hoping he’d drop it.

He watched her go, still grinning like an idiot. “You know, you should bring him to the next party,” he called after her. “Introduce me. I promise I won’t bite…unless he’s into that sort of thing.”

Y/N groaned and flipped him off over her shoulder. “You’re disgusting, Jace.”

“Love you too, sis,” he shot back, laughing. “And don’t think I won’t find out who it is. I always do.”

She shook her head, muttering curses under her breath as she retreated to her room. She needed a shower, a coffee, and about ten years of therapy to figure out how she’d ended up in bed with Cregan Stark of all people. But first, she needed to figure out how to keep Jace in the dark. Because if he ever found out…

Well, that wasn’t even worth thinking about.

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Cregan Stark stood in the middle of his wrecked bedroom, hands on his hips, surveying the chaos. Sheets twisted, pillows on the floor, a lamp somehow knocked over. It looked like a tornado had swept through, and that tornado’s name was Y/N Velaryon.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his tousled dark hair. He tried to piece together the events of last night, but the details were hazy, like trying to grab smoke with his bare hands. He remembered flashes—the way she looked at him, the heat in her gaze, the sound of her laugh, and the taste of alcohol on her lips.

But everything after that? A blur.

Goddamn shame, too, because if there was anything he wanted to remember clearly, it was Y/N Velaryon in his bed, under him, her nails digging into his back. Fuck, he’d have liked to play that on repeat in his mind forever, but the alcohol had betrayed him, stealing away the details of what was undoubtedly the hottest night of his life.

He started picking up his last night’s clothes scattered across the floor and cursed himself again. How could he forget? He rarely drank that much, being an athlete and all, but last night…last night had been something else. He found his shirt flung over the back of a chair, his pants half-hanging off the edge of the bed. His brief were bunched up in the corner, and then—

Oh.

A small, red scrap of lace was tangled up in the sheets. He picked it up, grinning as he realized it was her G-string. She must’ve been in one hell of a hurry to leave it behind. He turned it over in his hands, feeling the delicate fabric, imagining her wearing it, and smirked.

“One hell of a merchandise,” he muttered with a chuckle, tucking the lace into his pocket. “Score.”

It was stupid, really. A goddamn G-string, and here he was, acting like he’d found a winning lottery ticket. But there was something about Y/N—something that had always pulled him in, even when he’d been trying his hardest to ignore it. Jace’s little sister, forbidden territory. He’d spent years pretending he didn’t notice how fucking gorgeous she’d grown, how smart and sharp-tongued she was. But last night had shattered all of that pretense into a million pieces.

He shoved the rest of the clothes into a messy laundry pile, wondering how long it would take for Jace to find out. Y/N was good at keeping secrets, he’d give her that, but Jace was practically psychic when it came to his sister. Cregan could already hear his best friend’s voice in his head, pissed off and protective, probably ready to bash his skull in.

But for some reason, that didn’t bother him as much as it should. He found himself smiling, still, as he started straightening up the room. Maybe it was because he liked the idea of having something that was just his and hers—something Jace didn’t know, something they could keep between them.

And hell, if it was anything like last night—at least, what he could remember of it—he wouldn’t mind making a habit of it.

As he finished tidying up, he spotted his phone on the nightstand, the screen lighting up with a new message. He picked it up, already knowing who it would be.

Jace:

Yo, brunch? Need to talk to you about something.

Cregan snorted. Of course, Jace wanted to talk. He always did when something was up with Y/N. He hesitated for a second, wondering if Jace had already figured out what had happened. But nah, if Jace knew, the message would’ve been a lot less polite.

He typed back a quick reply.

Sure, mate. Usual spot?

There was a pause before Jace responded.

Jace:

Yeah, see you in 30. And don’t be late, you lazy fuck.

Cregan chuckled, tossing the phone back on the bed. Yeah, this was going to be fun. He grabbed a fresh shirt, slipped it over his head, and, with a final glance around the now semi-clean room, he headed out.

He might not remember every detail of last night, but he’d be damned if he let that stop him from figuring out how to make it happen again.

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Cregan arrived at the little brasserie they always met at, a tiny spot tucked away on a quiet street. The kind of place with faded awnings and mismatched chairs that served strong coffee and even stronger Bloody Marys. Jace was already sitting outside, a cigarette dangling from his lips, dressed in designer shades and a leather jacket that probably cost more than most people’s rent.

“You’re late,” Jace called out as Cregan approached, flicking ash into the street. “I was starting to think you’d bailed.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, mate,” Cregan replied, sliding into the chair across from him. “But, you know, mornings are a bitch.” Especially when you’ve just spent them cleaning up the aftermath of what could’ve been the best mistake of your life, he thought.

Jace smirked, passing him the pack of cigarettes. “Yeah, looks like you had a rough one. Big night?”

Cregan shrugged, playing it cool. “Something like that. But hey, speaking of big nights…” He leaned in conspiratorially, lighting his cigarette. “What’s this I hear about Aegon?”

Jace snorted, taking a drag from his own cigarette. “Oh, mate, you haven’t heard? It’s fucking priceless.” He leaned back, tapping the ash off with a grin that was half-amused, half-disgusted. “My dear cousin managed to land himself in the hospital. For his cock.”

Cregan choked on his first drag, coughing out smoke. “What?” he managed between laughs. “His cock? You’re joking.”

“I swear to god,” Jace said, holding up his hand like he was taking an oath. “Apparently, he was trying to pull off some kind of…threesome, foursome, who the fuck knows, at one of those clubs he’s always getting kicked out of. Anyway, things got out of hand, and next thing you know, he’s screaming in agony and they’re rushing him to A&E.”

Cregan was in stitches, wiping a tear from his eye. “You’re telling me Aegon actually managed to break his dick?”

“That’s the rumor,” Jace replied, chuckling. “Doctors said it was some kind of penile fracture. Can you imagine? Poor bastard was probably halfway to heaven when he got dragged right down to hell.”

“Thoughts and prayers mate, that’s rough,” Cregan said, still laughing. “How the hell does that even happen?”

Jace grinned, leaning in. “Apparently, he got too enthusiastic. Girl was on top, he was thrusting up, and…” He made a snapping motion with his fingers. “Snap.”

Cregan winced, half in sympathy, half in amazement. “Fuck me, that’s got to hurt. How long’s he gonna be out of commission?”

“Couple of months, at least,” Jace replied, blowing out a stream of smoke. “He’s already whining about it all over social media. You know Aegon. Can’t suffer in silence.”

Cregan snorted. “Sounds like him, alright. Bet he’s milking it for all it’s worth, too. Getting the sympathy votes.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Jace agreed. “He’s already got half the city sending him flowers and chocolates like he’s some kind of war hero. Even Mum’s getting involved—sending him a care package like he’s gone off to battle instead of just fucking his way into the emergency room.”

They both laughed, loud and unrestrained, the way only friends who’ve known each other too long can. The kind of laughter that turns heads from the neighboring tables, but they didn’t care. They were in their own world, swapping stories, cigarettes, and coffee.

“Honestly, though,” Cregan said after a moment, shaking his head. “Only Aegon could turn a night out into a medical emergency. Guy’s got a talent.”

Jace grinned, flicking his cigarette butt away. “Yeah, but you know what they say about talent and stupidity—it’s a thin line.”

Cregan chuckled, taking another drag. “And Aegon’s crossed it, time and time again.”

“Too right,” Jace replied, nodding. “But it makes for good entertainment. Can’t wait to see how he spins this one. You just know there’s gonna be some kind of dramatic story about how he risked it all for love or some other bullshit.”

“The hero’s journey,” Cregan quipped, smirking. “Except with more broken bones and fewer dragons.”

Jace laughed. “Fewer dragons, more dick injuries. Welcome to the modern world.”

Cregan took a long drag, blowing out smoke slowly, his mind still partially elsewhere, still thinking about the G-string tucked in his pocket. Yeah, this was the kind of gossip he could get behind, but there were other things—better things—on his mind. Like how he was going to see Y/N again without Jace getting suspicious. Because if Jace found out…

Well, he’d just have to make sure Jace never did.

Jace was mid-sip on his coffee when he caught a glimpse of something on Cregan’s neck. He blinked, did a double take, then broke into a wide, shit-eating grin that could have lit up all of London.

“Oh, no fucking way,” he practically howled, slamming his coffee cup down onto the table and leaning forward. “Is that…what I think it is?”

Cregan, who had been in the middle of stubbing out his cigarette, froze. “What the hell are you on about?”

Jace pointed, still grinning like he’d won the lottery. “Your neck, you dumbass. You’ve got hickeys all over it.”

Cregan felt his stomach drop, but he didn’t let it show. Instead, he reached up, rubbing his neck as if he is already aware of them. “Oh these?”

Jace let out a loud, triumphant laugh. “Come on, don’t play dumb with me. Whoever you were with last night really went to town.”

Cregan could feel his face heat up, but he kept his expression neutral. He was an expert at this game; he’d been friends with Jace for too long to let him see he was rattled. “Maybe I just ran into a really aggressive mosquito,” he shot back dryly.

“Bullshit,” Jace cackled, smacking Cregan on the arm. “Come on, bro, spill the beans. Who was it? Who’s the lucky lady leaving marks on your neck like you’re a piece of meat?”

Cregan shifted in his seat, trying to keep his cool. He could still feel the faint burn of Y/N’s lips on his skin, and damn if that didn’t send a shiver down his spine, even now. “Just a random girl,” he said casually, waving a hand like it was nothing. “Nothing serious.”

“A random girl, my ass,” Jace scoffed, leaning closer, his grin wider than ever. “Come on, mate. I know you better than that. You don’t let just anyone mark you up like that.”

Cregan rolled his eyes, trying to deflect. “And how would you know what I do or don’t let happen?”

“Because I’ve known you for a decade,” Jace shot back, grabbing another cigarette. “You’re picky. Way pickier than me, and that’s saying something. So, whoever it was…must’ve been special.”

Cregan fought the urge to wince. If only he knew just how “special” the girl had been. He could almost see Jace’s face if he ever found out. Cregan could already imagine the explosion—the yelling, the accusations, and Jace’s unrelenting fury. Yeah, best to keep this under wraps.

He leaned back in his chair, shrugging. “You’re reading too much into it, Jace. It was just a fun night. No big deal.”

“Fun enough to leave those,” Jace said, still grinning like a Cheshire cat. “Seriously, they look fresh. Did you at least get her number?”

Cregan snorted, taking another sip of his coffee. “Nah. It was just one of those things, you know? No strings attached.”

“Huh, strings,” Jace snickered. “Or no strings…left, eh?”

Cregan’s hand twitched towards his pocket, where Y/N’s G-string was still tucked safely away. He felt a momentary thrill of panic, wondering if Jace could somehow read his mind, but his best friend’s smirk told him he was still in the clear…for now.

“Look, mate,” Jace said, putting out his cigarette and leaning in with a mock-serious expression. “All I’m saying is, whoever she was, she clearly had a good time. And you…you’ve got the evidence to prove it. But come on, give me something. I’m dying here.”

Cregan laughed, finally slapping Jace’s arm in return. “Alright, alright, fine. Maybe I’ll tell you…someday.”

“Oh, you will,” Jace replied, eyes twinkling with mischief. “One way or another, Stark, you will.”

As Cregan leaned back, smiling like he hadn’t a care in the world, he knew this was a situation he’d have to play carefully. Because if Jace ever found out the truth, those love bites on his neck would be the least of his worries.

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Monday arrived like a slap in the face, and Y/N was not ready. Not even a little bit. She sat at her desk, her fingers hovering over her laptop keys, but her mind was a million miles away. She was supposed to be working on some due diligence report, but instead, she was spiraling.

Full-on, out-of-control spiraling.

It wasn’t like she hadn’t had her fair share of one-night stands before. She was young, single, and sometimes she just needed to blow off steam. But this? This was different. Because it hadn’t been just anyone. It had been Cregan Stark. Her brother’s best friend. The guy Jace had practically tattooed with the words Do Not Touch where she was concerned.

And it wasn’t like she was worried about Jace finding out, not really. She was a lawyer, for fuck’s sake. She lied for a living, spun stories into gold, and could argue her way out of anything. But every time she closed her eyes, she saw Cregan’s face, felt his hands on her, and heard his deep, rumbling laugh in her ear. The memory alone sent her into a panic.

She’d needed to talk to someone. Someone who wasn’t Jace. So, of course, she’d turned to her cousin, Baela Targaryen, who was currently perched on the edge of Y/N’s desk.

“You did what?” Baela practically screeched, her voice loud enough to turn a few heads in their direction.

Y/N winced, shooting her a look. “Keep your voice down, for fuck’s sake,” she hissed.

But Baela was having none of it. She was practically vibrating with excitement, her violet eyes wide. “You slept with Cregan fucking Stark?” she repeated, but at least this time she whispered. “Holy shit, Y/N. This is…this is epic.”

Y/N buried her face in her hands, groaning. “No, it’s not. It’s a disaster. A full-blown, Jace-will-kill-me disaster.”

“Are you kidding?” Baela snorted, leaning in. “Jace doesn’t have to know. And besides, Cregan’s hot as hell. I mean, have you seen him? Those shoulders? That jawline? And he’s an athlete. A pro skier. The man probably has a body like a fucking Greek god. Why are you freaking out?”

“Because it’s Cregan,” Y/N said, exasperated. “It’s Jace’s best friend. And I’m supposed to be focusing on my career, not getting tangled up with guys I shouldn’t be touching.”

Baela rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. You’re young, hot, and brilliant. You can focus on your career and still have a little fun on the side. I mean, who hasn’t wanted to sleep with their brother’s best friend at some point?”

Y/N gave her a look. “Most people, Baela.”

“Well, most people are boring,” Baela shot back, grinning. “Look, you’ve always been the responsible one. The one with the plan, the one who does everything by the book. Maybe it’s time you let loose a little. And besides…” She leaned in, her grin widening. “How was it?”

Y/N felt her cheeks heat up, and she hated how easily Baela could do that to her. “I don’t know,” she muttered. “I mean, it was…good. Really good. But that’s not the point.”

Baela laughed, her bright, melodic sound echoing through the open office space. “Oh, that’s exactly the point. Come on, Y/N, you’re practically glowing. It must’ve been better than good if you’re this messed up over it.”

Y/N shook her head, trying to pull herself together. “It doesn’t matter. It was a mistake. A one-time thing. It can’t happen again.”

“Why not?” Baela asked, still smiling like a psychopath. “If it was so good, why can’t it happen again?”

“Because…” Y/N started, fumbling for the words. “Because it just can’t, okay? I can’t deal with the drama. And Jace will find out, and then it’ll be this whole big thing, and—“

Baela waved her off. “Jace doesn’t have to know, alright? You’re smart. You can handle it. And who knows? Maybe Cregan’s just the kind of distraction you need right now. Especially with all these dry, boring cases we’re stuck with.”

Y/N sighed, leaning back in her chair. “Yeah, a distraction is the last thing I need right now. What I need is to keep my head down and avoid any more…complications.”

“Oh, Y/N, you can do that,” Baela teased, nudging her with her elbow. “But where’s the fun in that? Life’s too short to be boring. Especially when you’ve got a Stark on your side.”

Y/N shot her a glare, but she couldn’t help the small smile tugging at her lips. “You’re not helping.”

“And you’re overthinking it,” Baela replied. “Look, you had a wild night with a hot guy. Enjoy it. Don’t spiral. Just…see what happens. You might surprise yourself.”

Y/N wanted to argue, wanted to tell Baela she was wrong, but deep down, she knew her cousin had a point. She was spiraling, and it wasn’t getting her anywhere. Maybe Baela was right.

Or maybe she’d end up in even deeper shit. But what’s done is done.

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Cregan slammed the barbell back onto the rack with a grunt, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. The gym was quiet on a Monday afternoon, just the rhythmic thud of weights hitting the floor, the hum of the treadmill belts, and the occasional grunt from the other athletes scattered around. It was exactly how he liked it—minimal distractions, just him and the iron.

But today, he couldn’t focus for shit.

He was supposed to be prepping, getting his body in peak condition for the winter season. Autumn was crunch time for a professional skier. Every session counted, every rep, every second shaved off his sprint time mattered. And yet, here he was, barely keeping his head in the game, because all he could think about was Y/N Velaryon.

Fuck, he needed another go.

He dropped down onto the bench, grabbing a towel and rubbing it across his face, trying to clear his thoughts. But it was impossible. His mind kept replaying the brief flashes he remembered from that night—the way she’d looked up at him, her lips parted, her hands pulling him closer, nails digging into his skin like she couldn’t get enough of him.

And the way he couldn’t remember every goddamn detail was driving him insane.

He needed a do-over. A second chance to burn the memory of her into his brain properly this time. The half-forgotten fragments weren’t enough. Not even close. He wanted to remember everything—the way she tasted, the sounds she made, the way she moved against him. He wanted to savor every moment, replay it in his mind during the endless hours of training and competition.

He grabbed a medicine ball, slamming it down against the floor with a force that rattled the nearby weights. He knew he needed to get his shit together. He couldn’t afford distractions, not now, not with the season so close. But the harder he tried to focus, the more his thoughts drifted back to her.

To the way she’d looked that morning, rushing out of his flat, her hair a mess, her dress askew, and the small, scrap of lace she’d left behind like a calling card. He felt a grin tug at his lips just thinking about it. Fuck, she’d been gorgeous. And he’d been too smashed to enjoy it properly.

“Get a grip, Stark,” he muttered to himself, slamming the ball down again, trying to burn off some of the frustration coursing through his veins.

But it was no use. No matter how many reps he did, no matter how much weight he lifted, the image of Y/N wouldn’t leave his mind. He remembered the way she’d smirked at him from across the room at that party, the way her eyes had lingered on him just a little too long, like she’d been daring him to make a move.

And, oh, he’d made a move, alright. He just wished he could remember every damn second of it.

He switched to the rowing machine, gripping the handles tightly, and started pulling with quick, powerful strokes. His muscles burned, sweat dripped down his back, but it still wasn’t enough to push her out of his mind.

The problem was, he wanted her again. He wanted to see her, touch her, hear her laugh that low, teasing laugh she had. But this time, he wanted to be fully aware of every single thing he did to her, every little reaction he could coax out of her. He wanted to watch the way her pupils dilated when he touched her, hear the way her breath hitched, see that flash of challenge in her eyes when she bit her lip.

He wanted to remember. All of it.

He needed to see her again, needed to make that happen. But how? It wasn’t like he could just call her up. She was Jace’s sister, for fuck’s sake, and Jace was already poking around, suspicious as hell. No, he’d have to be careful, play it smart. He needed to find a way to get her alone again, away from her brother, away from prying eyes.

The rowing machine beeped, signaling the end of his set, but he barely heard it. His mind was already spinning with possibilities, ideas forming as he wiped the sweat off his face.

Yeah, he’d find a way. There was no way in hell he was letting this go. Y/N Velaryon was under his skin now, and he’d be damned if he didn’t get a chance to do things right this time.

Cregan cracked his neck, a determined smile spreading across his face as he headed toward the free weights. He’d figure it out. And when he did, he was going to make damn sure he remembered every single second of it.

