#white oak music hall

[clown-college-honor-roll]

I saw them in Houston!!!

someone gave all the acts worms on strings :D

... also, Will got a jelly rat :[

yesterday at the will wood concert shayfer james yelled at the entire audience to go to therapy and i've never seen so many devil horns and cat ears lower in shame

[gcgothic]

Made it on the Houston Press, at Dark Ceremony Festival w/ Twin Tribes, Clan of Xymox, The Chameleons, Curse Mackey and more! At White Oak Music Hall, in Houston, Texas.

[fayes-fics]

Lessons In Motion

Lessons Series Masterpost

Pairings: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader, Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader (threesome)

Summary: An eventful carriage ride with the boys.

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, MMF threesome, no incest, dom/sub dynamics - dom!Bridgertons sub!reader, masturbation, dirty talk, mild degradation, light spanking/slapping, hair pulling, vaginal fingering, cockwarming, exhibitionism, breast play, edging, bondage restraint, sensory deprivation (blindfold), anal sex, vaginal sex, double penetration.

Word Count: 6.3k

Authors note: Is this the threesome I should be writing? No of course not. Sorry. This was indeed inspired by the synchronised head tilt in the s3 trailer 🤷‍♀️ Part of Lessons-verse, chronologically this takes place before Lessons in Breeding. Thank you to @colettebronte for betaing. Enjoy! <3

You bounce nervously in your shoes, craning to see the ride you are awaiting. 

You slipped out the side entrance of the music hall, eager to escape prying eyes, leaving them to exit through the front, picking up their family carriage together. Being a guest in the family box for the evening is one thing; an unattached woman leaving publicly with two of the most eligible bachelors in the country is another matter entirely—you have no desire to provoke the wagging tongues of the Ton. But that does not mean you wish for your night with them to be over, far from it.

With a whinny, a two-horse carriage rounds the corner into the quiet street a few hundred yards from the venue and comes to a halt before you. The windows are all obscured by thick, draped curtains. So much so that you hesitate, hang back under the shadow of the mature oak. Until that is, the door swings open, and a very familiar face pops out, expression bemused.

“Does my girl not wish for a carriage?” Anthony teases with an expectant, fond tone.

You giggle and rush towards the vehicle, climbing in quickly. The door slams behind you as a fist knocks upon the ceiling to indicate for the driver to move on. The carriage is dimly lit by one tiny glass lantern flame flickering, both sets of eyes are eager on you, that molten heat in your belly as you sit opposite them, both so handsome.

“Did you enjoy your evening, gentlemen?” you query, feigning innocence.

They both comedically tilt their heads in brotherly unison, matching bemused grins claiming their lips as Benedict giggles behind his fist.

“Considering where you had your hands all night, you know well we did,” he pipes up, raising an eyebrow pointedly. 

“Twas rather a boring recital, sir.” Your invocation of his play title makes his chest swell and his pupils dilate. “Should I not have kept myself sufficiently entertained?” He appreciates your sass, nodding with a knowing smirk. 

Indeed, you were greatly entertained. But not by the singing onstage. Sitting in the Bridgerton family box, a rigid cock in each hand as you teased them mercilessly, the angle of the seating allowing you the privacy to do so unseen by other patrons. Never letting either of them climax, taking them somewhere close then backing off, each huffing quietly, a white knuckle grip on their chair arms, as your fingers were coated with pre-cum. Most entertaining indeed. At one point, Anthony had hissed how he would have you on your knees and down your throat if you prolonged the torture much longer, but you knew it to be an empty (and entirely welcomed) threat. Now, in the privacy of the carriage, you rather suspect you are about to be taught a lesson for that cheeky behaviour.

“I do believe it is time for payback, brother,” Anthony opines, voicing your exact suspicions, them exchanging their trademark glance—so much communication with no words.

“Yes, I rather suspect a lesson is in order: that which you do unto others, you should expect done unto you,” Benedict forebodes.

Your stomach ripples as he grabs your ankle and roughly pushes it out wide, a hand travelling up your leg, gathering your dress around his forearm as he does. Soon, they discover the secret you held this evening: that you wear no chemise, no stockings, no undergarments at all, in fact—just your blue silk dress and ballet-style shoes.

“You filthy little vixen,” Anthony growls as he sees a flash between your legs.

“Do not pretend this type of indecency is not exactly what you want from her, brother,” Benedict counters dryly as his hand trails up your inner thigh, your breath quickening as he reaches your apex. You cry out, staring Anthony down as Benedict's fingers plunge into your pussy, burrowing deep, leaning his head into yours. “Always so hot, wet and wanting, are you not?” he rumbles into your hair as his fingers start to rock.

“Yes sir,” you know better than to ignore a question that is asked of you. “Only for you and my lord,” you add, knowing they always want to hear it.

“That is right,” Anthony preens, fighting with the buttons of his trousers and taking his sizable cock in hand, watching you moan and squirm on Benedict's invading digits, dripping down onto his palm, the sounds he draws from your body already obscene. You have been soaked since teasing them at the recital.

“I bet even the driver can hear this tight little cunt. Our filthy beautiful girl just drenching herself like the bitch in heat she is…” Benedict remarks casually.

You love it when they call you such taboo names in play, an illicit thrill running down your spine as he smiles predatorily and curls his fingers, hooking against your pussy wall, making you gasp. It's not quite enough pressure. Your head swings to look at him, silently requesting more.

He chuckles. “What did I tell you earlier?” 

“Teasing?” 

He nods as you pout, sliding his lips right to your ear, his breath hot there. “Until you are a mindless and trembling creature who will do whatever we tell you to.” 

You bite your lip and exhale raggedly, your belly constricting at the thought and at the sight of Anthony lazily pumping his cock, wanting to ride it so much your fingers flex upon the velour bench seat, rocking your pelvis with each stroke Benedict takes, hoping to catch a dash of friction upon your engorged clit. He tuts admonishingly when he senses what you are trying to do, curling his free hand around your inner thigh and spanking there. A stinging slap that makes you jump and mewl.

“Stop trying to come so hastily, darling girl. We decide if and when that will ever happen…” Anthony calls out from across the carriage, grabbing your leg and pulling it high and wide. He yanks off your shoe and bites your instep, not hard, but enough to make your whole body jerk, so you slide deeper onto his brother's fingers, moaning and throwing your head back, the rocking motion of the carriage somehow making it a worse tease.

“‘Tis not a long ride to either of your lodgings… surely you cannot tease me forever,” you speculate, spiralling slowly under such expert ministrations, an itch in your brain that needs to be scratched, even your teeth feel on edge.

“Oh, my girl, we are not headed to either place. Oh no. We are headed to our country retreat. The ride will take the rest of the night,” Anthony crows. “Our family will be remaining in London. So it will just be the three of us… with hundreds of acres to ourselves,” he grins devilishly, still slowly pumping his cock as he speaks.

“But…” you splutter, “I have nothing with me! No dresses, no shoes...” fretting mildly even as your stomach quivers with the thought of time spent alone with your boys.

“Oh, you sweet thing,” Benedict chuckles in your hair,  rotating his fingers so they drag over that sensitive spot that makes you shudder. “As if we are going to let you wear anything except our jewels. You shall be naked for days.”

“If you truly object, say your word now,” Anthony states clearly.  “And we shall drop you at your home.”

Benedict pauses his motions, awaiting your answer, both always respectful of your full consent. You look at them in turn, then merely shake your head fractionally, basking in their wolfish smiles. Wanting to do this with them—a new illicit adventure. The idea of days alone with both of them in a luxury country idyll is so beguiling. And a definite step forward in your dynamic as a throuple.

“Well, then, might as well tear off this dress right now; start as we mean to go on, right brother?” Benedict breezes as he withdraws his fingers from you, making you whine at the loss. But then he trails them across your decolletage, dipping his head to suckle your juices from your skin, his teeth sinking lightly into the swell of your breast, making you groan loudly and push up into his mouth.

“Agreed,” Anthony practically growls, pushing his trousers further down, cupping his balls now with his other hand.

“But my lord,” you stumble, tearing your eyes reluctantly from that tempting sight up to his face. “I need my dress to alight from this carriage when we arrive. Surely your staff should not see me naked?!" Your dissent is light, core pulsing at the mental image of them parading you naked up the front steps of a grand country house for all the gathered staff to greet your debauched arrival.

“Please,” Anthony withers, “what is a touch of nudity when they will likely find us fucking you in every way and place possible? Our darling little plaything, always so keen, are you not?” 

“Yes, my lord, Always.” 

Your whisper is obedient, watching him squeeze his cock more forcefully in his fist, his gaze locked between your splayed legs as Benedict yanks down your neckline roughly. The sound of fabric tearing fills the carriage, then their approving grunts as they realise you are without stays. 

“Get her naked, brother,” Anthony orders brusquely.

He sets about the task with enthusiasm, your dress ripping along the seams as he deploys both large hands and tears the fine silk asunder. It is one Anthony had paid for, so you do not mourn its loss, you rather suspect he will replace it with one identical in short order.

“If I am always to be naked, then will you warm my body when I am cold, sir?” You coquette, batting your eyelashes, playing up the damsel in distress to Benedict as he pushes aside the remaining fabric from around your front.