[ghoulphile]

it's always the quiet ones | c.h./the ghoul

➥ pairing | pre-war cooper howard/the ghoul x f!reader ➥ word count | 700 ➥ warning(s) | 🔞 smut; oral (m receiving), throat fucking, choking, dirty talk, bathroom sex ➥ summary | based off this ask; We can see that Cooper tends to go for good girls (like @ghoulfuckersincorporated mentioned!), but what if he ran into a seemingly innocent - or at the very least kind - person… but they dirty talk like a sinner in the sack? ➥ notes | i humbly offer this drabble to @gingersforeverbox 🙈 masterlist | feel free to send in thots, questions, requests! | feedback is always appreciated ❤️

It’s always the quiet ones, isn’t it?

At least, that’s what Cooper’s mama always said (and he wouldn’t know how right she was until he found himself shoved in a swanky club bathroom, slacks tucked under his ass as the prettiest — politest — lady choked herself with his cock).

Frankly, how he got here’s a hazy blur of bourbon and cigar smoke.

Whispered conversations and coy looks. The flash of cherry red nails, and a well timed head tilt; a pretty little thing cozied against him as nameless faces passed in and out of view.

Another pointless after party (though far smaller of an event than he used to pull) where vultures circled the room, waiting for their chance to pick at his bones. LA devotee’s ready to snap up the scraps of the once great Cooper Howard.

Dog eat dog; he couldn’t stand the petty games —the mindless indulgences.

So, he’d invited you as a buffer.

An acquaintanceship that’d gone back years, having met on set of one of his earlier productions, you were always cordial and had a kind word to say about anybody. Not a mean bone in that body… or so he’d thought.

Now, he’s not so sure he knows you half as well as he thought he did.

“Fuck!”

Air hisses through his teeth, his hands hovering over the sides of your head, unsure where to grip. Your hair looks awfully pretty (like it took a long time to force into shape), he’d hate to ruin the style. But if you keep trying to suck his soul out through his cock, he might just have to sink his fingers into those delicate curls and yank.

“S-Sweetheart, what are you — oh, ssshit.”

You peer up at him from beneath the spiky fan of your lashes and hum. His hips jump and you choke, your tongue pinned as your teeth scrape along his thick shaft.

Spit drips past your swollen lips, clings to your chin in sticky strings. The lower half of your face is a mess of smeared lipstick and pre-cum.

He pants, gazing down at you with awe. “How’re you so fucking good at this?”

He’s so big, stretching your mouth to the limit. A tender ache sets behind the hinge of your jaw, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

Those half-lidded eyes, dark and hungry, make it all worth it. The slack circle of his mouth, the pained furrow of his brows as he wrestles with his self control all the payment you require.

You pop off; trace along the throbbing vein with your tongue as the heavy weight of his cock slips free with a wet suction. Your thighs clench and your toes curl in your heels at the low-throated groan punched from his chest.

“Practice makes perfect, don’t you think, Mr Howard?” you press a sloppy kiss to his leaking slit, lapping up the salty beads of fluid. Your fingers roll his balls, dragging the tips of your nails along the sensitive skin to watch him shiver. “Besides, I’ve seen how you look at me.”

His eyes flick off to the side, blowing wide once he catches your reflections in the mirror. He gulps, his knuckles white beside his hips. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, sweetheart.”

“Please, spare me.”

You snort, roll your eyes and shoot him a catty grin. Laugh when his cock throbs at the teasing flash of your tongue.

“You’re sweet — as true a gentleman as they come — but you can’t fool me. You’ve wanted me since you met me... and I don't get my best dress dirty for just anyone.”

“...”

“Now, before you try to say otherwise, remember whose on their knees with your cock in their mouth.”

“...No. Y-You’re right but I… I shouldn’t want to.”

You wink, circle the crown of his head with a red nail. More pre-cum dribbles from the slit, sticky drops you kiss away with your tongue.

“It’s okay, Mr Howard,” you say. “I want you too. Now do us both a favor and fuck my throat until I can’t talk. Please, I want it to hurt — want you to make me cry.”

[narumi-gens]

Triptych | "You left me alone."

Chisaki Kai x f!Reader

summary: Your life is nothing more than a triptych, a work of art in three parts with each panel depicting a distinct period — a beginning, a middle, an end. And in the triptych that is your life, the central figure has always been Chisaki Kai.

chapter warnings: 18+ minors/blank/ageless blogs dni, yandere, angst, imprisonment, emotional manipulation, emotional/psychological abuse, depression, reader stops eating, codependency, abandonment issues

notes: this is from a non-chronological series so the parts can be read in any order (or on their own). shoutout to the anon who asked me a very long time ago when their "husband" (triptych) was "coming home from war" (unofficial hiatus). he's back, bb!

words: 1.5k

SERIES MASTERLIST

The End

It’s hard to gauge time in the darkness. With no window to keep track of whether it’s day or night, the only way to track the passage of time is by the three daily meals that are left for you by a masked and silent guard. When you were first locked away, it was easy to count the meals and thus the days.

But as the days and the darkness and the isolation stretch on, your grasp on reality begins to slip. It’s difficult in the blackness to tell if your eyes are open or closed — if you’re sleeping or if you’re awake. Is this meal the first of the day or the second? Maybe it’s the third. 

The longer you spend in this room, in this cell, the more you can feel the life slowly draining from you. Eventually, you stop eating, your appetite fading altogether along with your will to keep fighting. 

Your faceless, nameless guard brings you a meal, only to take away an untouched one. You don’t know how long this goes on for. All you know is it doesn’t take long for your body to feel as fragile as your mind. 

Until one day, when the door to your prison opens and the figure holding a tray and standing in the doorway, backlit by the light from the hallway — the only light you ever see anymore — isn’t your usual guard. 

Despite the way your heart races at the sight of someone new, someone familiar, you remain still, too tired and weak to move even if you wanted to. All you can do is look at him with eyes squinting from the sudden brightness. 

“You’re not eating,” Kurono points out needlessly from the doorway. You can’t help but wonder if you’re dreaming. How long has it been since you’ve heard a voice other than the one in your head?

You watch in a daze as he walks toward you and sets the tray down on the table beside the twin-sized bed that you’ve been curled up in since you were first put here. The scent of your lunch, or maybe it’s dinner, reaches your nose and while your stomach reacts with a deep pang of hunger, you still feel no real appetite to actually eat what Kurono has brought you. 

You glance at the tray and see a shallow bowl on top. It must be a broth, something easy to digest after days — has it been days? — of eating nothing. When you look back at Kurono, you find that his head is tilted down in your direction. With his mask covering the entirety of his face, you can only assume that he’s turned his attention fully to you. 

There’s an unfamiliar sense of longing deep down inside of you. You wish he would take off the stupid mask. You’re desperate to see another person’s face.

“How-” you’re cut off by a small cough, your throat dry and scratchy, unused to speaking after so long spent alone in the dark. “How long have I been here?”

Kurono stays silent, refusing to answer your question. Against your will, tears begin to blur your vision from how much it hurts to be ignored by someone you know so well after having been locked away by yourself for so long. You must look pitiful because he softly sighs.

“You need to eat,” he says and even through your haze, you can hear his weariness. 

You wonder if he’s truly concerned or if he’s just tired of the irritable mood that Kai has surely been in since he put you here. But as you continue to stare up at him, you decide that it isn’t a fair assumption. For as long as you’ve known Kurono, whatever’s important to Kai is important to him. 

And apparently, there’s nothing of greater importance to him than you. Except for one thing…

“E-Eri,” you breathe out, a new type of desperation taking hold. “How’s Eri? Is she safe? Is she okay?”

They’re all stupid questions. Of course she isn’t safe. Of course she isn’t okay. She won’t be safe until you can take her far, far away from the Hassaikai and Kai. 

“If you don’t eat, Eri will be the one to pay.” The words are Kai’s even if they’re coming from Kurono, and they cut just the same.

Your next question escapes you before you’re even able to fully process it.

“Where’s Kai?” you rasp and you should feel embarrassed. You should feel ashamed for asking after the man who’s torturing a little girl, who incapacitated your father, who locked you away in the dark for what must have been weeks by this point. 

You should feel ashamed for asking after the man who’s been quietly controlling you and isolating you and manipulating you for your whole life. 

But you’re just so lonely. You would give anything to be free of the darkness.

Right now, you want nothing more than to see Kai, and the realization has a single tear finally escaping your eye and rolling across the bridge of your nose

“Kurono,” you weakly plead with a pathetic sniffle when he doesn’t answer you. “Hari…Where’s Kai?”

The use of his given name seems to soften his stony demeanor because he gives another quiet sigh.

“Eat,” he says, gentler this time, but you’re already beginning to spiral. The small hint of kindness he’s shown you, even when it’s dripping with pity, is too much for you to handle when you’ve been isolated and alone for so long.

“Please, tell him I don’t want to be here anymore,” you cry. You squeeze your eyes shut in a futile attempt to hold back your tears as the pillow beneath you quickly turns wet. “Tell him I’m sorry.”

The feeling of a warm hand on the side of your head has you opening your eyes back up to find Kurono now kneeling down at your bedside. His mask is held in his other hand, allowing you to see the slight frown on his lips as he watches you cry.

“You’ll feel better if you eat something,” he assures you and you want to protest, to continue to waste away into nothingness, but you remember Eri. 

Eri, who’s suffering, who’s being tortured, who will pay the price should you keep refusing to eat, who will truly have no one on her side if you disappear.

And so, after looking up at Kurono for a long moment, you weakly nod. It’s his steady hand that helps you sit up, holding you carefully but firmly when you feel lightheaded. Once he seems to think you’re no longer at risk of collapsing back onto the bed, he releases you to bring the tray to your side. 

Then, as if you’re nothing more than a child, he raises the bowl and brings a small spoonful of the broth to your chapped lips for you to sip. Anger bubbles in your stomach and you feel the urge to shove away the spoon, the bowl, and Kurono for the infantilizing behavior. 

The anger is almost a relief, letting you know that you’re capable of feeling something, anything, other than despair. But again, you think of Eri and swallow the broth without complaint. Just as you do when he gives you another spoonful and then another, eating what you’re given until you’re full, which admittedly doesn’t take too long. 

He gives you a soft smile before putting his mask back on, picking up the tray, and leaving you alone in the darkness once more. He doesn’t visit again, but the meals continue to show up on their usual schedule, three times a day, evolving from broths to more nutritious food once your stomach can handle something more. 

But one day — you’re not sure how many days later — instead of waking up to a meal, you open your eyes to find Kai sitting on the edge of your bed, patiently watching you. 

There’s a part of you that thinks you’re imagining his presence, or that maybe it’s a dream, until he places a glove-free hand on your cheek. His touch is achingly familiar and you’re overcome with self-loathing at how much comfort it provides you.

“Kai?” you breathe, tears of relief blurring your vision. His thumb gently brushes away the first one that escapes. Your own hand comes up to cover his where it cups your cheek, desperately and pathetically clinging onto him in a wordless plea for him not to let you go. 

“You said you’d never leave me alone, but you did,” you start to cry. “You left me alone.”

He lets you weep, his thumb continuing to swipe away the tears that he can catch with a touch that both burns and soothes. He offers no explanation or words of consolation, silently and calmly watching as you fall apart before him. 

It’s only when your sobs have started to die down that he encourages you to look back up at him with his touch.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” he finally asks.

All you can do is move closer to him so you can bury your face in his lap as a fresh wave of tears comes over you. 

[samstree]

words can wait (until some other day)

Jaskier does not panic when he falls in love. It happens a bit further down the road. (geraskier, 3k, cw: panic attack ☆ AO3)

Jaskier does not panic when he falls in love.

The summer sun blurs his vision when he finds Geralt in a patch of meadow, familiar swords on his back, metal armors reflecting the bright light. He’s whispering to an anxious Roach in that particularly gentle tone, petting her mane patiently. He doesn’t even register Jaskier’s presence for a moment.

And then, there’s the smile. A soft smile tugs at Geralt’s lips when the mare finally calms. It’s reserved and quiet, but Jaskier knows all the world’s joy is contained in that small, warm smile. Roach nuzzles Geralt’s chest, and it grows. Crow’s feet form around soft golden eyes, and Jaskier falls in love right there.

Perhaps he should panic, he thinks, just a little. This is Geralt, his best friend, his companion, the reason for all his songs and the beat of his heart. But only sureness pools in Jaskier’s stomach like warm tea on a rainy day. There is no tightness in his chest, no constricting of breaths.

His love for Geralt brings no harm, only safety.

He is decidedly and unsurprisingly not panicking. It’s Geralt, after all.

So Jaskier calls out for his name and runs right into his arms. Geralt is perplexed by the sudden hug, but he catches Jaskier steadily as always. The smile doesn’t fade when Jaskier pulls away, half amused, half exasperated.

“Jaskier?” The sun is blinding, but all Jaskier can see is the gold in Geralt’s eyes. “What’s wrong?”

Jaskier can only shake his head, his own smile mirrored back, spreading so wide on his cheeks it nearly hurts.

“Nothing,” he answers. “Just… let me hug you. Just a moment longer.”

Geralt allows Jaskier to burrow deep into his embrace again, indulging what looks like a nameless bout of clinginess. They stay there for a while, swaying back and forth, despite the summer heat, despite Jaskier’s foolish heart.

☆

Jaskier does not panic when he realizes his love cannot be returned.

The fall rolls around with a crisp blue sky and a forest of golden leaves. The ground becomes colder, digging into Jaskier’s back when he struggles to fall asleep. Between his dreams, Jaskier counts the crackling of the campfire and the quiet shuffles of Geralt’s movements. A chill creeps into the bedroll, and Jaskier holds his lute closer, shivering and drifting in and out of consciousness.

Somewhere during the night, when the moon is high and the forest is quiet, warmth envelopes Jaskier from behind. He lets out a long sigh, and the shivering stops. He gravitates towards the warmth, angling his body to fit into the source.

He wakes up in Geralt’s arms, head pillowed on his shoulder and their faces a hand’s breadth apart. Both of their cloaks are wrapped around him, tucked under his body carefully. They are not nearly big enough to cover the two of them, so half of Geralt’s body is painfully exposed in the autumn chill, but Jaskier is warm and toasty even to the toes.

He’s breathless from all the love in his chest.

“Hmm?” Geralt mumbles, blinking open his eyes. In the dim morning light, his features are soft and open, all the hardened exterior disappearing when it’s just the two of them, holding each other close on a chilly morning. When he finds Jaskier staring at him, an eyebrow raises in question. “Alright?”

“Yeah,” Jaskier whispers, not wanting to break the moment. “I’m just… very warm.”

Geralt catches Jaskier’s hand under the cloaks in his, only to touch Jaskier’s warm fingers with his cold ones.

“Good,” Geralt says, voice rumbling from sleep. “Humans don’t deal with cold that well.”

Jaskier pauses, looking up at Geralt’s slack face and slow-blinking eyes. It’s rare for a witcher to drift off casually once he’s woken in the morning, but Geralt does nonetheless, in a rare state of lazy contentment. Jaskier stays wide awake.

He loves Geralt, and he knows Geralt cares for him. In his way, Geralt cares so deeply, often to his own detriment. Despite what they say, despite all appearances, Geralt has a deeper capacity for love than anyone Jaskier has known.

Geralt can love deeply, that much he is sure.

It’s just that Jaskier isn’t special. He resides in a small corner of Geralt’s heart, cared for amongst countless humans weaving through a witcher’s long life.

Jaskier settles against Geralt’s shoulder, content. At peace, somehow.

Loving Geralt is enough, even if it’s unrequited, even if he’s alone in his love.

☆

Jaskier also does not panic when he decides to tell Geralt about his love.

It is the winter’s first snow, a soft, fluttering thing that drifts across the grey sky, falling and melting on Roach’s mane silently. The year on the path has officially ended, but Jaskier lingers.

Urged forward by his treacherous heart, Jaskier follows Geralt all the way into Kaedwen. The final fork road stands before them, the last moment before their separation.

Jaskier rambles on, complaining about his frozen fingers in the lecture halls of the university he can only half-heartedly call home—the real one is this. The road, monsters and ballads. Home is Geralt, since he was eighteen.

“I don’t care if Kaer Morhen is an ice castle up in the mountains, Oxenfurt has to be colder! I am not leaving my winter doublets with you again. Help me, Geralt! Check again!”

He wrinkles his nose, digging through Geralt’s pack to find another one of his fur-lined doublets. Their things get mixed up during the year. Jaskier may have sneakily slipped most of them in so he can linger a bit longer without thinking about the giant hole that is going to take up his chest in Geralt’s absence.

“You know you can just not mix them with my things.”

“Hush, dear. Be smart later. We must find the gloves! My fingers cannot be exposed to the cruel winds of winter! It’s the dampness, I tell you—Oh.”

Jaskier touches something soft and squishy at the bottom of Geralt’s pack. He pulls out not gloves, but a small, hand-sewn horse plush.

It’s not the most delicately made, most of the seams lopsided and the dark brown fabric of the horse’s body fixed up with patches old and new. The two buttons are different sizes, but they look rustically charming with a big smile on its face.

“Jask, it’s—um. It’s a…” Geralt, amazingly, is starting to fluster. “It’s nothing. It’s a… horse.”

Jaskier feels like he’s stumbled onto something very intimate.

“So it is.” He looks up, not sure what to do with his hands, so he keeps holding the soft toy carefully. “She looks like Roach.”

“It’s from that girl. Around ten years ago.” Geralt looks away, as if embarrassed by having a cuddly toy in his possession. “Got her out of the manticore nest.”

“I remember. It was a close call. Her parents were worried sick.”

Geralt reaches out as if to touch the little horse, only to pull away last minute. “I checked on her a year later, passed by the village. She had made this.”

“She did?” Jaskier smiles fondly. “I remember she wouldn’t stop crying, so you introduced her to Roach.”

“And you did the voices.”

“It worked wonderfully. She made a friend that day, and went home to make you a friend.” Jaskier waves the horse’s front leg cheekily.

A soft smile tugs at the corners of Geralt’s lips. “Roach is easy to love.”

Jaskier looks down at the small horse plush, the most precious lopsided toy in the world. It’s like he’s holding Geralt’s heart between his hands. Handle with care, he reminds himself. A witcher’s heart breaks easily.

So he puts the horse gently in Geralt’s hand, giving it a little squeeze. Geralt rubs its ears on instinct, a subtle motion that seems to soothe himself.

“She really is,” Jaskier whispers reverently, not sure who he’s talking about.

There Geralt is, holding a small gift from a decade ago, a tangible proof that he was once appreciated, remembered, loved. It’s a good sight. Geralt deserves to know when he is loved.

Jaskier’s breath catches when he meets Geralt’s gaze for a moment too long, nearly struck dumb by the split-second decision he just made.

Geralt deserves to know.

Too few love him. If one does, one should declare it loudly.

His chest is warm with calmness, a quiet acceptance of his unrequited love. It will be okay. Even though Jaskier will not be loved in the same way, it will be worth it.

They finish finding Jaskier’s things and bid goodbye, the plush toy sitting in Geralt’s pack safely. When Jaskier walks away, he looks back with every other step, heart full of tenderness. He cannot say it yet. It will be the most important thing he does in this life. A poet should be granted enough time before proclaiming his love. He should be allowed the dramatics, at least.

“Wait,” Geralt calls out.

“Hmm?”

Jaskier turns around, thoughts lost in planning the day already. Flowers. He should pick flowers—Geralt loves them, even though he never shows it. Also those candied fruits he likes. Good food is always a nice opening for serious words—

“Jaskier, just… wait for a moment.” The flustering is back when Geralt catches up with a few long strides. “You don’t need to go.”

Jaskier frowns. “But I do? It’s well into winter already. I can’t make it to Oxenfurt once the snow sets in—”

“Don’t go to Oxenfurt,” Geralt interrupts. “Come to Kaer Morhen. With me.”

Snow melts on Jaskier’s lashes, blurring his vision.

“Really?” His heart hammers, the thrumming beats revealing too much. “You’d want me there?”

Geralt only takes his hand, thumb rubbing gentle circles on Jaskier’s wrist, an anchor to calm all the butterflies in his stomach.

“Must you ask?” he says softly. “You know the answer.”

When Jaskier takes Geralt’s hand in return, the familiar warmth enveloping him, he realizes that he does. He learned the answers to all things Geralt a long time ago.

☆

The mountains are slow to accept spring’s arrival, sitting far above the rest of the world, but it waltzes in gracefully anyway. Snow seeps into the ground, bringing back the first sprouts of life. Kaer Morhen stands too close to the sky. Colors return to the crumbling keep, stirring their quiet life with restlessness.

It’s the last day before they set out for another year’s journey. Jaskier relishes his last moments in the keep, sitting cross-legged on Geralt’s bed with the lute in his lap, strumming an absent tune. It’s also become his bed since the dark days near solstice. My room is warmer, Geralt insisted at the time, with more sunlight. It’s only practical.

Jaskier isn’t sure how he’ll cope once they leave the keep, without Geralt’s presence grounding him at night. It’s trouble for the future him, he reckons. For now, Geralt is padding across the room quietly to join him, lying down on the pillow next to Jaskier’s thigh.

His fingers stop for a moment to brush the loose strands away from Geralt’s face. His witcher grumbles sleepily, eyes closed, snuggling against Jaskier while slowly drifting off into a nap.

The lute is soon left on the ground. Jaskier curls up under the cover and falls asleep too.

When they wake up, it is to the setting sun hanging above the horizon, casting long shadows through the window. Geralt stirs, only to bury his face in Jaskier’s neck, the tangles of his hair tickling Jaskier’s skin. They fall into a mess of giggles, and Jaskier pretends to push him away.

The orange-gold sunlight lines Geralt’s silver locks beautifully, golden eyes meeting blue in quiet contentment. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Jaskier answers.

This is the moment.

All dramatics are forgotten, all poetry set aside. It’s just him, giving away his heart at the right time, asking nothing for himself.

“Geralt, dear, I—” Jaskier breathes steadily. “I love you.”

It’ll be alright. It’s only Geralt, who deserves the world and more. Jaskier is only a simple bard with his lute and silly songs, hoping all of himself is enough. Geralt knowing he is loved is worth ten times the heartache of Jaskier not being loved in return.

“Oh.”

“Don’t say anything.” Jaskier’s voice is still relaxed with sleep, so he leans in close, the exchange barely above an intimate whisper. “I know you don’t feel the same, but I do. Love you, that is. I love you, and you deserve to know. You are loved, without condition or a price, for as long as I live.”

“Jaskier…” Geralt nearly sounds pained. He shouldn’t be, not when he’s loved.

“It’s alright,” Jaskier says. “You don’t owe me anything. I understand. All I ask is a place by your side so I may walk with you, as we have done before. I never want you to feel guilty for not returning my feelings.”

“But I do.”

Jaskier blinks, only now realizing his vision is getting blurry. Geralt watches him, eyes full of joy and sincerity.

“You—what?”

Suddenly, Jaskier’s throat is very tight, his breath shuddering. The panic that has been kept at bay makes a strange appearance from deep inside his lungs.

“I love you too,” Geralt says, holding Jaskier’s shoulder, keeping him close. “I thought you knew. I thought you could tell. Jaskier, I—”

The thundering of his heart is all Jaskier can hear. The room is too small and the air too thin. With all the time he’s spent preparing himself for the eventual rejection, he’s never dared to imagine the other possibility.

Geralt loves him.

Oh.

Jaskier’s chest seizes as anxiety takes hold, his words stumbling over each other and his vision tunneling.

“Forgive me—” Head spinning, Jaskier just wants to get out of this room, away from Geralt’s worried expression and the warmth of his hands. “I wasn’t expecting… I just need a moment. It’s all very sudden, I…”

“Hey, Jask, slow down. You are hyperventilating.” Geralt, as if he needs to get more lovely just to torment Jaskier’s delicate heart, notices his panic and reacts immediately. “Just try to breathe. It’s alright. Just breathe. I’m right here…”

Geralt tries to pull Jaskier into an embrace, an old trick to calm him, but it’s all too much. Jaskier needs to get out of the room.

He mumbles another apology, limbs tangling with the sheets as he scrambles out of bed. Geralt calls for him through a fog of confusion and worry, but Jaskier is gone from the room, half stumbling and half running.

☆

Jaskier is most assuredly panicking right now.

He wanders aimlessly in the keep, trying and failing to catch his breath, only instincts guiding him to a place of comfort. He pushes open the door into the small but well-kept winter garden in the corner of the backyard, the pressure on his breastbone finally letting up in the crisp mountain air. He breathes in the mixture of plants and dirt and leans against the cold wall, sliding down with all his energy sapped.

Geralt loves him back.

Jaskier turns over those words in his head slowly, easing into the idea.

It’s a good thing. As the panic eases from his mind, his senses return slowly. It hits him just how ridiculous he looks, running away from the man he loves, simply because he was loved in return.

There’s dirt on his bare feet, and Jaskier hugs his knees close. He takes in a deep breath, and then another. Slowly, painstakingly, the panic subsides. He’s not sure how much time has passed, but clarity returns eventually, and he rests his head against the wall with relief.

“Jaskier.”

The door creaks open, and there Geralt is, holding a large blanket and looking awkwardly unsure.

“I’m fine,” Jaskier answers, voice still tight.

Geralt all but softens. He sits down next to Jaskier but doesn’t touch, only holding out the blanket. “May I?”

Receiving a nod, Geralt wraps the blanket around Jaskier’s thin shirt, careful not to invade his space. Jaskier almost feels like a dam breaking when he throws himself into Geralt’s arms, burrowing under his chin. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

“Shh. Don’t be.” Geralt rocks him back and forth, a hand running down Jaskier’s arm. “Want to tell me what happened?”

“I panicked,” Jaskier sniffs.

Geralt chuckles quietly. “I could tell. But why? I thought the conversation was going somewhere… well, somewhere good?”

Jaskier lifts his head but lets Geralt hold him close, soothing his nerves patiently.

“It was going somewhere incredibly good,” he admits. “Too good, perhaps. I wasn’t ready for it.”

“Hmm.” Geralt tilts his head, observing him.

Jaskier hides away from Geralt’s knowing gaze. “You must think it was stupid. To be fair, I was. Who would have a full-on panic attack because the love of their life actually loves them back?” He lets out a self-deprecating huff. “I had accepted it, that I was alone in my longing, and that nothing would change after my confession. But now… things will change, and it was suddenly too real.”

“It wasn’t the confession that gave you panic. It was knowing that I loved you.” Something in Geralt’s expression crumbles, guilt and shame creeping up on his brow. “All these years, I thought you knew. I’m not good with words, so I tried to show you, instead.”

“Oh.”

Jaskier blinks, thinking back on every detail of their companionship in a new light—the quiet protectiveness, the trust, the care. The answer pieces together like puzzles falling into place, a clear picture forming in his mind.

Geralt, always putting Jaskier before himself.

Geralt, smiling and laughing because of Jaskier, and making Jaskier smile and laugh in return.

Geralt, inviting Jaskier to his home.

The only conclusion—

“You love me. You have loved me all this time.”

Geralt smiles. “And you love me.”

Jaskier’s heart picks up its pace for an entirely different reason this time. “That’s… wonderful.” He’s smiling so hard it makes him giddy. “Whatever shall we do now?”

“Now? Anything, I suppose. Everything, or nothing at all.” Geralt turns to kiss Jaskier on the temple, making his cheeks heat up rather embarrassingly. “We’ll figure it out tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Jaskier echoes. “For now, we don’t need words yet.”

Another year begins tomorrow, the seasons passing by as they walk the path.

But for now, they stay in the little corner of a keep that stands too close to the sky. For now, they don’t need words yet.

[llondonfog]

TWST SIX SENTENCE SUNDAY

@melveres is to blame for the devious tag of "#au where lilia does successfully leave after the farewell-party and finds out his son DIED from hanahaki months after the fact" how could you put that there and NOT expect me to rabidly obsess over it

unloved.

his son had died thinking that he had been unloved.

it is enough to drive him mad if he lets the thought fester long enough inside his mind, a nameless grief already blurring the edges of a reality that had relied solely on the knowledge that his boy's happiness was secure, untainted by the sorrow a decaying fae''s unnecessary presence would bring. he feels he might be headed that way anyways, for surely a world in which his son was not beloved by all who met him was a world which had gone mad from the start.

the parchment frays precariously in his trembling hands as the ink begins to bleed and the queen's raven croaks anxiously from its place on the lone chair within the humble shack, wings fluttering as if in comfort, but neither of these things matter— his son had died, had suffered in private misery and died a lonely, suffocating death as flowers clawed their way up his throat and through his lips until he choked on their endless nauseating sweetness, because he believed that lilia had never truly loved him.

faded blue petals tumble to the ground from the folds of the letter, and a wild, tormented shriek tears through the isolated mountain; the hunters in the valley far below gaze at each other in wonder and murmur as to what kind of creature had been so grievously wounded in one of their traps.

[pinkiepiebones]

Oh?? Well now my interest is piqued! I would like to know The Shirt Saga! 👀 If youre comfortable with it, of course

Ah, yes! Come, gather by the fire, and I shall tell the tale of The Shirt. 'Tis a long tale, so, so grab a snack or a drink. Okay. Good? Then here we go.

PART ONE: A PACT IS FORGED

How it started was July 2017. I got to the venue far too early. I was the only Ghost VIP in line. There were at least twenty Iron Maiden VIPs already there. It was a good time, they were all really nice and had obviously waited for concerts before (this was my first concert outing since 2006 or so). But it was hot. It was so fucking hot, even in the shade. I was wearing a black Ghost shirt I got off Fright Rags but I wasn't going to survive four more hours of sitting outside on the pavement. My brother had just got to the line- he had been looking for a parking spot (technically this concert was his birthday gift; I bought the tickets because he loved Iron Maiden and yes because Ghost). We both agreed to go back to the hotel, grab some food, etc. I had packed another shirt, just a white shirt with a red anatomical heart diagram on it, and decided to change into it. White shirts are better for hot days, right?

Then it's a blur until I met Papa III. I was frozen at the doorway of the photo tent and he opened his arms, his chasuble glittering with intricate beadwork, and he beckoned me with gold talons "come in! Come on in!" I didn't budge. Papa brought his claws together and tilted his head a little, owlish. "I like that shirt you have there," he said. For whatever reason, that broke the ice inside me. I got a hug. I got a picture.

I barely remember the concert now. The A/C was fucked so it was hellishly hot inside. Any time I stopped recording during Maiden's set some old veteran fan would gently grab my shoulder and say "you're gonna wanna record this next bit!" :,) Rock on, old guy who was spending his retirement following Iron Maiden around.

Anyway, the show ended and my brother was trying to get a cab back (we Ubered to the venue from the hotel) and I insisted we wait by the buses. He relented, eventually. XD We waited about an hour with ten or so other Ghost fans. Billy Vanilla regaled us with tales from the road. Ben Cristo (I think that's his name), who had at that point been playing the Nameless Ghoul who played the black and white guitar (I think the fandom calls him Ifrit) came out first and signed all our stuff with the alchemical symbol for fire.

After another half hour, I saw a group on the sidewalk walking towards us. They appeared to be led by a man in a white Misfits shirt and the skinniest skinny jeans I ever saw. He looked ahead and I swear we locked eyes for an instant. I started punching my brother's arm and yelled IT'S HIM IT'S HIM IT'S PAPA PAPA IS HERE. The people went into the bus and him, Papa, Tobias, stopped to say to us all "let me put my things away, I will be back out shortly."

Tobias and Chris Catalyst (played the Nameless Ghoul with the black guitar, aka Aether, until last year) came out with Sharpies and security staff to make sure no pictures were taken. And like I said, Tobias restated how much he liked my shirt. I said, "I actually have two of these, I'll bring you my spare next time I see the band!" He looked genuinely surprised and said "really? Wow, thank you! That's very kind of you!"

PART TWO: THE YEAR OF THE CARDINAL

In May 2018 I saw Ghost again. And Evening with Ghost, it was called. I packed The Shirt and it's twin and flew to Pittsburgh to crash on @csevet 's sofa and drag em to the show. And I got to meet @jayyynine too!! Oh, and Cardinal Copia, we all got to meet him. @csevet and I got to go into the meet and greet photo tent together because we wanted a "family photo" with Copia. According to em, when Copia shook my hand, his gaze went 'face, shirt, face, shirt, face.' Ey insisted he recognised me. I left a gift bag with the security staffer. Inside was several hand-woven bags I made for all the ghouls, and The Shirt. And an SASE because I was feeling cocky, I guess.

Two weeks after the show, the SASE came back. Inside was the card I had provided, along with a Sharpie-scrawled autograph above a THANK YOU next to a little tiny smiling devil face. Literally 😈

Five months later, I got to see Ghost again, wearing The Shirt, my mom in tow. Why? Because she rocks. Anywho, we do the meet and greet. Copia shakes my mom's hand, then goes to grab mine but stops. "That's a cool shirt you have there," he says, gesturing. "You know, I happen to have one just like it." My mom says "that's because they gave you one" and Copia looks over his shoulder at her and says "Yes, I know this."

Mom says that after the pictures I was shaking and yelling "he remembered me" in a "dinosaur shriek noise." I have no memory of this. But the notion that Cardinal Copia- Tobias Forge- had one brain cell with my information stored on it? Well, I can understand why I may have squawked.

PART 3: THE CHOCOLATE FACTORY

In April of 2019 I got tickets for the October show in Hershey, Pennsylvania. I would be meeting up with @csevet again and would drive a rental across the state. No biggie! Well, slight biggie. You see, in September I had a full hysterectomy. My OBGYN and the surgeon *barely* cleared me for travel. But I bought the fucking tickets in APRIL and @csevet got the time off approved at er job so. I couldn't not go.

I had a cane. I was six weeks post op, four weeks actually up out of bed. Ghost's meet and greet crew and the staff of the venue were super accommodating, let us take an elevator to the photo area, someone brought me a folding chair for the lineup. Copia was in his red suit on this leg of the tour. There were so many people, no one had much time to chat with Copia. But I know ...I had the shirt. He took my hand and said gently, "I know we have met before..." I kissed his sideburn.

PART FOUR: PAPA EMERITUS THE FOURTH

Copia was promoted to Papa! Then the world shut down. So for years, nothin'. Then, 2022. Just after my birthday. St. Louis. Ghost.

I had to go. And of course do the meet and greet. Happy birthday to me.

I was alone for this one, for the first time. I felt less alone by talking to other fans, and helping ease the nerves of first timers. Everyone's been a newbie at some point, gatekeeping is for jerks, etc. I was wearing The Shirt and regaling those who would listen with the saga. But I was nervous. I tried to play it off. "Of course he won't remember you," I told myself. "It's been way too long."

Then I get into the tent. Due to the ongoing health concerns there were no hugs or handshakes, and the photos had you and Papa separated by a pane of plexiglass, which would be photoshopped out later. Papa had taken a step from his designated photo spot to explain these things to me, but he stopped mid-sentence, looked me up and down, and said,

"I'm getting like a deja vu here. I have a shirt just like that."

Then his eyes widened and he snapped his fingers and said,

"You gave me it! Yes! Hello, how have you been doing?"

He chatted with me like we were old friends. I told him about graduate school and my hopes for a Masters degree. He said he would love to see me with it.

And then the moment was over. I was overcome with emotions and the group of fans who had gone before me all huddled around and gently sat me down (I guess I looked like I was going to faint) and I started crying and said "after three years he still remembers me" and then "I need to call my mom."

I did also see Ghost this past September, but they weren't doing meet and greets, and as close as I was to the stage, I don't hold hope that me and The Shirt were seen.

PART FIVE: HERE'S TO THE FUTURE

I don't know what the future for Ghost will hold. But I do know that I have been squirreling away money for the next inevitable show. And The Shirt will be ready. Papa III passed it on to Papa IV. Will Papa IV pass it on to Papa V? I don't know, but I am excited to find out.

[leiawritesstories]

dial drunk

inspired by "dial drunk" by noah kahan. if you know the song, you know how much angst is about to happen. @backtobl4ck thank you for encouraging me ;)

Word count: ~1k

A/N: PAINNNNNNN. Frederick is very very proud of himself.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The shifting flashes of red and blue police lights in his rearview mirror yanked Rowan from his half-unconscious stupor back into reality. The siren caught up with him seconds later, piercing through the fog of intoxication clouding his senses. Fuck, how much had he drunk? How many empty bottles littered the floor of his kitchen? 

Hadn’t he sworn, months ago, to lock the alcohol away? Hadn’t he promised someone he loved more than life itself that he would stop drinking to forget?

Even though he had, that someone had broken him so badly he’d gone for the liquor cabinet, grabbed bottles at random, and poured the alcohol down his throat until the burn faded into numbness and the agony of the evening faded into the liquor-induced fog. Then he’d climbed into his pickup and left–he had to get the fuck away, clear his head. Part of him wouldn’t care if he drunk-drove himself off the side of the road, if he crashed and burned and died a nameless drunk. 

Guided by the police cruiser behind him, Rowan pulled off to the side of the road and stopped, keeping his hands on the wheel. A police officer got out of the cruiser and walked up to his door.

“Open the door, son.” The officer’s deep, calm voice was familiar, even through the haze of alcohol and anguish blurring his mind. 

Blearily, Rowan threw his pickup into park, set the parking brake, unlocked his door, and opened it. “Have my li-licensh’ here, sir,” he slurred. 

“Rowa, I don’t need your license.” Ah fuck, just what he needed–Rhoe Galathynius finding his daughter’s boyfriend–ex-boyfriend now–drunk driving down Main to get the hell out of town after a breakup that shattered both of them into a thousand tiny shards. 

“Sh-sir?” Rowan was confused. 

“You’re drunk, Rowan.” Rhoe’s voice remained infinitely patient. “I have to take you in for the night, son.” 

Son. The endearment stabbed a barbed spear straight through the raw ruins of Rowan’s heart. Groggily, he shut off his engine, stepped out of the truck, and would have fallen on his face if Rhoe hadn’t caught him. 

“Here.” Rhoe steadied him. “Come on, son. It’s just for the night; you’ll be able to go home once you’ve sobered up.” Holding open the back door of the cruiser, he nudged Rowan inside. “You get one emergency call.” 

“Aelin!” Rowan blurted.

“What?” 

“Aelin,” he repeated, hoarsely. “My call.” 

Unidentifiable emotions flashed across Rhoe’s fatherly face. “Okay.” He handed Rowan his phone. “Go ahead.” 

Rowan tapped Aelin’s icon, heard her ringtone start to sound, and waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. 