“Always sweet girl,” Benedict promises duskily, trailing his palm down your flushed skin, pulling you in for a kiss that is all tongues and heat. It has you canting your now naked body into his, desperate for his fingers, or even better, his cock, to be inside you.

As if sensing your need, Anthony intervenes as your lips break apart, perhaps jealous at the amount of time his brother has had with you. 

“Alright, enough of that. I think you are plenty prepared now. Come, my girl,” Anthony pats his thigh invitingly, “come sit on my cock.”

You make a victorious noise and slide out from around Benedict, Anthony grabbing your waist and spinning you around to face away from him. 

“Hello, my darling girl,” Anthony greets, his tone like velvet, pulling you snugly against his frame, the brocade of his waistcoat tickling your spine.

Your responding greeting turns into a cry as he guides you down onto his cock, splitting you open in that way it always does, a stretch that is just the right side of discomfort, that heavy weight pressing far inside that you yearn for.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, grabbing your jaw and pulling you back into a plundering kiss, making you pliant in his arms.

“Fuck me, my lord,” you beseech when you realise he is holding your hips down with a slight force, preventing any movement.

“But we have hours,” he drawls unhurriedly, “how about you sit still and just enjoy the ride, hmmm?”

You mewl in protest; as much as the carriage ride is indeed a pleasant rocking motion, your clit is throbbing, needing friction, craving release. You attempt to coax him by squeezing his cock so he groans throatily.

“Stop that. If you defy me, I will never let you come.”

He forcefully grabs your knees and drapes your thighs on either side of his woollen trousers that are bunched around his hips, then splays his legs wide. There’s a burning stretch on your inner thighs as he now holds you obscenely open. You are powerless to do anything but sit obediently upon his cock, whining slightly as the need claws at the edges of your mind.

Across from you, Benedict watches, seemingly transfixed by the sight of you naked and pinned open, speared on Anthony's cock, whimpering as your attempts to move are quelled by those firm hands clamped on your hips. You watch as he unbuttons and takes himself in hand, just as Anthony had, his eyes hungrily raking over your body. It makes you want to climb into his lap and fuck him over and over. 

“Will you fuck me, sir?” You lobby, hoping it will get a rise out of Anthony, that it will catalyse him into taking you hard, possessively.

“You know I will, sweet girl,” Benedict responds huskily. “But as my brother says, we have hours, and you will learn your lesson today…”

“I promise I have learned my lesson not to tease either of you,” you implore sincerely, hopeful for absolution, but both of them merely huff a laugh, suspecting it a hollow pledge. 

You pout again but relent, leaning back into Anthony, accepting your fate. His lips graze your temple as you rest your head on his shoulder and try to get comfortable. Try to ignore the pulse in your engorged clit with every heartbeat. Try to ignore the press of his frenulum inside, a pressure you feel compelled to rub against. Try to ignore that tingle in your nipples where they pucker hard, desperate for a tongue or some rough fingers.

And that is how you stay for what feels like an eternity. Just the noises of movement and horses upon what is now a dirty track, bright moonlight seeping through the cracks in the curtains as you sit in silent submission, The rocking of the carriage meaning you must occasionally endure the jolts of his cock against your hilt, making your breath catch. Your eyes alternate between fluttering closed and opening to see Benedict idly grasping his cock, but it's too tempting a sight, so you swallow hard and close them again. 

However, with your eyes closed, you see worse images dancing before you, taunting you. Flashes of them both lathing their tongues all over your skin, of you on your knees between them, a cock in your mouth and one pounding into your pussy, a loop of carnal push and pull. It makes you leak more, a trickle leaving your body and pooling at the base of Anthony’s cock, nestling in his hair there.

“I can feel how aroused you are,” Anthony purrs into your hairline, almost startling you after many minutes of quiet. “How it is taking every fibre in your being not to defy me. Let’s see how good you can really be for me. Remember, you may not move.”

That’s all the warning you get before his warm, lightly quill-calloused fingers slide over your clit, rubbing an agonisingly light, slow circle. Not enough to do anything but make you shudder and pant, needing more, tiny sparks igniting through your heavy pelvis. Fighting so hard to keep your hips still, wanting more than anything to buck up, bear down onto the hook of his fingers, frottage yourself until you come clenching around his cock so steely and hot inside you.

“Please, my lord,” you grit out, turning to bury your nose into him, huffing his spicy amber cologne, lips brushing the rasp of stubble on his strong jaw.

“I could listen to you beg all night,” Anthony confesses and there’s an edge to his voice that is dark, dangerous, unyielding. 