“Th-this is Aelin.” Her voice–raw, rough, and creaky the way it was after she’d been sobbing–crackled through the phone. 

“Fireheart?” Rowan choked out. 

Click. Beep. 

She hung up. 

Blindly, Rowan grabbed for his phone, but Rhoe held it out of his drunken reach. “I’m sorry, son.” 

“Please,” Rowan begged, tears spilling out of his eyes. “Le’mme try again, sir, fuck, I swear I’ll cooperate.” His voice broke. “She–I–I need–she’ll call back, I swear.” 

Grief and empathy shone in Rhoe’s kind eyes. “I can’t. I’m sorry, son.” 

“Fuck!” Rowan buried his head in his hands. “Please!”

Rhoe’s strong hand rested on the younger man’s shoulder. “Why do you want to do this to yourself?” he asked, gently. Rowan could hear the muted pain in the older man’s words, the deep love Rhoe had for his daughter and for the man she loved, and he knew how much it must tear the man up to arrest his daughter’s boyfriend for drunk driving and then end up going home to a broken, emotionally bleeding version of his daughter. 

“S’done,” Rowan slurred, his vision blurring so badly he just wanted to close his eyes and sleep until the pounding in his head went away. 

Rhoe let out a soft sigh. “Stay here, son.” He left the back door open, stepped aside, and spoke to his patrol partner in a low voice for a few minutes. When he returned, he helped Rowan out of the cruiser instead of closing the door and heading off to the jail like Rowan thought he’d do. “I’m going to need your keys, son.” 

Rowan blinked. “Huh?” 

“Your keys.” Rhoe held out his hand, huffing out a short breath at Rowan’s complete confusion. “I’m going to drive you home in your truck, son, but I’ll need your keys to drive.” 

“Oh.” Fumbling a little, Rowan handed over his keys. Rhoe unlocked the pickup, helped Rowan up into the passenger side, buckled his seatbelt, closed the door, and went around to the driver’s side. A moment later, they were back on the road, headed towards Rowan’s house. “Sir?” 

“Hmm?” Rhoe glanced towards him, his face illuminated in the amber wash of the traffic lights. 

“I-I’m sorry.” Rowan closed his eyes and sank back into the passenger seat. “I’m so sorry.” 

Rhoe was quiet for a long few moments. “Lock the cabinet back up, son,” he finally said. “It won’t do anything good for you.” He reached Rowan’s house, pulled into his driveway, parked, helped Rowan out of his truck, and walked him into his house. “Son.” 

“Yeah?” 

Rhoe pressed Rowan into a brief, tight hug. “Don’t beat yourself up too badly.” He closed the front door, leaving Rowan alone in his house once again. 

Rowan made it into the kitchen, shuffling slowly with his hand on the wall to guide him and keep himself upright, and swore at the sight of the bottles on the counter and the floor. So many. Maybe that was partially because of his hazy vision, but still–so many. 

He left the kitchen. He’d deal with that mess…later. Right now, he needed sleep. 

He only made it as far as the living room couch before his legs buckled and he half-collapsed onto the couch, barely remembering to kick off his shoes before he flopped down on his side, closed his eyes, and tumbled into the sweet black oblivion of drunken sleep. 

The last thing he saw before deep sleep claimed him was Aelin’s heartbreakingly beautiful face, her stunning eyes lined with tears, her soft, broken plea for him to  “just leave” spilling from her lips. 

~~~

TAGS:

@live-the-fangirl-life

@superspiritfestival

@thegreyj

@wordsafterhours

@elentiyawhitethorn

@morganofthewildfire

@backtobl4ck

@rowanaelinn

@house-of-galathynius

@tomtenadia

@julemmaes

@swankii-art-teacher

@charlizeed

@booknerdproblems

@chronicchthonic14

@earthtolinds

@goddess-aelin

@sweet-but-stormy

@clea-nightingale

@autumnbabylon

@darling-im-the-queen-of-hell

@llyncooljones

@silentquartz

[radiowallet]

Meant to Be - Part 5

The Commitment

Pairing: Oberyn Martell x Fem!OC (nameless, third person), Oberyn Martell x Ellaria Sand Summary: A choice is made. WC: 5.9K Warnings: 18+ MDNI Canon-typical violence, grief, death, political intrigue, arragned marriage, soulmate shenanigans, drinking, mentions of food, unprotected vaginal sex, oral sex (female receiving), praise kink. Arguing. Yearning. Feelings. Angsty feeling yearning feelings, friends. These two are so in it. Oberyn Martell comes with his own warning.

A/N: This is technically the last chapter. There is a brief epilogue I'm going to release at the end of the week. As always, a few things to keep in mind: This is an alternate universe that takes place after the main events of the show. Bran is still king of Westeros. Sansa is still queen of the north. Oberyn lives. Doran never had any children. Our Fem!OC is from Winterfell, but she is not a Stark and is a blank canvas physically.

To be alerted of new writing, please follow @radiowallet-writes and turn on notifications.

~~Please see dedications at the end~~

Masterlist II Series Masterlist

Part 4 >>> Epilogue

Asked to oblige and engage 

But instead I commit my heart you

I breathe with ease in a choice all my own

And in kind, I hope you meet me there

The depth of the water surrounding Dorne still took her by surprise. She stares out at the sea, trying to track where it ends and the setting sun begins, but the horizon is lost, golden water bleeding up into violet sky. Her vision blurs, rich shades of yellow melting into sparkling blue, everything fading into the background as she loses herself in the wide expanse of it all, her heart sinking faster with each lap of the waves along the sandy shore. 

Oberyn’s confession swirled around and around her heart, a tempest all its own, land locking her at the center of his storm. Her own voice was lost; a peculiarity in its own right, with only calm waters left to meet her quiet gaze. 

She had half expected him to wait outside her door until an answer had been given, the insistence radiating off of him in waves. But he made no move to press her further on the matter, stepping away and allowing her all the time she needed. It seemed speaking his peace aloud was enough to temper his mood. With one last longing look he bid her good night for a second time, leaving her alone at the threshold of her door, only the hammering of her heartbeat to keep time with her staggered breaths. 

The pretense of sleep had been abandoned by sunrise, her restless steps taking her down the corridors of the palace and out to the beach, wide and sweeping, and still not enough. 

Love. He had spoken of love. Concrete and confident and grown out of the time they had taken to know each other. It was more than just a reaction born of soulmates and marriage arrangements. More than but still so entwined, like charcoal fingers tied tightly to his own, jars of paint brighter than any jewel, his eyes on hers as she spoke of a bitter cold and a friend left behind. 

Oberyn Martell loves her. 

What did she know of love? She scoffed at his poets and rolled her eyes at his endearments, teeth snapping in protest at their match. She clung to her stubborn independence, desperate for a choice that she swore was stolen, even as her own pool of water began to rise.  

She frowns, eyes fixed on the clouds, sparse in their presence, most retreating with the last of the summer storm. Her fingers dig down, wet sand cutting the delicate skin beneath her nail beds. She wonders how it would feel to dip her hands into the sharp sting of salt water; to wash away the sand as she moved deeper into the watery depths. 

Oberyn said he was waiting for her. He had described it as though he was swimming but it felt more of drowning — gasping, haggard broken breaths — a strangled prayer that he would vow until the dark sea swallowed him whole. Could she reach him in time? Could she swim that far?

She closes her eyes to the burn of the sunset, the embers of her mind catching along the edges of her heart, dreams of Oberyn refusing to come while she remains awake. She digs her fingers deeper, the sand cold and hard and wet. She is desperate, frantic to hold something between her hands; some sort of proof that is more than just the ache in her chest or twist in her gut.

The smell of the ocean. The taste of plums. Honey brown eyes watching from across the room.

It came in slow and steady, a rise of the tide she could not hold back if she tried. She could choose to look the other way, to keep her feet firmly planted on solid ground as she turned her back on the lap of water as it chased her heels.

Or she could choose to take a step forward, just enough, to meet the current halfway. 

———

The knock on his door comes just as the last traces of sunlight disappear from the sky, deep blue painting the world outside his window. Oberyn steps back from the balcony and towards the entryway of his quarters, his steps only faltering when the sound grows softer the further away he moves. He takes pause, just barely before his feet are carrying him back in the other direction before his head has a chance to catch on. 

Oberyn stops at the foot of his bed, eyes pinned to the door at the furthest corner of his quarters, the melody of knuckles knocking along the wood clear and sweet. He wants to laugh for the irony of it all, and so he does, his chuckle sharp and anxious as he surveys his path forward. 

He remembers a much younger man, angry and brash, just come of age and every bit the spoiled prince, shoving the heaviest of his bookcases in front of this very door. It had been a proclamation, one his young ego had preened upon with glee, shouting to his parents and all that would raise an ear to his tirade — Oberyn Martell would take no wife. 

He stands there now, twice over from that indignant age, looking at the door that leads to his wife’s chambers. The bookcase still sits in front of it, seemingly smaller now than he ever remembers it being, and his laugh takes on a fondness as he loses himself in childish actions that bled of so much more than political arrangements and romantic intrigue. 

It takes no more than a push of his hip and the doorway is cleared, his hand reaching for the handle, miles ahead of where his mind has already taken him. When the door swings open she is mid-knock, fist poised at eye level, her lips pulled into a thin, determined line.

Oberyn waits for his stomach to drop, dreading the feeling of icy panic that is sure to settle along his spine like an old, unwelcome visitor but it never comes. Instead, he is once again overcome with the serenity of her presence, peace and love making a home in the whole of his chest. 

He can’t help but to smile, a laugh still lingering on the tip of his tongue, this one teasing and light. 

“I know northern customs may not always align with Dorne’s own but I am certain you understand the implications of using this door, my wolf.” 

Her frown falters, almost breaking, but she does not bite back, her lips sealed impossibly tight even as her eyes trace the shape of his threshold. Oberyn opens the door wider, inviting her deeper into his own quarters but she does not move, hands flexing at her sides, nervous fingers reaching out into the empty air. 

He wants to encourage her, provide some small comfort that may ease the passage of her words, but he feels just as tongue tied. His confession still hangs in the air, heady and thick and so very honest, and though he meant it, means it still, the repercussions of his loose lips are still to come. 

Finally her eyes find his and she licks her lips, the quickest sweep of her pink tongue before she finds the will to speak. 

“You’re loud.”

“I…”

“I can hear you at all hours of the night.” 

“Sounds to me like you’re—“

“And you gulp your wine.”

“I do,” he agrees.

She breezes past him then, every bit emblazoned by the sound of her own words, her bare feet carrying her further into his quarters, drops of salt water and bits of sand left in her wake. Oberyn can only watch on in amusement, the volume of her voice rising with each swipe she takes at him. 

“You leave berry stains on my floor and plum pits on tabletops. I’d think you'd sooner die than clean up after yourself.” 

“Anything else?”

“You mouth along with the words while you read.”

“Do I?” He asks, moving in behind her, close enough to see a shiver chase his simple question across her shoulders. 

“Y-yes. It distracts me.” 

Oberyn refuses to touch her, instead hovering at her backside, letting her feel the heat of his body just barely out of reach. 

“It seems I am a troublesome match.”

She whips around, the silk of her dress tangling in her feet, eyes wide and fists balled tight. 

“You're stubborn. Impossibly so. I can hardly fathom it.” 

Oberyn bites his lip, the urge to lean in and kiss the poison away from her words stronger than ever. She is a breath away from him, the hook of his nose a ghost along her own, and still he does not move, his curiosity swelling up up up to meet the crest of her frustrations. 

“And…and…you love.”

She moves as if to reach for him but stops herself, still frantically trying to arrange her thoughts in some kind of order. He does not dare to interrupt, desperate to hear the end of her monologue, if only to be out from under this misery of unknowing. 

“You love your people. All of Dorne…it’s why you agreed to this arrangement in the first place. And your daughters. The way you look at them —”

Fingers find the curve of his wrist, anchoring along the beat of his pulse, and without prompting, she keeps speaking.

“Your brother and sister; you are devout in your feelings for them. And Ellaria. You love her so deeply, refusing to bend, to break. It’s who you are and I am remiss in the fact that I did not see it until now. Your heart aims true, and I would do better to trust in it from time to time.”

Oberyn feels his own breath catch in time with her words, lips parting as the watery depths of her eyes lock onto his own. Had it only been moments ago that she could barely stand to look at him? Had avoided his eyes as she stormed past him, the bite of her words melting into something soft and sweet and still so startlingly honest. 

“And what of your heart?” 

“You will ask me to say it,” she laughs, the sound watery but bright, a shy glance of tears brimming along the width of her eyes.

The chance to tease presents itself too easily. 

“It is my husbandly right.”

She scoffs, pushing at him with all her might. “I cannot believe I love you, Oberyn Marte–” 

And suddenly he cannot hold back anymore. 

———

The kiss is searing, liquid heat dripping down her spine as Oberyn fuses his lips to hers. He cradles her face, large hands cupping her cheeks and pulling her closer, as the kiss deepens into something smoother, seamless drifts of water crowding up into the sand. He coaxes her lips apart, a gentle sweeping of his tongue, stealing away her taste and leaving his own in its place. 

She moans, the sound of it swallowed whole, drowning in sunlight and sea salt, and with a break in their kiss and gasp of air, he pulls away, only to press his forehead tightly to her own.

“You must tell me now if you wish to wait,” he all but pleads before swooping back in to snatch one more kiss, his breath hot and haggard along the seam of her lips. 

“Would you be able to bear it?” She can’t help but tease, even as she pulls him back towards his bed.

“Not with any sort of grace, no.”

“In this we can agree,” she offers, stealing another kiss for herself before she falls backwards, the plush give of silk sheets and downy pillows softening her landing. 

She looks up at Oberyn, taking in his heaving chest and his flushed face. His eyes are wild, frantically tracing her form from top to bottom and back again, until finally he stops on her lips, still hopelessly swollen from his kiss. She resists the urge to squirm beneath his scrutiny, instead letting her legs fall open, the loose layers of her dress parting like the Dornish sea itself. 

Oberyn falls to his knees, hands bracing himself on the bend of her knees, pushing her legs that much wider. 

“Then it is decided,” he quips, the flick of his tongue touching the top of his lip, eyes never leaving hers. “We are to consummate our union?”

She starts to laugh, the sound bubbling up inside her, but it dies in her throat, cut short by the press of his lips to the heat of her thigh. He kisses upward, marking a slow path up her body, hot breath and wet tongue tattooed across her skin. His weight settles atop her, trapping her beneath him, her hands making equal measure along the broad expanse of his back. 

The shape of him is cruel, sharp angles and soft skin that she can feel herself craving, even with all of him so very close. It produces an ache, carving itself deep inside her, a cut to her bone as she tries to pull him closer still. 

His lips slant along her own, swallowing her gasps as a touch far more delicate than she ever considered glances along her curves. With a confident ease, nimble fingers loosen the sash around her waist, but it’s here that Oberyn finally stills, waiting for permission to take just a little more. 

She sits up, letting the rich shades of gold fabric slowly slip down her shoulders, goosebumps erupting across her skin. Oberyn tracks each one, honey brown eyes sticky sweet as he looks down at her bare body. 

“If I were to say I preferred this stage of dress to all others?”

She bites her lip, willing her fingers to steady as she reaches for the belt of his robe. “I am inclined to ask you to prove it, my love.” 

He groans, head falling back as she makes quick work of stripping him bare, his own robes falling away to reveal the red viper in all his glory. He is stunning; golden skin and dark hair, muscles hard-earned from years of battle and a soft belly born of his indulgent days. For a second she can only stare, mouth agape and eyes wide as she drinks him like a woman parched. 

Oberyn seems as distracted, her body and her words hypnotizing the prince into stunned silence. Slowly, his hands shaking,he cups the hinge of her jaw, thumb resting on the seam of her lips. She presses a kiss there, letting the tip of her tongue graze the pad of his finger, another groan slipping from his lips, throat bobbing and voice cracking as he finally finds word.

“Say it again, I beseech you.” 

She smiles despite herself, knowing that neither of them will tire of this game. 

A small part of her hopes that feeling remains forever. 

Another part of her knows it will be.

“My love,” she whispers, relishing the way the words sound to her own ear; a soft insistence that rings true in the quiet night.

Oberyn moans again, just as soft, his finger dragging gently down the length of her neck, and further down to rest atop the frantic beat of her heart. He pauses there, smiles, before cupping the swell of her breast in his whole hand. 

“You are nervous?”

“Excited,” she counters, and if possible his smile grows all the more wider. 

He pinches her nipple, the sting of pleasure screaming just shy of pain. His other hand is restless, fingers digging, squeezing, gripping to her curves, hard then soft then hard again, as if the idea of letting go was more than he could fathom. His cock is hard, pressed to the folds of her cunt, already soaked from his kiss. His touch. 

Him. Him.

Him.

“Do not tease,” she begs, refusing to be ashamed of the quiver that trails after her request, her hips canting up to meet his length, desperation coursing through her veins, nails scratching down his bare back, a silent plea for him to slip inside. 

Oberyn growls, but she can see the cracks in his resolve, his own hips thrusting into the jut of her hip. 

“I would have hoped to take my time tonight.”

“T-there will be time tomorrow,” she grinds out, her body aflame, desire settling painfully deep. “And the day after and after again.” 

Oberyn curses, one hand steadying her thrusts with a firm grip to her hip, the other finding the hinge of her jaw. He tilts her head until their eyes meet, the tip of his thumb forcing her lips wide. For the smallest of moments he does not speak, content it seems to watch her writhe beneath him, even as his own need for her goes unanswered. 

Without warning he leans forward, the tip of his nose tracing hers, his breath a heady mix of wine and salt and something more. She wants to swallow the taste of him down; to lick into the farthest corners of his mouth and keep him on her tongue forever, but his hold is true, keeping the whole of her pinned to the bed below. His whispers her name, a prayer between his lips, she is all the more desperate for him. 

“Be careful, my love. You may be giving me too much leeway in this arrangement.”

Oberyn fills her then, the length of him stretching her open inch by glorious inch, his lips capturing hers in a bruising kiss. She lets him take as much as he wants, content to bask in the feeling of their union, his hips slotted so sweetly between her legs, his hands so gentle in their iron grip.

It is unlike anything real or possibly imagined, colors she had dreamt of, but never thought to be real. The very same he had held out to her with unsure hands; a gift she used to bring her daydreams to life. Charcoal eyes bleed into golden skin, shades of grey giving way to scarlet lips and violet hands, and soon enough she is begging for more. 

“You are greedy,” Oberyn chides, lips finding her ear, teeth and tongue leaving their mark there as well. “But so am I, little wolf.”  

His thrusts grow frantic, his words a perfect match. 

“You take me so well. Made for me, for this. M-my cock deep inside you,” he spits out, filthy and tender and all for her. “You want this, yes? Want me to fuck you harder, my lady?”  

“Yes,” she sobs, the blunt bite of her teeth digging into the curve of his shoulder, coiled muscles giving way to her pitiful cries. 

Oberyn falls to the task easily, doubling his efforts, the tip of his cock finding that spot deep inside her and stealing the last of her senses away. It is not long before her pleasure is cresting upward, the crash of the wave inevitable. 

“S-so tight — fuck — exquisite pussy…I don’t t-think I can last,” he groans, his release trailing just behind her own. 

“Please promise this is no dream,” he begs, his hips faltering. It is all too quick, happening faster than either of them would prefer, but to stop now is an impossibility, so instead they cling to one another, gasping around the promise for tomorrow. 

“Please say you want this. Forever. Not just tonight….I could not bear it.” 

Words are failing her, her mouth dry, her fingers scrambling, the punch of Oberyn’s length inside her almost too much and still more than she could have ever hoped for. She is clumsy in her efforts but eventually her lips find the corner of his mouth, the kiss awkward and off center and filled with all the love she had to give. 

“I…gods…yes. Yes, my prince. I want this.”

It is the final push they both need, fingers tangling, phantom silk holding them together as relief slams into them just as the last of dusk disappears behind the horizon, the stars blinking to life one by one. 

Hours or perhaps only minutes later, Oberyn is pulling her onto his chest, his lips on the crown of her head, her own on the beat of his heart. 

“I did not intend your first time to be so…frantic.”

The admission is meant to be a comfort, his voice in her ear like warm honey, his fingers on her back like a gentle current. 

Still, she cannot help but laugh. 

His grimace is insistent atop her head and it is easy to picture the roll of his eyes as he waits so impatiently for her laughter to subside. 

“My love,” she starts, a snort breaking up her words, his fingers prodding into her soft belly. “Did you think that my first time with a lover?”

“Well, I can hardly be so insulted for assuming,” he murmurs. 

“Oh, dearest prince. How else are we to keep warm in the north?” 

Her answer gives him pause, and suddenly she is all the more anxious for his promise to visit the north. Her mind runs away with fantasies of Oberyn dressed in thick coats with fur lining the thick column of his throat, her nimble fingers slipping each button free as she teaches him all the ways to find warmth between the stony walls of Winterfell. 

It is a small miracle, but one she counts on with her entire heart, that proclamations of love and all that followed suit, did not steal away the push and pull born between them. She can feel the fire, a distinct burn that simmers even as she settles deeper into the warmth of his embrace. 

“I will need to hear more of this,” Oberyn murmurs, sleep already dripping around the corners of his voice. 

She closes her eyes, unsure she should dream now for the sake of rest. But there is comfort here in the consequence of her choice, and it is enough to sate her beating heart and quiet her restless hands, and it seems sleep is not so far behind. 

———

The spot beside Oberyn is empty, his hands brushing cold silk instead of warm skin, and instantly his mood has soured. It had not been a dream, he is certain. Her colors were too bright, her touch too strong. The memory of their kiss is still so close, dawn barely cresting up above the horizon, that he refuses to believe he conjured the entirety of it all in his mind. 

Her arrival at his quarters last night had been unexpected, his traitorous mind already committing to a life spent treading water; convinced his outburst had asked for too much too soon. But how to explain that it was more than a soul’s match or the proximity of convenience, that each minute spent in her presence had brought him to that very choice, and to her door that night. 

One could make the argument that all of this had been inevitable, the fates and gods above refusing to let either of them refuse their bond, but even so, their time together had only helped for that feeling to grow.

Some find their soulmates, Oberyn reasoned, but what of those that you make?

He drags one hand down his face, breathing deep through his nose before finally finding the courage to open his eyes, the first tendrils of sunlight just starting to snake their way across his bed. He tracks the golden glow across the empty space, following it with trepidation, rejection feeling more a heavy stone than anything else, sinking deeper in his stomach. Until –

The telltale sound of charcoal on parchment finds him, the quiet sound easily missed in the haze of his own doubt. Oberyn follows the last bits of sunlight to the far end of the bed, where she sits completely unaware of his undivided attentions. 

A waterfall of silk is wrapped around her form, barely enough to cover her most intimate of moments and he drinks in the sight. A book sits propped along the bend of her knees, her hand stained black moving across the page, her focus evident as she draws out whatever rests at the edge of her mind. 

He allows himself the opportunity to watch her, sunlight sneaking closer with each swipe of her hand, silk sheets slipping down her body to expose more and more of her skin to his hungry eyes. It’s an easy moment to rest in, his body waking up to the flash of her curves and the scent of her skin, and unlike the night prior, Oberyn intends to take his time. He palms himself, his cock already beginning to harden between his legs, just as her eyes rise to meet his own. 

“Do you normally rise with the sun?”

He hums, then laughs, pushing the sheets around his waist down low, shameless in his hope to beckon her closer. 

“That depends on what odd habits my bedfellows keep. I will say you are the first to rummage through my fireplace for bits of charcoal, and,” he squints into the rays of sunshine, confirming his suspicions. “Using one of my books in place of parchment.”

She has the decency to look shamefaced, if however brief. “I did not want to go back to my own quarters. Not yet, anyway.” 

He bites at his cheek, reluctant to discuss the peculiarities of their next steps so soon. He wants to remain in the waves of their union for a little while longer, where the rich shades of color have burnt away to reveal a soft halo of muted pastels. 

Still, he is compelled, reaching out to brush the tips of his fingers across her leg, her smooth skin warm beneath his gentle touch. 

“You are welcome to come and go as you please.”

Oberyn hopes the double meaning of his words is enough to press the issue forward in her mind, desperate for her to understand that he would never keep her from seeking a pleasure all her own. Selfishly, he hopes the same for himself, for all talk of marriage and soulmates have not changed any of his wants or needs. 

When her lips split into a smile, the curve of it dancing in mirth and he matches it with his own, something so clear spoken quietly between them. 

“And I offer the same to you, my love.” 

And then, with a lick of her lips and a nudge of her toes, “I am interested to learn more of these Dornish traditions.” 

“Oh? His grin grows wider, a thrum of pleasure curling up and around his spine. He inches closer, just enough for his lips to find purpose on the thin skin around her ankle. 

She shivers, but the teasing resolve in her voice remains. 

“I am a Martell after all.” 

Another thrill shoots through him, a possessive sting he had not thought himself capable of. He leans into it, kissing higher and higher, teeth nipping with each gasp she sets free until he is only a breath away from her core. 

“One taste,” he groans. “Would my princess grant me this pleasure?”

The endearment catches her unaware, and she stills beneath his touch, the plush press of his lips pausing in their lavished attention. Oberyn smiles into her skin, a veritable cat with the cream, peeking up at her, and delighting in her wide eyes and parted lips. 

“You’ve never called me…”

He laughs then, the sound still rough with sleep, letting the tip of his nose drift higher, coaxing the smallest of whimpers from her mouth. 

“And what a princess you are,” he admonishes. “Sand in my bed, charcoal in my books. If I didn’t know better, I would say you were raised by wolves.”

She giggles in response, the sound as sweet as milk and honey, but he delights more in how the sound breaks into a mewl of pleasure, his tongue slipping out to trace her folds. She is as decadent as he imagined, slick arousal like candy on his lips. He moves in closer, spreading her legs as wide as he can, anxious to have his fill of her. 

Her hands find the crown of his head as his tongue pushes deeper, her groans almost enough to drown out the sudden knock to his door. 

“O-Oberyn…”

“The way you say my name,” he preens, ignoring the insistent sound from across the room. 

“The — gods above — th-the door,” she tries again, but her attempts to alert him are half hearted, her hips thrusting down to meet each dip of his tongue inside her. 

Just as he’s considering how good it will feel to slip the tip of his finger inside her, desperate to feel the tight clench of her pussy, a throat clears loudly behind him. With a well-placed growl to her clit, he pulls away, realizing suddenly that they are no longer alone. 

“My lord?” 

It is one of Doran’s aids, his voice shaking, and Oberyn cannot help but hope with a vengeful bite that it is out of fear. 

“What could possibly need my attention when I am so obviously indebted to a much more useful activity?”

“It is your brother, my lord, he…he…”

Oberyn growls again, eyes pinned to her fluttering cunt, heedless of his and hers state of undress. “Out with it.”

“He is asking for you. The maesters say…”

They say he is out of time. 

———

Prince Doran Martell passed quietly; his younger brother at his side, his family in the wings, his people in quiet mourning. 

In the hours that followed, the courts convened, less concerned with grief and more so with the overbearing shadow of politics. A raven was on its way to King’s Landing before they had even begun to prepare Doran’s body, sudden worry that a pronouncement and a will would hold no bearings in the Red Keep and Oberyn’s birthright would somehow be denied. 

The prince seemed far less concerned with such troubles, merely casting a grimace at the news, a solemn nod and wave of his hands his only reply. 

Ellaria had been at his side almost immediately, offering support in a way that only the oldest and dearest of companions can. She knew him with an intimacy that most covet, and it was clear he took some solace in her company. But it was not long before she was called away, tasked with keeping her four girls as close as possible, ravens sent urging the eldest of Oberyn’s girls to return to Sunspear as well. 

Peace may have been the new rule of the land, but old habits were more difficult to stave off, and all of Dorne would sleep better with four of their most precious daughters back amongst the sand and shore. 

In the midst of it all, she felt compelled to stay at her husband’s side, desperate to help him but unsure of where to begin. Their waters had only just started to steady, flat footing found only the night before. It would have been easy to step away, to claim that the new glow of their joining was not enough to sustain such grief, but she refused. 

As the sun set and the place found a semblance of silence beneath the moonlight, she searched for him, her heart guiding her feet to the very place she knew to go. 

She stands at the threshold of the great hall, Oberyn’s back turned to her, his gaze set upon his brother’s throne, a glass mirror to the first few nights of their clumsy courtship. She approaches him, trying to match her steps to the soft streams of moonlight glancing across the floor.  

“I should have known I would not be capable of hiding from you.”

She bites her lip, a retort lingering on the tip of her tongue, but she swallows it whole, leaving only silence between them. It feels out of place, ill-fitting and unneeded around his slumped shoulders and pallid complexion. When he turns his head, just enough to find her eyes across the room, she can see the deeply rooted lines, the red rims, and the pinched brow. 

Her fingers ache to soothe the lasting imprints of grief away, as if they were smudges along the edge of a painting. She has no doubt he would welcome the touch, his body seemingly caving in on itself the longer he keeps his distance, but she stays rooted to the spot for now, for reasons she is not even sure of. 

“Did you know that when my sister was murdered, my brother refused to march on King’s Landing?”

His back is to her once again, arms crossed and eyes on the throne, fatigue bleeding way to rage. 

“He made claim it was not in Dorne’s best interest.” Oberyn scoffs, shaking his head as if to dispel the ugly memory. 

“A queen was dead, the heir to the iron throne along with her, and the people did nothing. No outrage, no uprising. It was just another day. And my brother agreed with them! He—“

His voice raised with each word, his stance tight, his fists shaking. He looked every inch the venomous snake, poised to strike at the first opportunity. But she was unafraid.

“He did not seem to care that she was gone,” Oberyn admitted, the words uttered with broken disdain. “And now so is he.”

She moves fully into the room, letting her steps fall heavy on the porcelain floor. Oberyn turns to face her as she stands beside him, and it is only then that she sees the guilt etched into his features. 

“Why is it that I cannot seem to die?”

There is no answer that would soothe him. The truth is far too simple and life far too cruel. It could just as easily have been Oberyn to an early grave, unseen dangers or ugly circumstances finding him in a moment’s weakness he could not predict. She does not speak but instead finds a seat along the steps leading up to the throne, looking up at him through the length of her lashes. 

Oberyn watches her carefully, body swaying as if he wants to sit beside her, but he remains standing, lips slipping away from grimace in the name of something sentimental. 

“Doran was patient. Quiet. He refused to move without considering every outcome. Each avenue. It was why he was so well-suited for duty. I…I am so very different. I am not…”

“He chose you. You have his trust,” she reminds him, remembering the words of a dear brother-in-law she had only just begun to know, to love. 

“And what if he misplaced it?”

“I do not think that is possible, my lord.”

His smile tilts again, the angle rueful. “Still,” he counters, “I do not think I am meant for it.”

“Maybe,” she reasons, letting the tone of her own voice lighten, “and still you choose it.”

He finds her eyes again, his entire being softening, and without falter, he matches her tone. “And what of you, my little wolf?”

She moves to stand beside him now, facing the very thing she had dreamt of so long ago. She considers all the things that brought her here at Oberyn Martell’s side, and how those same tendrils of a cruel world and different choices could have prevented this moment. 

She takes his hand and breathes in deep, her heart finding the beat of his own. 

“I am where I am meant to be.”

———

Dedications:

To my dearest @jazzelsaur who has listened, read, reread, and encouraged this ridiculous fever dream of a story. I am 100% beta reading a soulmate/arranged marriage/GoT fanfic was not on your bingo card but the fact that you never once discouraged me means a lot. Thank you. ilu

To @magpie-to-the-morning BABE! Your love of this story makes me stupid happy! I have confessed to you that I am having so much fun writing it, and a big part of that has been sharing the experience with you. Thank you for this and for your friendship. ilu

[whump-ghoul]

Whump Month #25: “I’m gonna need you to be brave for me.”

For @cirrus-ghoulette’s whump month!

Summary: Being summoned from the Pit can be quite distressing for a nameless ghoul. (This can be read as any Papa and Ghoul)

WC: 1048

For humans the act of summoning a ghoul from the Pit was merely ritualistic: a necessary and practiced spectacle used to summon forth a new agent to help spread The Word. On the other hand, to ghouls, summonings were jarring, and while they may be better off for being brought topside, it did little to negate  the trauma of  the experience. 

As one moment, a ghoul is on the run, being hunted through the Pits by other creatures of hell much larger than them. Then they are falling. 

Falling for what feels like an eternity until their clawed feet land on gravelly soil. There’s a moment of respite; to collect their bearings in pitch black surroundings as their feet sink deeper, and deeper still into the soil. Soon they are down to their knees, then their hips. They begin to claw and scratch. They tear their fingers on larger rocks, they break claws and kick up grains into their eyes as an invisible force pulls them down, 

down…

down

Deeper into the earth until their cries are met with mouthfuls of dirt and stone, their ears are filled with their own heartbeat and their eyes water against the particles. Moving is laborious, and their heart hammers at the strain and panic as they simply cannot move beneath the force of the ground burying them alive. Bile rises in their throat as their skin is cut and grazed by the friction of stone. Their surroundings begin to cool, becoming frigid as the fires of hell become evidently far out of reach. They’re disorientated, upside down and every which way as they continue to be pulled through the earth. 

Until they stop altogether. Suspended in cold, now damp soil yet unable to catch their breath. They panic. Thrashing what they can until something grabs a limb. 

This time, the ghoul is caught by their ankle and pulled, breaching the top of the dirt tail-up as more hands have a chokehold on them. 

Suddenly, their face is free and they gasp; hacking on air as they dispel the debris from their throat. 

Confused trills back away after a muffled order to back off. Their warm presences leaving them exposed and alone as their eyes don’t quite adjust to the darkened surroundings broken only by candlelight. Smells of incense and several bodies attack their senses, driving a spike into their skull as they’re overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of feelings. A hand brushes their face, and they scamper back until their back hits a cold, brick wall. They’re shaking now, terrified as their eyes and ears adjust to the world. Someone tuts, though not disappointed, and an order has several more sets of footsteps leaving the room. 

Their chest heaves still, wildly trying to blink the blurriness from their eyes; panicked cries unrelentingly pull from their throat, eliciting another tut from an approaching figure. In their hands was a swathe of fabric, though their face was that of a skeleton; blurred whites and blacks that blended into the dark robes adorned by them. They stop and kneel some feet away, and the ghoul curls in further on themselves. Every instinct is screaming at them to run, to hiss and claw and scramble away but instead their joints are frozen. They were frozen literally  and metaphorically it seemed as their filthy, naked  body was wracked with shivers at the temperature of the stone they rested against. Their tail curled protectively around them, and their arms and legs were drawn close to their chest. 

If they don’t look, maybe it will all go away.

“Sh, it’s alright, ghoul.” A male voice broke through the roaring in their ears, perhaps soothing to the migraine attacking the ghouls head without mercy. The ghoul didn’t budge, instead they waited. 

A gloved hand touches the ghouls knee. 

They startle -  hiss a little, even - but nothing comes of it. So they wait. They wait as the hand thumbs gently over the grazed skin. Warm. Inviting. Safe maybe. 

“I know, I know…” the man with the skeleton face says again, in an even more hushed tone. 

“I’m going to need you to be brave for me, ghoul.” He hummed. “Can you do that?” 

Silence. 

The hand remained. 

“You are safe here, with us. I promise.” 

Perhaps…

“You will not need to run. Here there are no predators, not like the Pit. I can promise you that.” 

The ghoul slowly lifted their head, matted hair falling across their face as black eyes peered blurrily through the strands. The ghoul swore they saw the man’s expression soften. 

"That's it." He smiled, lifting the large blanket he had been holding before. Cautiously, and loosely over the ghouls legs, the man draped the soft fabric. It leant a sense of comfort and security to the ghoul, and they let their ears relax -   their tail even uncurled a little from their own ankle, though the self-soothing act continued. 

At the other end of the room, where the ghouls' eyes couldn't quite see, came a scratching from the other side of a door. The ghoul cowered yet again, though stopped when they saw the man smile. They watched carefully as the man barely acknowledged the pestering behind the panelled wood. Instead, he held out a gloved hand.

“Come, ghoul. I think we should get you seen by those in the infirmary, hm?”

The man smelt of incense ink and coffee; the remnants of ashes too. The leather took a forefront however, as the gloved hand remained unwavering before the ghoul. With a mischievous smirk on his skeletal-painted face, he leant in to say: 

“I’ll even let you keep the blanket if you promise to continue to be brave for me.”

Just maybe...

Sniffing, the ghoul stood on shaky legs, the adrenaline seeping from their body as they straightened to their full height. They failed to catch any acrid scents of hellish predators on the air, but they still remained cautious of the animalistic noises behind the doors. The Pit could be a very lonely place for a ghoul.

When the ghoul rose, the man was far from intimidated, instead he looked impressed. 

“Look at you. Perfetto.” He smiled, and turned with a swish of his elaborate robes. 

“Come.” He said over his shoulder. “There is much to do.”

[kattythingz]

Dear Theodosia, what to say to you...?

The only thing better than an edling Hamilton AU is an edling Hamilton au with Nina. Because I said so.

Bonus written companion piece and original screenshot under the cut:

“Why do you want someone like me as your daddy, Nina?” he asks her after a long pause. His voice is raspy with a nameless emotion.

“What?” Nina says, not quite hearing him, muffled as his voice is in her hair.

“I... I’m no good for you,” he confesses, sinner to an altar so tiny and precious in his arms. “I can be the best big brother that you need, but I—I don’t know how to be a good daddy for you. I barely know what a good daddy is. You don’t want me, Nina.”

Nina’s silent for a moment.

Ed fears he’s said too much—of course, he did! How could he run his mouth like that and dump all his issues on a child? She doesn’t deserve that burden! He just keeps fucking up—! 

“Silly Daddy.”

Nina’s words shake Ed to his core.

He’s still frozen when she raises her tiny arms to hug him tighter.

“I know you’re not a good daddy yet,” she says kindly, like the premonition of those exact words hasn’t terrified Ed since the day she walked up to him shyly and asked him the first time, Can I call you Daddy? “But I still like you.”

“Why?” The question tears horribly out of him.

Nina giggles. “Because you love me and Alexander.”

Such a simple answer; is that really all it takes?

Ed doesn’t realize he’s tearing up until Nina pats the back of his head. The gesture would’ve been mocking from anyone else, but never from her. Never from this sweet, precious child, that’s come to mean so much to him, sins of the past be damned.

“It’s okay, Daddy,” she says, and Ed’s vision really blurs that time. “I love you too.”

“You silly girl,” Ed chokes out, and can only squeeze her closer.

[separatist-apologist]

Buried Alive Inside My Dreams

Summary: An evil enchantress has locked Princess Feyre Archeron in a tower, secluding her from her family and removing her entirely from the outside world. Trapped and alone, Feyre turns her gaze to the stars, dreaming of returning home to her sisters- of finding peace. She's determined to escape before her birthday and the annual starfall that marks the occasion just as soon as she can figure out a way down.

When a thief breaks into her tower, Feyre takes her chances and leaves with him, unaware of who this man is and the price freedom will try and extract from her

Happy @officialfeysandweek2023

Read on AO3 | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5

When Feyre woke, it was her birthday. There was no forgetting, though a little part of her wanted to. For the first time in Feyre’s life, there was something worth celebrating. Namely, the man wrapped around her, arms holding her tight to his chest. Feyre tried not to move, drinking him in because she knew the next time they woke up like this, she’d be bracing herself to tell him goodbye. He’d be asking for her ring and she’d give it to him, chest caving in around her heart wishing it was for her.

He’d go back to his life and she’d go back to hers. Would he think about her? Look back on this week with fondness? Or would she blur together in a sea of color, nameless and faceless among a dozen other women? 

It was a soft sigh against his neck that caused his thick lashes to flutter. Starry eyes blinked at her, wide at first as though he’d forgotten what they’d done the night before. Feyre didn’t dare move, terrified he was about to confess the whole thing was a mistake.

“You’re still here,” he whispered, a smile curling over his beautiful face. “I thought I’d dreamt last night.”

Feyre cleared her throat. “Still here,” she agreed. She didn’t trust the moment wouldn’t be ruined or that Rhys wouldn’t casually inform her it had been fun, but nothing special at all. 

“It’s your birthday,” he said instead, his nose brushing her own. “I have a gift for you.”

Feyre’s heart leapt into her throat. “A gift?” 

She couldn’t remember the last time someone had given her something. Rhys smiled again, softer this time while tucking a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. “Yes, darling. A gift. It’s for tonight—my way of convincing you to spend another day with me.”

As if she needed any convincing of that. Still, Feyre nodded her head like it was all meaningless to her. She didn’t want him to see how badly she wanted to figure out a way to convince him to come with her. She’d turned it over in her mind a million times after they’d finally come apart, sated and boneless. There wasn’t a way that made sense. Not unless Rhys had millions of gold marks at his disposal or knew enough magic to battle Amarantha on her own. 

That didn’t keep Feyre from wanting it. 

She took her time bathing, meticulously washing her hair until Rhys, impatient, banged on the door for her to hurry up because he had to pee. It was nice to have his hands back in her hair, though, combing out the knots and weaving it into another braid that curved just below her ass rather than dragging all over the floor. While he changed, Feyre put on the beaded gown, twirling in front of a mirror while examining herself. Had she ever looked so beautiful? Feyre slid the pearl combs into her hair, having already braided it and felt like a true princess for the first time in her life. 

Why not cut your hair now? A little voice whispered. Remove the magical leverage. Her fingers itched from the want, and still Feyre didn’t dare. What if Eris Vanserra said no? She needed her magical blood, her healing hair, in order to secure her home. 

Rhys was gentle, telling her how he used to do this for his sister before she died. Feyre’s heart squeezed from the story, mourning her own sisters right alongside him. Sometimes Feyre thought he’d understand her plight.

But other times she wondered if self-preservation might win out. If the thief so used to scraping by might not see a solution to all his problems. How much did he really hate Amarantha? Enough to keep her secret when her step-mother almost certainly would have paid handsomely to get Feyre back? Feyre imagined it was likely more gold than Rhys had ever seen in his life. He could buy some country estate and work on finding his true love while Feyre languished in some new, more terrible prison. 

There were too many unknowns and Feyre didn’t know if Rhys was someone worth gambling on. Her head battled her heart all day, roaring at the other in a terrible game of tug-of-war. Tell him the truth. Tell him nothing. He’d understand—he loves you, too. He would betray you for money—true love is a myth. Your sisters need you. They never tried to find you. Save your home. 

Save yourself. 

Unaware of the terrible battle raging through her, Rhys walked Feyre through the markets, swearing his coins were stolen but hard-won, whatever that meant. He kept trying to buy her things and Feyre kept declining much to his frustration.

“My money is good here, darling,” he grumbled. But Feyre couldn’t owe Rhys any more than what she already did. Just in case everything fell apart, Feyre wanted to keep things as clean as she could between them. As clean as things between two people who’d shared a body could be, anyway. She still ached from it, could still feel him between her legs, could feel the scrape of his teeth against her neck and his bruising fingers holding her hips. 

“Follow me,” Rhys said, grabbing Feyre’s hand. Their fingers interlocked, silencing her panicked, racing thoughts. “I have something for you.”

“It seems you have a lot of things for me,” Feyre said, though she wasn’t complaining. Not really. Not when he was trying and she was starting to believe her feelings were reciprocated. 

“There’s only one way to watch starfall,” he told her, winking as he led her toward one of the taller buildings. Circular balconies jutted from the limewashed sides already half filled with people. Rhys was still holding her hand when they stepped inside, warmer than it had been in the cold. She marveled at the marble interior though Rhys didn’t give her time to truly appreciate the clean lines and crystal light fixtures before he dragged her up the spiraling stairs. 

All the way to the top.

Pushing open twin doors, Rhys revealed a space utterly devoid of anyone else. Just her—just him. “Rhys..” It must have cost a fortune, she thought. Feyre walked to the edge, gripping the railing to overlook the little city and the surrounding world. 

“You deserve to see it up close,” he said, his mouth surprisingly close to her ear. “And selfishly, I don’t want to share you with anyone else.”

“You shouldn’t have—”

“Why not?” he asked, looking down at her like some aristocratic king. “I’m a man on a mission tonight, Feyre.”

“Oh? And what’s your mission, Rhys?”

“I want to see you smile. A real smile,” he added quickly, unaware of how quickly her heart was pounding. 

“I’ve smiled for you.”

“Not really,” he replied, his expression softening as he cupped her cheek in his calloused hand. 

“Is that what all this is about, Rhys? A smile?”

“Among other things,” he said, his own smile fading ever so slightly. “I uh…want to talk about Avalon. But not tonight. Tomorrow, before we go.”

Feyre swallowed hard. “Your ring is on the desk. I can make the rest of the journey—”

“Not tonight, Feyre,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over her mouth to silence her. “I’m not letting you go alone, though. We’ll stay together.”

There was a finality to his words that loosened the knot in Feyre’s chest. She wanted to demand he tell her what he was thinking now, but music floated up from the streets and Rhys, perhaps sensing he’d lose that fight, said, “Dance with me.”

There was no way to refuse. Feyre wanted to give him something, too—so she grinned, broad and unrestrained, delighted when Rhys staggered back a step.

“You’re magnificent,” he whispered, his voice hoarse as though he’d been screaming. Feyre, who had never been called beautiful in her life, didn’t know what to make of that. She didn’t bother telling him the last dancing class she’d had was when she’d been a child, doubting Rhys knew much dancing, either.

And he didn’t—or he didn’t care to show her any steps. Rhys pulled her close, one hand engulfing her own as he pulled it to his chest, the other on her hip. Feyre rested her head on his broad shoulder, swaying to the music in slow, tight circles until she was dizzy and her feet had begun to ache a little.

She was grateful she’d put on the blue beaded dress he’d purchased, even if the hem was muddy from walking in the street all day. Rhys looked like a prince in the fitted black and silver of his tunic. Maybe they could lie—she could make up some minor territory no one had ever heard of, right? 

Tomorrow. Feyre vowed that was tomorrow's problem.

“Look,” Rhys murmured, his feet halting as he pulled her back against his chest. Feyre looked up, blinking away the urge to cry as that first, glittering star came screaming from the heavens.

She’d only ever seen it from her tower, a pretty white burst of light. Here, though, Feyre realized the colors were more nuanced. Streaks of neon green and deep purple, hues of blue and yellow and white all melded together until the sky seemed to dance.

Feyre twisted, in Rhys’s arms, the words tumbling from her lips before she could catch them. Before she could catch herself. “I think I love you,” she said, kissing him before she thought better of it.

Rhys’s arms were tight, his mouth a warm contrast to the cold air. He said something back, something that sounded suspiciously like I love you too—but Feyre didn’t want to hear him say it. She didn’t want that confession hanging over them both. Not yet. Not until she knew what he wanted to do about Avalon. So she kissed him until they’d forgotten about starfall—until the music was lost to the sound of her racing heart, until the stars burned behind her eyelids. 

She didn’t know how he got her up on the railing, only that he was standing between her parted legs. Rhys held her life in his hands—if he let her go, she would have fallen to her death. Strange, how she trusted him not to let her fall. Feyre could have stayed there forever.

She might have, too. 

The music in the crowd gave way to murmurs, then yelling, until a wordless chant had begun to erupt. Rhys broke away, cheeks flushed red as he looked over her shoulder. “What…what are they saying?”

Feyre caught one word— “Velaris? A prince?”

Rhys pulled Feyre from the railing. “There is no prince of Velaris,” he said, the heat of his words curling around his face like shadow. 

Feyre turned toward the crowd that had gathered not too far from them. “Are you sure? Maybe—”

“I know,” he said breathlessly, scrubbing a hand down his jaw. “There—there is no prince.”

“Does it matter?” she asked, wanting to go back to kissing. But Rhys was rattled, stepping toward the open doors.

“Feyre,” he said, holding her face in his hands so she had to look at him. “I can’t explain, I just—I need you to trust me. Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” she said automatically.

Rhys pressed a kiss to her mouth. “I’ll be back in ten minutes. Okay? Watch the stars, or go downstairs and get a drink—it’s paid for—and wait for me. I’ll be back and I’ll explain everything. I should have told you before now.. I promise.”

Feyre only nodded, exhaling softly. Rhys started to turn, but kissed her again. It felt like goodbye. Like he knew he wasn’t coming back, that this would be the last time he saw her. She wanted to beg him to stay with her. To grab his hand and tell him it didn’t matter. To tell him the truth about her and swear she’d shield him from whatever trouble he clearly was in.

But she didn’t. Feyre decided to trust him. 

She waited, time counting down in her head. One minute. Five. Ten. Twenty. The stars faded and Rhys still hadn’t returned. She stayed on that balcony, fingers frozen to the rail, watching the people below dance until constables began clearing them out.

She stayed until she was politely asked to leave, too. Feyre could feel her heart shattering with each step, fracturing like the ice beneath her feet. 

Wait for me. 

She’d waited, but he was still gone. And Feyre knew, as she made her way back to their shared room, that he wouldn’t be waiting for her. That whatever gift he’d wanted to give her wasn’t happening. And she knew, when she pushed open that door, that the ring she’d taken from him would be missing, along with all his things.

She hadn’t expected to see Amarantha, though. Sitting in the chair Rhys had once occupied, a look of pity on her face.

“You just missed him,” she said, youthful as ever. “Your little prince was in an awful hurry. Not that I blame him—there’s a hefty price on his head if someone catches him. Millions of gold marks.”

“What did you do?” Feyre asked, unable to muster any true outrage.

Her step mother tossed a lock of red hair over her shoulder. “Come dear, don’t look so glum. We both know if I’d wanted to, I could have snapped my fingers and ended his pathetic life. I’ll leave him to his uncle—how fun to watch Keir realize he missed one of them.”

Prince. Feyre blinked. Prince—Keir—Velaris— “He’s Prince Rhysand,” she breathed.

Amarantha clapped her hands together as the horrible realization dawned on Feyre. 

“Did you really not know? I think the two of you met once as children. Surely you didn’t think men with his bone structure were born in little villages, did you? My poor, sweet Feyre.”

Feyre didn’t pull away when Amarantha grazed her nails along Feyre’s cheek. “I tried to protect you, you know. I know you think me cruel—but it’s the world that’s cruel. Men like Rhysand who are cruel. I was only ever trying to protect you.”

“I want to go home,” Feyre whispered, looking up at Amarantha. “Please. I’ll…I’ll do whatever you ask. I won’t say anything. I swear.”

“Oh, darling. I know you won’t. Heartbreak is a cruel teacher,” Amarantha replied. 

“Please don’t take me back to the tower,” Feyre said, unable to stand the solitude. And she knew, from that gleam in Amarantha’s eye, that nothing would give her more pleasure than to see Feyre end up exactly where she started.

“Sweetheart. That is your home,” Amarantha told her, steel lacing her syrupy words. “I’ll give you a moment to change. 

The fight had been leached out of her. Feyre thought about screaming, thought about shoving and hitting and running. 

And instead she merely walked to the bathing chamber, trying so hard to forget everything that had brought her here. If she’d stuck to the plan, she’d have been in Avalon already—she’d have sanctuary. 

She’d thrown it all away and for what?

For love. 

RHYSAND:

Rhys woke with a splitting headache and an ache radiating throughout his body. Drowsy, he tried to figure out where he was. Somewhere cold, that smelled of shit. Rhys bolted upward.

“Feyre,” he gasped, looking around him. His hands were trapped in iron manacles, body taut against a dripping stone wall.

“Nephew,” came an all-too-familiar voice. “You’re alive.”

Rhys blinked again, taking in the moon pale face of his uncle. Bright blue eyes watched him, seated on an overturned bucket, regal like the pretend king he was. Blonde hair had turned silver throughout the years, and Rhys liked to think the lines of worry around Keirs eyes was because of him. Maybe that was wishful thinking. 

He needed to get out of the irons and back to Feyre. Terror rose like bile in his throat when he thought of her alone on that balcony. Alone in their room, waiting for him to come back. She’d assume the worst of him. She’d go to Avalon and marry a Vanserra and Rhys would lose her. 

Keir was a brutal man, but hardly a smart one. He’d wanted to face him on the battlefield, to reclaim his throne with honor. 

But he could take it back in his fathers dungeon, too. 

“Uncle,” Rhys forced himself to say, the word easy on his tongue. “You look exhausted.”

“I’ve been particularly distressed that my beloved nephew has been conspiring with Illyria to try and usurp me,” Keir said as though this were merely polite conversation over a rather nice meal. “When he could have come home and had peace.”

Lie, lie, lie. Rhys wondered if his father had swallowed these lies, too—if he’d seen Keir and Amarantha’s little plot to put this puppet king on the throne. Rhys cocked his head.

“Well. I’m home. Unrestrain me so I might hug you.”

“And bury a blade in my back? I don’t think so. No, you’ll remain exactly where you are until the block is ready for you.”

Rhys didn’t flinch. “A public beheading?” Rhys questioned. “I do love a spectacle.”

“I know you do. Let the people see what became of their beloved prince. Resorting to thievery, cavorting with half-breeds, kidnapping princesses—”

“I never did the last one,” Rhys interrupted smoothly, irritated by all the trumped up charges. He was more annoyed still that his uncle considered the Illyrians half-breeds, and that he said it so casually. What did that make Rhys, then? His mother had been Illyrian. 

“You didn’t kidnap a princess from Ellesmere and hold her for ransom?”

“I think I’d remember that,” Rhys replied dryly. “I’ll admit to the other things—I hope you fucking rot—but kidnapping princesses is a little cliche, even for me.”

“Queen Amarantha seems to think you stole Princess Feyre Archeron from her home…” Keir kept talking, but Rhys wasn’t listening. A dull roaring filled his ears.

Princess.

Feyre.

Archeron.

A smile split his face. Princess. 

Feyre Archeron.

How had he not realized it before? That regal way she held herself, the way she rounded her constants, how disdainful she’d been of him. Her scheme to employ the Vanserrra’s to help her, a plan he’d never really understood. Surely an enchantress would make them wary. But a princess…Eris could claim Ellesemere if he married Feyre, he could send in his armies and take back her country piece by miserable piece.

And Feyre must have known it. And if Eris could claim Feyre, well, so could Rhys. He could make her his wife, too, without all the convoluted pretense from before. It was his right to have a political marriage, the gods as his witness. No one could argue it. 

Rhys turned back to his uncle, bored again of the constant grandstanding. “Do the charges truly matter?”

“We believe in the rule of law here, Rhysand.”

Rhys leaned forward as far as his wrists would allow. “Is that what you told yourself when you slaughtered a nine year old girl in her bed?”

Keir rose to his feet, anger flashing over his face. He’d always been so self-righteous for a traitorous piece of shit. His rule was soaked in the blood of Rhys’s mother and sister and he didn’t intend to let his uncle forget. 

“Enjoy your night, Rhysand. And welcome home.”

And with that, Keir trailed out, slamming an iron door behind him. Rhys listened for the echoing footsteps before twisting to look at the filtered light coming through the bars overheard. Daylight. 

Rhys took a breath before pulling his leg up over his knee, bringing his boot to his lips. As a boy, his father had felt he was too soft. Too spoiled, too weak. And when he got in those moods, he’d toss Rhys in the dungeon to teach him discipline or strength or whatever it was his father felt Rhys was lacking.

All he really taught Rhys was how to get out of manacles. Even now, years and years after his fathers death, Rhys still carried the pins in his boots. Just in case. Pulling one carefully with his teeth was the easy part. Getting it from his lips to his fingers was markedly more difficult. If he dropped it, he was fucked. 

And if he lost his pin, he’d lose Feyre, too. 

Rhys managed, holding his breath as he began the nerve wracking work of maneuvering the pin into the slot and pushing just right. It had been easier when he’d been younger and more nimble. Now all he had were a pair of perfect eyes staring up at him from his memory, and the whispered words I think I love you burned into his skull. 

He’d only wanted to be sure it wasn’t Cassian marching through the city. He’d wanted to get them both out safely—not this. He’d panicked hearing them chant his name through the streets like some sort of savior and he should have taken her with him.

And then what? She’d be here, too, learning who he was in the worst way he could imagine. Rhys swallowed, one manacle springing free. He could have laughed had he not been so anxious. There would be no sneaking away this time—he’d have to meet his uncle, man to man, and finish what he started. He couldn’t go back to Feyre empty handed and a coward. 

He’d have Azriel sit on the throne for him while he was gone. They looked just enough alike that no one would question it, and Azriel would exact Rhys’s will with brutal efficiency. Besides, Rhys wouldn’t be gone long. Avalon’s border touched his own at the far corner. Unless Eris was in a hurry for a wife—and Rhys doubted he was—there was time. 

He would explain everything. 

Rhys would get her back.

It took him longer to find the loose stone in the cell and pry it from the wall. Why his ancestors had put this fail safe in their dungeon, Rhys would never know. He’d discovered it as a boy—a labyrinth of tunnels beneath the palace, all of them interconnecting. Perhaps he wasn’t the first prince to be locked away by a power hungry uncle—and when that prince became king, he vowed he would never be stuck in another dungeon again.

Or maybe the building designers merely wanted to give the condemned a second chance. Rhys appreciated the sense of humor or the unwillingness to march to death so easily as he wedged his body into the tight space and pulled the subsequent iron ring that revealed that musty, spider-infested corridor. Rhys had to pray he remembered the way out—he’d once gotten lost for two days in the winding maze before he finally found a door that led him toppling into the kitchens where he’d guzzled water straight from the tap. After that, Rhys had gone back with string and lanterns, mapping the halls until he could do so without either. 

Some things were muscle memory, he supposed. Fingers grazing the cool stone, Rhys recalled the dips and grooves, legs moving of their own accord. He made his way in the dark, tempted to close his eyes as he went. There was no time to savor this. He’d spent years and years dreaming of his return to Velaris and now all he wanted to do was leave. 

Kill his uncle, destable an entire regime…and then, foolishly, leave. 

One thing at a time, he told himself. Rhys wondered, pushing open the door that had once belonged to him—to the wall in his childhood bedroom, now covered in a fine layer of dust—if his uncle had taken his parents' old chamber. 

The halls, once bustling with people, were eerily silent. The ghosts of the past seemed to walk alongside him, standing guard as Rhys slipped from his room to his fathers. And as predicted, this room was well lived in. 

And empty. 

Rhys took a breath. Gone were the flowers his mother had once kept in Illyrian vases by the wide, floor to ceiling windows. And gone were his fathers books, stacked haphazardly on a night table just beside the bed. There was no lingering perfume, none of his sister's toys scattered across the floor. He’d never trip over his fathers boots and sneak into the closet to breathe in the scent of his mothers clothes.

Rhys knew his uncle would keep a dagger within reach of himself in bed, and pulled one from beneath his pillow. He found one under the mattress and a third in that same bedside table. Rhys tucked them on his person, frustrated that the nice tunic he’d purchased specifically to make Feyre his wife was going to end up blood stained.

Rhys did find his ring in his pocket. Small mercies—though the gods only knew what Feyre made of it. Rhys wondered about her endlessly. Where was she? Had she made it to Avalon? Did she hate him, and could he even salvage what had been building between them? The worry kept his mind busy as time ticked away, and Rhys hid in his uncle's wardrobe. There were two options—stab him when he opened the doors, or slit his throat when he fell asleep. 

He heard the door open before he heard the voices.

“-at my fucking gate. I want every last one of them hanging from a pike.” 

An all too familiar voice filled Rhys with dread. The first was Keir—he recognized her. But the second…that was Amarantha. 

“You have nothing to worry about. Our bargain is still in place. As long as you live, no army can breach the city defenses. Rest, and in the morning we’ll let the Illyrian’s watch their prince hang.”

“I’m taking his head” Keir interrupted impatiently. How was he talking to her? “Maybe I’ll mail it to your princess.”

“Don’t worry about her,” Amrantha replied, an edge to her voice. “The princess is safe and sound, unbothered by your wayward prince. Handle him—see it done, Keir. I won’t be so forgiving next time.”

“I will see it through, my lady.”

There was a beat of silence and then a muttered, “Bitch.” Ignoring how his uncle was having the conversation, Rhys focused on what he did know. Keir had a deal with Amarantha—one he could guess at, though he fully intended to press the matter once he had a moment. An army was at the gates—and couldn’t breach it until Keir was dead.

His army. Cassian had come. Rhys felt an uprising of emotion, quickly squashed. They’d be picked off one by one if Rhys didn’t kill Keir and break the spell. 

And Feyre. 

The princess is safe and sound. 

Rhys could guess what that meant, too. Hatred bloomed hotter than any emotion he’d ever felt at that thought of wild Feyre locked in a cage again. Anticipation ought to have made his hands shake, but when the closet door opened and Rhys lunged, he found himself steady. Like someone else's fingers gripped held tight around his own, guiding his arm as that knife slashed cleanly against his uncles throat.

Keir tried to call out for help, but only a bubbling gurgle, softer than a whisper, erupted. Rhys reached for his uncle's hair, pulling his face closer. “Look at you, kneeling for a half-breed.”And then he left him there, curled on his side as Rhys strode from the room newly crowned King of Velaris. He met his uncles advisors in his fathers throne room and without preamble, ordered them to kneel or to tie.

Some chose to kneel—the rest chose to die. And in the end, Rhys had them all slaughtered, either for their cowardice or defiance. He had all the advisors he wanted waiting just outside the gate. Only then, when it was just Rhys and the servants who had no choice in who they served and certainly didn’t deserve to die because of it, did he open the gates and allow the Illyrian’s to sweep inside. Rhys informed his uncles generals they could surrender or they could die at Cassian’s blade.

The battle for Velaris was short lived, and Cassian, Azriel, and Morrigan were inside before the sun ever rose against the horizon. 

“Stay here,” Rhys ordered, well aware he was foolish to abandon his kingdom the moment he got it back. “I need…”

Cassian cocked his head, a strange shadow present in his gaze, but it was Azriel who spoke. “We’ll hold it for the week. Thats all the time we can buy you.”

“I don’t need a week,” Rhys swore. “Just a day.”

He was getting his wife back.

[excessive-vampires]

Alphabet Thralls Part 6: R's Conditioning

Masterlist with content warnings

Taglist: @d-cs @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @softvampirewhump

R’s eyesight was blurred by tears as well as his lack of glasses as he was led to a small room and strapped into a chair. He continued crying until he heard the door open and approaching footsteps. Someone looked at him and sighed. His face was roughly dried with a tissue and his glasses were placed on his face. He blinked up at the woman in front of him. Her clothes were professional and reminded him of people who had interviewed him for jobs before. There was something in her face and posture too that seemed to indicate she was judging him. He felt a little self-conscious about crying. She walked over to the chair across the desk from him and sat down. With its blank walls and utilitarian furniture the room really did create the impression of serious professionalism. 

She pulled a packet of papers out of a drawer in the desk and looked through them, taking her time and occasionally glancing at R with an unreadable expression. After a few minutes she put the papers back in the drawer and turned her full attention to R.

“So, you’re R-23.”

R didn’t quite know how to respond to that. He didn’t want to identify himself as a nameless product for these vampires to do with as they pleased, but denying it could make them angry, maybe if he did what they wanted they’d mess with his mind less. “Yes.”

“That was rhetorical,” The woman said. “Do you know why you’re here, why we took you?”

“To be given to some monster like a piece of meat.” R grumbled, abandoning the plan to try to please the handler since it had seemed to just annoy her.

“It’s because your manager made you work that extra night shift.”

“What?”

“If you hadn’t been walking home at night we would’ve taken someone else. It was just a matter of opportunity. You were working later than the buses run, so you got taken.”

This wasn’t how R had expected this to go. Was knowing this supposed to mess with his mind enough to let the vampires mold it however they pleased?

“How does that information make you feel?”

“Angry,” R said. Because as confused as he was, he was also furious. 

“Who are you angry with?”

“My manager,” R answered truthfully without thinking.

“And what are you going to do with that anger? Hmm? If we put you right back on that street right now and left because of a random clerical error and let you go back to work, how would you react to seeing your manager again?”

R wanted to say he’d demand better treatment or quit, but that wasn’t true, and telling the truth right now felt… right. Like a sort of last confession. Not that he was Catholic. “I wouldn’t do anything.”

The woman smiled. “Why not?”

“I wouldn’t want to lose my job. I need it.” 

“That’s right. You know how the world works, don’t you? If you want to survive you have to work hard.” 

“Yes…” R officially had no idea where this was going. 

“You’ve endured a lot of mistreatment in your life, but never really fought against it. Why is that?” 

“Because that would have made trouble for me, made it harder to survive.” 

“And surviving is the most important thing, right?” 

“Yes.” The longer this discussion went on the more true that statement felt. He had to focus on surviving. 

“I’m going to tell you exactly what you need to do now to survive, but I think you already have some idea. You need to behave. To do as you're told. To work as hard as you can to make sure no one has any reason to want to get rid of you. Because you want to be where we’re sending you.”

That sounded… mostly right. But the part at the end… “I don’t…”

“You are going to have all your needs met and provided for. You’ll have food, shelter, clothing, as long as you work hard and follow orders, you won’t have to worry about how to survive, just like it’s always been.”

That was how his life had always been. R found himself nodding. 

“That’s right, you just need to know the rules you need to follow and you’ll be set for the rest of your life. You’re very good at following rules, you have so much experience, so that’s going to be very easy.”

“Yeah…” 

“The exact rules may vary based on what your owner tells you to do, but let’s go over the general list.”

[thewayhavenchronicle]

26 for Saoirse and Mason ❤️

Romantic Confession Dialogue Prompts

thIS GOT AWAY FROM ME

26. "please...say something."

The Trapper realizes he's fucked up approximately half a second before anyone else does.

The fight is going normally enough, at first -- typical seven or eight Trappers against Unit Bravo. There hadn't been anything out of the ordinary, really. Saoirse is having a lot of fun with her Volt baton, dancing around the Trappers, watching them get more and more agitated the more they fail to down her. She's just caught Mason's eye from across the clearing, admiring the way his steel grey eyes look alight with the rush of the hunt, when everything goes to hell.

The Trapper he's fighting reaches for him blindly, scrambling for purchase to try and keep himself upright, and finding it in the one thing that he shouldn't have.

The cord holding Mason's crystal strains for one breathtaking moment...

...and then it snaps.

Saoirse can hear the sound of the break from the other side of the clearing.

The Trapper falls backwards with a muted thud, and the crystal goes flying somewhere into the underbrush.

For a moment, Mason almost seems fine. He stands there, frowning down at the man for a heartbeat -- and then one of the others catches him in the back with one of their stun batons and he crumbles.

"Mason!"

The wave of pain hits her a beat later, that same sharp, buzzing feeling at the base of her skull that she's felt around him before, but it seems to be nothing compared to what it does to everyone else. The Trappers around the clearing collapse to the ground in crumpled heaps. The scent of blood fills the air, strong enough that even her dulled almost-human senses can smell it. The vampires around the clearing are doubled over much like Mason is, but they aren't the ones screaming.

She's never heard screaming quite like this.

It is raw and guttural. Animalistic. Mason stumbles in the direction his crystal had gone, but he only makes it about a step before he collapses, wailing and clawing at his head. There's a desperation to it, clawing at his skin as if it were crawling with insects as a ragged sob punches its way out of his chest.

Saoirse doesn't think -- she just moves.

"Mason, Mason," she gasps, falling to her knees in front of him and wrapping her arms around him. He struggles, but she can tell a part of him is aware of who she is and where he is, because he doesn't struggle hard. He could easily break her hold and shove her away, but he doesn't, squeezing his eyes shut and coughing as tears drip down his cheeks, mingling with the blood where he'd dug his nails into his face.

"I've got you, I've got you," she mumbles, rocking him slightly in an attempt to soothe. "You're gonna be okay, my love, just breathe. Breathe. You're alright."

Something about her touch seems to be soothing him, somehow. His body is still as tense as a viper ready to strike, breathing still ragged as he coughs out a few more rough sobs -- but he presses closer instead of struggling. Buries his face in her shoulder and drags in ragged breaths like he's trying to drown everything else with the smell of her skin, with the feeling of her pressed against him.

What happens after that is a bit of a blur. Someone finds his crystal and brings it to them. Someone else tries to pull him away from her -- and he snarls, tense and out-of-sorts, so they leave them be.

When the Agency arrives, something... happens.

She doesn't know what it is that happens. Mason's breathing has slowed by then, leaning heavily on her as he tries to center himself, one hand clutching his crystal in his lap. She hasn't been paying attention to the cleanup of the Trappers -- doesn't know if they're even alive or not -- too busy focusing on holding her love to notice until it's too late.

Apparently, there is a protocol for Mason.

One that none of them are aware of until a nameless Agent has jabbed a needle into Mason's neck and injected him with a full dose of DMB.

"What the fuck--" Mason spits, trying to lunge for the agent, but the effect of the shot to the jugular is too quick and he collapses, eyes rolling back into his head.

Saoirse will be honest: she doesn't remember grabbing her stun baton. She doesn't remember lashing out at the nearest suit-clad Agent. She doesn't remember needing to be sedated herself. Apparently, they'd needed five men to finally take her down.

Not that she really cares about that either way.

It's been hours, and Mason still hasn't woken up.

Rebecca had come to try and talk to her once they got to the Warehouse. Saoirse hadn't given a fuck what she had to say, or what the explanation was for what happened. Miscommunication, she said. It was a miscommunication. They thought he was out of control.

Saoirse doesn't care.

Everything she cares about is laying in a hospital bed, still as death, covered in bandages, not healing because the fucking DMB is still in his system.

Saoirse shifts anxiously in her seat by his bed, leaning forward to rest her arms on the bed. His hand lays still on top of the crisp linen, and she sighs as she slides her hand under his just to feel the warmth of his beating heart. Sighing softly, she bends to press her lips to the back of his hand.

"Mm..."

A gasp leaves her as she sits up, eyes on his face. Mason's brows furrow as he takes a deep, slow breath in. His eyelids flutter, and then he blinks a few times -- and she can see the moment he registers where he is as his eyes snap open wide, and his entire body tenses.

"Hey, hey," she murmurs, squeezing at his hand to draw his attention. Wide, frenzied grey eyes swing around to her face, and she smiles weakly, lifting his hand to press another kiss to his knuckles. "You're okay."

She can see him fighting to piece together what happened, eyes fixed on her face, darting across her features like he's looking for the explanation somewhere in the lines of her face. A few moments pass, and he exhales heavily, slumping as his brows furrow.

"...Sweetheart?"

"I'm here." Saoirse tries her best to smile normally for him, but he must be able to tell something's wrong.

She watches him swallow thickly, licking his dry lips and clearly mulling over what to say. She watches a thousand different thoughts run through his head, but she truly doesn't have an explanation for what happened tonight, and it's not like she's been quiet about her distrust of the Agency before all this happened. Now? Well...

After a long moment, he snorts, turning away and rubbing at his face with his free hand. "Fuck me."

"Maybe later," she jokes, and she grins when it makes him laugh breathily.

He sighs, dropping his hand back to his side heavily. A muscle in his jaw twitches as he stares off at the wall. She can tell he's trying to figure out what to say, but she doesn't really know what to say, and neither does he, it seems.

His lips twitch, eyes softening at whatever thought has crossed his mind.

Saoirse smiles, squeezing his hand again. "What?"

Mason rolls his neck so that he can smirk at her, though his eyes remain soft. "My love, huh?"

She blinks.

Oh.

Oh, she fucked up.

She's quiet for a beat too long, trying to decide between acknowledging that she did, indeed, say that and trying to convince him he imagined it. She can't tell if he's upset about it, but he looks...

"Speechless already, sweetheart?" he jokes, squeezing her hand. His brows pinch a little with worry. "Maybe I misheard. Lot was going on when you said... whatever you said."

There is a level of fear rising in her chest that paralyzes her. They haven't talked about this -- they haven't talked about anything. This certainly isn't the ideal scenario to be talking about feelings and the state of their relationship. She--

Mason laughs, though it kind of sounds like a cough. His eyes are a little worried now as he says, "Say something... Anything?" He laughs a little. "Please?"

...fuck it.

Saoirse grins, leaning forward on the bed and propping her head up on her hand. "You don't like 'my love'? You didn't like sunshine either. What about baby? Darling? My moon and stars?"

He rolls his eyes, but his smile speaks more of relief than anything. Not ready for that any more than she is, she supposes. She's about to change the subject when he sighs and half shrugs one shoulder.

"...baby isn't so bad. Just... not in front of anyone."

Saoirse laughs and the tension between them breaks. "I'll call you whatever you like as soon as you're better, how's that?"

He smirks. "Sure. I'll hold you to that."

"I'd be disappointed if you didn't."

[baronessblixen]

“it's better than before.” (please don’t hurt me too bad!)

I think this was an angst prompt and my answer is... not. I don't know what it is exactly! Set in the revival, Mulder muses about life, changes and Scully. Wc: 1,966

Tagging @today-in-fic

Everything Old is New Again

The fake sunrise his alarm clocks projects wakes him at 6.30 am, like every morning. One of these days he’s going to find an old analog clock like he used to have. But that’s a task for another morning. Until then, he will wake up to this, believing Scully when she says it’s better for him. Even if the light is fake.

His body protests as he rolls over to switch off the orange light and the bird chirping that accompanies it. He doesn’t know how to turn off the incessant sound on its own. It just turns on every morning. There should be a manual for this damn alarm clock, but if there is, he’s lost it.

Mulder groans as he sits up in bed, running a hand over his face. It’s Friday. Once, days of the week didn’t matter. Weekend was an idea rather than a fixed set of days. Nowadays, he works Monday to Friday, like one of these agents he used to think of as lazy when he himself was younger. He wonders what young agents think about him now. If they think about him at all.

In the bathroom, his Bluetooth speaker greets him with a mechanical good morning and hits from the 70s, 80s and 90s. You can take the man out of the decades, but not the decades out of the man.

He showers quickly, his shower head made to save water. Less than five minutes later he’s done. Gone are the days of long, hot showers. Now there’s only efficiency. Scully got him the shower head last Christmas and he, against all odds, had hoped it meant she wanted to take more showers here, at their house. His hopes were crushed when she told him she had a date for New Year’s Eve.

He spent long days waiting to hear about the date, about the new man in her life. It never happened. Over a month later, when her birthday drew near, he asked her about it, pretending his heart wasn’t pounding. She merely shrugged, said it was only one date and nothing more. The nameless man remained so. As did the next, and the one after him. Then, in May, Scully told him about Paul. A guy she went on more than one date with. Five, to be exact. Mulder tried counting backward to find out when it had started. Whether something had changed then. Had she smiled more? Had she seemed happier?

“I hope you,” she had said, taking his hand in hers. “I hope it doesn’t bother you. I will keep my personal life out of the office. I just wanted you to know. I owe you that much.”

So he knew. May went by in a blur and June promised to be the same with Scully asking for a week off. He didn’t ask and she didn’t say, but he knew she was going to spend it with Paul. Mulder threw himself into work, didn’t allow himself to think about her, or about what she and Paul were doing.

When she returned, a soft tan on her face, she looked guilty and Mulder was deflated. Once, they had gone on vacation, too. Away from the darkness that had followed them. No matter how much sun there was, how much love they made, it hung over them like a rain cloud. They both knew that one day it would break and drown them.

Paul was history by late June. Scully told him in passing while they were getting ready to board a plane. He just nodded, trying to keep his face neutral when in reality he felt like bursting into song.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“You’re not,” Scully replied, but there was a twinkle in her eyes and a lightness in her voice he hadn’t heard in a while.

He took her hand as the plane started, knowing how much she hated that moment. She didn’t pull away and Mulder knew that things were changing.

His coffee grows cold over his musings, but he downs it anyway before he grabs his car keys to leave for work. The sun – the real one – has just woken up and is blinking through the gray September clouds up above. Mulder turns on the heat in the car, feeling a bit chilly.

He hooks up his phone, tells it to navigate him to work and starts his car. How different this used to be. Back in the day, he knew the way to the Hoover building by heart. Now he isn’t sure he’d find his way without his phone. Scully keeps telling him to not use it as it will make his brain shrink, but it’s just easier this way. And it gives him time to think. About Scully.

Today is the day. He’s planned it meticulously. He will ask her out. An old-fashioned date, just the two of them. No cases, no excuses, and no Pauls. No bees either. He grins, humming along to the song on his playlist. Another one of those things. He and Scully used to find tapes in their rental cars from time to time, listening to them in excitement. They never knew what the next song would be. He misses those days, sometimes. Misses the unpredictability of it all.

Mulder stops in front of the coffee shop he and Scully have started frequenting. It’s a far cry from the places they went to back in the day. There are seven different varieties of milk now, not just one. A couple of weeks ago, he ordered a coffee with cow milk and Scully threw him a look, reminding him that plant-based milk is better for the environment and for him.

Ever since then, he’s been taking his coffee with unsweetened almond milk. After all, Scully is a medical doctor and he trusts her. In every conceivable way. He orders his coffee and Scully’s and buys two sandwiches for lunch, too. Vegan, of course.

Scully is already there when he enters the office. She gives him a smile, sitting on the edge of their desk, reading through a file. His stomach somersaults, putting a huge grin on his face that takes him back at least 20 years. She has that effect on him. Then, now and always.

“Good morning,” she says. “I’ve been wondering where you are.”

“Huh?”

“It’s late, Mulder. Late for you anyway. Was there a lot of traffic?” She takes a sip from her coffee as she waits for his answer.

“Um, no. I was just- getting read took a bit longer this morning.”

“You’re not sick, are you? When was your last check up?” Asking about his check ups is the best way to remind him that he’s getting old. That he is old already.

“I’m not sick,” he assures her. “Just lost in thought. That happens when you wake up to a sunrise and birds chirping.”

“It’s good for you, Mulder. It’s a gentle way of waking up.” He’s heard her explain it to him plenty of times and so he just smiles at her, nodding.

“How are you waking up these days?” He asks her, taking a nip of his coffee.

“Hm? Not with a sunrise,” she says, throwing him an amused look. Now’s his chance.

“Hey Scully, what are you doing tonight?” His heart is hammering against his chest. If he were to tell Scully, she’d probably worry he’s having a heart attack. He’s at that age now, as she not so subtly reminded him a while ago. With his questionable diet and his inability to kick his sunflower seed habit, he should be careful. But right now, unbeknownst to her, his heart is in her hands.

“I don’t have any plans,” she says.

“In that case… would you like to have dinner with me tonight?”

“I’d love to, Mulder,” she answers without hesitation, rendering him speechless. “Are you okay? You do look a bit green.” By now, she’s walked over to him and she puts her hand on his cheek, gently caressing it.

“I’m just surprised.”

“That I want to have dinner with you?”

“That I didn’t even have to persuade you,” he replies honestly.

“I’ve been waiting for you to ask me out again,” she says and color shoots into her cheeks. “I was ready to ask you to dinner myself.”

“Why didn’t you?”

She shrugs, stepping closer to him and fully invading his personal space. He doesn’t mind one bit and puts his hand on her waist. They’re skipping steps, jumping ahead, but they’ve been here before. This isn’t new. It’s merely a restart of something old and familiar.

“I was scared,” she admits.

“Scared? Of me?”

“Of you saying no.”

“Scully, I will never say no to you. I’ve been waiting too, biding my time. When you told me about Paul…” Scully groans and presses her head against his chest.

“That was a mistake,” she says against his tie. Her head resurfaces and he falls in love all over with her. With the way her fingers play with the lapels of his coat, contemplating how much she allows herself here in their office. With the way her eyes dance when he smiles at her, putting his hand on the small of her back to draw her closer. He doesn’t care that they’re in the office. Or that it’s not even 9 am.

“I hope I’m not a mistake,” Mulder says softly.

“You’ve never been a mistake, Mulder. Not once.”

“Would kissing you now be a mistake?”

“Not if I kiss you first.” And she does exactly that. He’s dreamed about kissing Scully many, many times. Back when they were first partnered and he didn’t yet know how she tasted or what she liked.

He dreamed of her when he was hiding from the world, missing her and their son. Dreamed about her when she made the choice to save them and leave so that he could get better, and she could, too. Now they are. Her mouth fits against his as perfectly as it ever has. He knows how to kiss her, how to move his lips, and how to tease her with his tongue so that she moans and presses herself against him. Some things haven’t change, won’t ever change.

“I missed doing this,” she says when they break for air.

“Making out in the office?” He presses another soft kiss against her lips.

“We never really did that, did we?”

“There’s still time.” He grins at her.

“This is a work place.” But she, too, is grinning.

“It’s Friday anyway. We can leave early.” He kisses her again and she responds in kind. When they break apart this time, she sighs.

“What are you thinking?” He asks her, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“When I thought about this – us – I didn’t think… I wondered how it would happen. How we would be.”

“Is it how you thought it would be?”

“I didn’t think it would happen in the office,” she says. “I didn’t think it would happen in the morning. You taste like almond milk, Mulder.”

“No more cow milk for me. You said so. So… what’s the verdict?”

“Let me just-” She kisses him again, her tongue teasing him. His eyes flutter close and he wonders what Scully would say if he reminded her of his office sex fantasy. But maybe it’s too early for that anyway.

He wants to give her sunrises in bed, fake or otherwise. Orgasms, too. But only real ones. He wants to share his new favorite songs with her. Wants to drive around with her, Google Maps be damned. He just wants to be with her, in whatever way she lets him.

“It’s better than before,” she says and he knows she’s right.

[behave-like-a-ghost]

sleep

how do you find sleep?

close your eyes, quiet your mind, and you’re off?

half an hour of meditation videos?

pills that are supposed to help you sleep?

pills that aren’t supposed to help you sleep but seem to do the trick anyway?

twisting and turning and wishing until your exhausted body finally gives way?

i think about what it’s like to be stabbed

the same every time, like a ritual

in the back, knife angled to slip between my ribs

would i feel it puncture my lung?

would it make a sound when the hilt hit my skin?

the space underneath would be empty and hollow

until it started to fill with blood

i have been cut before

with dull blades that burn

like every single cell is wailing

mourning the way they were ripped from one another

the first thrust is slow

the blade, the guiding hand, my skin all learning to sing together

but the second comes faster

soon the knife is a blur

plunging, cutting, ripping

does it hurt the whole time?

can i feel each one?

or does my body attempt some mercy and fade out the sensation until i am numb?

the wielder is nameless and faceless

never do i turn to see them

somehow i know they have a reason for this

i have earned their ire

peace like i’ve never felt soothes me

knowing that whatever i did wrong

i finally paid

i loop this scene over and over again

trying to imagine in visceral detail

until sleep takes me

sometimes i just have two melatonin gummies and put on judge judy

[valyalyon]

November 1, 2024

Raphael has arrived! This is the first scene I wrote for this story, it is very long. Changing post formats, this format will be the new norm :)

Please enjoy and see below for more Dreams, Ink and Embers.

DIE MASTER LIST OR #LYONDIE

That’s how it all started. Just a stupid party, just too many good drinks, the lights, the feeling of his hands, my dress coming off, then the crash onto the bed.

CW: explicit sexual content, “one night stand”, sex while both parties are intoxicated, unprotected sex, dubious consent.

It was all the breaths, all the whiskey enhanced kissing, the way he gripped my neck, the way our bodies collided.

I don’t even think I recognized him then, a part of me just knew him to be somebody else. Somebody that I met, somebody that I met a long time ago, in a dream some decade ago. In the dream he touched me the same way, made me feel all the same. And in the complicated coldness in between us, a fire was festering below the surface.

In all reality I’d only known him what? Six years. He never touched me before but he had a way with words in every stupid situation we’d find each other in. He always knew how to aggravate me, distort my way of thinking, make me lose all patience. And despite us never admitting it, we were sharing an awful secret that neither of us knew where it came from.

The secret? He was a man I could not have and I was a woman he could not have. In some destitute other world, we are each others, but here we stand with a divide in between us. Maybe he didn’t know why he wanted me so badly, I definitely knew why I wanted him though. Dreams play too grand a part in my life.

The night of the party was a different story. The party was for Halloween, a friend’s celebration of it. Only thing was that he was hosting it at his house. Normally I would’ve declined an invitation to be anywhere near him, but that night something came over me. I hadn’t told anyone I’d go, but made sure I had all the information correct to show up that day.

It was a costume party and no one was allowed in without a costume. Lucky enough for me, he over invited and way more people showed up, meaning that when I arrived I was able to just blend in with the crowd and disappear if need be. To be completely honest, not much was hidden, but I was wearing a skimpy princess mini dress with a tiara and a masquerade mask.

I wasn’t blending in awfully since everyone was dressed up and most of the girls were skimpy too.

Anyway, the next little bit is a blur because I smoked some pot and started going around drinking alcohol from the kitchen bar. i knew I shouldn't be mixing my alcohol and pot but I got crossfaded pretty often and had an idea of my limits.

Well, eventually I decided to sit at the kitchen island and just have a drink (on my second) and chill there for a bit and people watch. Julius was at this party and I was trying to avoid him too for the most part.

I don't think I recognized the man who until this point has gone nameless — his name is Raphael — even when he came up to me. He was wearing some black jeans and a red top that looked just a little too small for him, but I traced my eyes along his arms and muscles and then face and nothing clicked. it was like I had never seen him before in my life.

For years I spent them hating and arguing with this man, but now he was sitting beside me at the kitchen island and the whole party seemed to come to a slow. All of a sudden it felt like the alcohol came to overtake me.

He asks me who I am, says that the no face masks rule applies, and says I gotta take off my mask and show myself to him.

It feels almost like a joke. Even though I don’t recognize him, I still fight back with the usual anger, "Face masks shouldn't apply for half naked Princesses, sir. plus you're not the boss of the party. i know the guy hosting it and it ain't you.

He seemed to pause for a second, not sure what must have been going through his mind but he starts to smile. He leans towards me and asks, “want more whiskey?” He reaches for the bottle and starts to pour a little more into my cup, then some into a cup for himself.

“Thank you,” I told him, and then took the whole shot down in one gulp. I don’t know what came over me but I wanted to prove myself to him. I didn’t want him thinking he could walk all over me. I’d already experienced men like him before, “Shouldn’t approach women you don’t know demanding they show you their face. Sounds a bit creepy.”

He let out a laugh and took his shot, adding another to my cup and another to his, “fine. What if we go to one of the rooms and you show me your face there? I’m in charge of the doors and I gotta make sure you’re on his list. No one else has to see you though.”

Taking my now 4th shot I looked at him. Again my eyes ran over him for a second and I thought to myself “could I fight him off of me?” The idea of following this stranger into a private room was so out of this world insane but, there was just something different about this man. I kept thinking he seemed so familiar but like I had known him when I was a child and hadn’t seen him since. I finally answered agreeing to follow him into a room.

I thought how I was glad that this stranger was helping me, that I didn’t wanna be kicked out of this party for not complying with the host’s rules, and here they were letting me keep my identity a secret as long as they could confirm who I am.

To get to the room he took my hand and let me up the stairs of the house through crowds of people. I kept thinking that there were so many people there it was crazy that Raphael would have invited all those people.

Mind you, as the man is taking me to the room I still have no inclination that he is Raphael. I’ve never once touched Raphael. But in that moment he was touching me, holding my hand and pulling me around all the strange people. I felt like a doll to this man but I couldn’t pull away. I wanted him to know who I was.

Inside the room was another story entirely. As soon as we entered he asked, “could you take off your mask for me?”

I unlace my mask from the back and drop it into my hands. My eyes meet his again and yet again I am left breathless but unaware. I still do not recognize him.

“You’re definitely on the list,” he said under his breath. He hands me my cup and pours me another shot, then another for himself. He downs his first, I down mine as he starts to turn to me.

His hand falls on my thigh, his fingers move along my inner thigh, “I’ve been wanting to touch you since you walked past me. You didn’t even look in my direction. You ignored me and hugged some random.”

“How do you know they were random?” I asked trying to keep the distance between us but only feeling myself grow closer to him as he starts to spread my legs.

“You should only be around me don’t you think? Look at you and look at me, we’re on fire. This world is ours…” his fingers loop into the sides of my underwear.

He yanks and pulls down my panties, taking them off my feet. He makes eye contact with me as he gets closer to my pussy, his fingers move with a mind of their own. He starts using my body as his own play toy. I feel his fingers creep inside of me and all I can do is gasp.

"I don't just hook up with strangers," I told him, my hand tracing up his arm, trying to find the strength to push him off of me. Since the moment my eyes had fallen on him, I knew it was over but I was really trying to catch enough courage to ignore my desires.

It all seemed to good to be true, like he and I were not supposed to ever have met, and that least of all we weren't supposed to meet like this. This stranger being Raphael was something I couldn't wrap my head around, couldn't even in see in the stranger's eyes the uncanny anger that Raphael always festered in me. He just seemed to have come out of a dream, and I was trying to fight it.

He didn't seem to adhere to my gentle touches or incoherent begs, he just took one hand and placed it on my thigh, spreading my legs as his other hand continued to finger me. When my legs were open, he took his free hand and started to lift up my dress just a little at a time, "we don't have to be strangers."

Little moans by this point were escaping from my mouth. I had only known two other people that had been able to understand that my hesitation never meant no, it always meant convince me. While I never would encourage that behavior from other women, I knew myself to be a coy little fairy playing games with those that wanted me.

My rejection, my no's, were all encouragement to be cruel-er to me, to step on my toes and make me beg for you to continue. But here this strange man was, immediately recognizing what I needed from him. He made eye contact with me as his two fingers continued to thrust inside of me, my ass was now out in the air, my dress bunched at my waist, my tits absolutely throbbing from the heat that we were creating.

"How about this?" he asked, lifting me in one go off the floor and laying me down on the bed. He hovered over me, holding me down with his big hands, as he said, "how about... instead of us being strangers," his fingers started moving a little rougher inside of me, "I spell my name out for you."

"Spell... spell it out then!" I half shouted at him, in between moans and louder gasps. I made eye contact with him and realized he was only an inch from my face. I could smell the whiskey on his breath, I could feel the weight he was putting on me. I watched his lips, waiting for him to speak, but instead...

He went down. he kneeled down on the floor at the edge of the bed, and pressed his lips against my pussy. He started writing with his tongue inside of me, I clutched onto his hair, his free hand finished lifting my dress off me and he let it rest against my neck as the free hand began to squeeze and grope my tits.

"This is not... this is not... I don't know what you're spelling!" I moaned loudly and felt my vision spinning. I could hear the music outside thumping so loud the whole floor was shaking, but I thought it was the orgasms. One by one, my body began to let out orgasm after orgasm. Not entirely sure if he finished a letter, finished his name, or what, but my body would convulse and shake as cum began to slip down.

After about three minutes and several full body orgasms that left me almost mute, he picked his head up and I felt his free hand reach down in between us. He pressed his jeans to my opening, and I could feel his bulge squeezing the fabric of his jeans.

He continued to finger me as he rubbed himself against my clit, my eyes opened and I followed the path from his eyes down to his neck down to his arms, down to his pants. "Now that you know my name there shouldn't be a problem. I want to be inside of you. I want to feel you squeeze around me." He told me, his eyes gazing down at me with something like a volcanic fire that I had never seen before. He was confident, but his body, his eyes, his soul were all so violently on fire and frantic and it seemed like he knew me from a dream, too.

I knew this was the time to stop, I knew that if there was any moment to make it all end, I'd have to do it now. But, I didn't want it to end. All my life I had chased after the feelings from that dream, and now here the man was in front of me making me feel all those things. I didn't want to give it up, I wanted to play, I wanted to feel him. My hands made their way to his shirt, and pulling it from the bottom I got it off his body and I examined his bare chest.

The muscles were tight and big, and just his bicep alone was the size of my head. I felt like he could have his way with me even if I wasn't consenting, but it felt so good to see that he was letting me choose how I wanted it. My hands ran along his chest and then down to his belt, and I looked up at him again, "maybe we just... make this quick, pretend it never happened later. Just one moment that we never have to experience again."

He took off his belt for me, and put my hands securely together, wrapping and locking the belt around them. Quickly he reached down and unzipped his pants, letting them fall, and then he took his underwear and slid it off. He stood in front of me, one hand still fingering me furiously while the other hand began to stroke his cock.

When I finally looked at it I was excited and happy. He looked to be about 8 inches, rock hard and ready to perform, I looked back into his eyes as I felt the tip of his cock get pressed up to my clit, then I feel it slide down as he slips his fingers out of my hole. With his dick now throbbing at my entrance, I let out a quiet moan and reach out to kiss him. My arms are tied and I try to fight the restraints, but I move closer to him. I wanted to feel him.

He kissed me while starting to push his cock into me. The world seemed to slow down again like it had earlier. I felt pain immediately, his dick was big and my body was very small. While his kisses stifled me, I was still able to let out of a moan cry, feeling him slip deeper into me. He kept my legs nice and spread with his body, and just slowly slipped his throbbing erection into me.

His kisses only got harder when I got louder. His hands only got greedier, the more I tried to escape from his restraint. He began to pound in a rhythm, rubbing my clit while being inside my pussy. The feeling was magical. I was crying into his mouth, letting out louder and louder moans the more he inflicted on me. He seemed to just know me and my body, but I could have sworn I'd never met him in my life and his cunnilingus spelling did nothing to enlighten me.

My hips started moving to his rhythm, my body gave in so easy to him. He threw my dress off my neck and wrapped his hand around my neck instead. I was breathless without his kisses, I was staring up at him with an open mouth as he just continued to choke me. The feeling of his hips crashing into mine as I squeezed his cock inside of me made me feel nearly feral. We were like animals.

From there it all got rougher, got harder, he would smack me across the face and then kiss me, he would turn me over and spank me so hard I could've sworn there were marks, then he would fuck me from behind, pulling my hair and choking me. I kept up with him through it all, though my moans got louder, and with it I could barely tell if he was enjoying himself because he was pretty silent, but when he flipped me onto my back, climbed onto the bed with me, and pulled me close into his arms I knew he enjoyed it.

In that moment, squeezing my ass and slamming his cock into me, he came. He pushed as deep as possible, and I couldn't help but think that I had just let a stranger bust in me. I felt him pulsating as he came, and he continued letting out small thrusts to make sure all his nut was out.

I knew that I should stand, that I should leave, but he kissed me again, and against my better judgement I stayed. He kissed my neck and left hickies, sucked on my breast, and continued to fuck me. At first it was slower, and I could feel his semen and my cum compiling together inside of me, but soon he was back to going harder, meaner, and I was overflowing with our juices.

I don't remember how long it lasted. It could have been an hour, or five, but I knew he came three times, and each time he didn't pull out. It was like he was doing it on purpose, but I never told him to pull out. The more he came the more I wanted, but, eventually my body and brain tired out and I started to feel myself dozing off. He didn't even ask if we were stopping, he just pulled out of me and went to the bathroom connected to the room.

When he came back he began to clean me, and he helped me into my dress again. I was quite sleepy, my head barely staying up, and I kept opening my eyes to look at him. He was getting dressed and I kept noticing his dark hair and dark eyes. I wondered if I did know him, but I still couldn't put my finger on it.

"Good night, Dolores," he said, giving me a kiss and touching my back gently. He seemed so cautious over me all of a sudden, but it wasn't unwarranted.

"Wait," I called out as I saw him begin walking to the door, "stay with me until I fall asleep... Please."

He moved my hair out of my face and kissed my head, "alright." Then I felt him sit down beside me on the bed.

I scooted into him, thought for a second that I hadn't told him my name, wondered how he knew it, and then I passed out with my head on his lap.