You lament when his fingers disappear, but he rolls his hips with the motion of the carriage, his cock sliding just a fraction deeper, making you cry out, the change of angle promising so much. Your hand flies out for purchase upon something solid but instead seizes the carriage curtain, unintentionally pulling it back so the glass is revealed.

“Oh, excellent idea!” Anthony lauds. “Yes, show yourself to the world, darling girl; show what a wanton thing you are for us.”

By now, though, the busy streets of Mayfair are long behind you. You are out in the darkness past Blackheath, moving fast down the Dover road to rural Kent. If there are any prying eyes, they will only catch a glimpse of you utterly naked, seated upon a clothed Viscount.

“Open the rest, brother,” Anthony clips.

Your eyes ping to Benedict as he releases his cock and pulls open the draped fabric on either side, hooking it back so the inky blackness of night is all around you.

“Imagine being seen, my girl,” Anthony baits. “There could be a highwayman right now lurking among those trees.”

Benedict leans forward, his hand suddenly clasping the jewelled necklace draped around your throat, the one Anthony presented you with just last week. His motion pulls you upright away from Anthony, the tilt of his cock inside you catching your breath.

“They may want this darling girl,” Benedict joins in. “Will you give it to them? Or will you offer something else instead in order to keep it? A more precious jewel perhaps….” He releases your necklace and trails that hand down between your breasts, over your belly, spidering lower until he grazes your clit. “Will you allow him this? Your greatest treasure?”

You moan loudly at his expert touch, a stroke of his middle finger under the hood of your clit making your whole body quake.

“N-no sir, I would not,” you stumble. “That belongs to my lord and to you.”

“Oh, good answer,” he winks, eyes twinkling in the moonlight streaming in as his now wettened finger traces back up over your belly. “But what if that is what we wish? To watch you be fucked by a stranger? A thief in a mask? Would you then?”

“I would do whatever you and my lord want, sir,” you pledge truthfully, then inhale sharply as he grabs the back of your neck and moves in close, his lips ghosting yours as he speaks again, teasing you with an almost kiss.

“I could watch you be fucked by a dozen men and enjoy every single one. I do so love the way your eyes roll when you are being taken rough. How you always, always plead for more, greedy little one that you are.” 

Your eyes flit down to see his other fist speeding up around his cock. It makes you clench around Anthony, who groans hard, the air in the carriage somehow notching hotter, tighter, like it’s a fight to breathe.

“Sir,” you murmur on his lips, “Please help me; I am in such need.”

You feel as much as see that crooked, laconic smile claims his face, his cock still in hand. “What do you want from me, darling girl? Be specific, maybe I will do it…” 

“Suck my nipples,” you request boldly at his enticement as he tilts back to watch you speak. “Maybe bite them a touch? Use your wonderful fingers upon my pearl; you can surely see it is so swollen...”

You know such explicit language will work for him, and sure enough, his nostrils flare as you ask for precisely what you need, his tongue flicking out to trace around his lips.

“Brother, will you allow it?” Benedict checks, his gaze flitting briefly to the man you sit upon.

“I will,” Anthony concedes, “on one condition: do not let her come, not yet.” He grabs a fistful of your hair, making you inhale sharply, jerking you back against his body, trailing his nose over your cheek. “I do so need her desperate and crying pretty tears for me before I shall allow that.”

Benedict slides to his knees before you, between your splayed legs, and you tremble as his damp lips ghost over the valley between your breasts, nuzzling your skin, inhaling deeply, trailing the point of his nose left to your nipple. You moan loudly as he suckles you into his hot mouth, lips pursed around your puckered teet. Then he glances the edge of his front teeth over your skin, causing a shudder down your spine. His hand cups your other breast, fondling your nipple with swipes of his thumbpad, teasing, while his teeth clamp down and tug away—a beeline to your core. 

You mutter a curse and thrash your head a little, settling on pressing your nose into Anthony’s neck and whimpering lightly, so much sensation coursing through you, his cock is still rigid and unrelenting inside you. Muttering as Benedict keeps feasting upon your breasts, biting, suckling, fondling, not allowing you one moment without the tormenting thrill, a quake in your thighs, an odd tingle in your arms, a pressure behind your belly that is a ball of need, wound tight like a spring.

“Sweet, sweet girl,” Anthony sighs, wrapping an arm around your head, his bicep bulging against your face through his jacket. “Now you have some sense of how we felt earlier tonight…”

At that, Benedict slides his thumb over your clit, flicking in a sideways motion that has you screaming into Anthony’s skin, clawing your hands into both of their hair, grasping their scalps and making them both growl.

“My lord, sir, please….” 

It's a broken, pitiful sound, teetering as you are, reality a blur, a buzz in your brain that is febrile. A tear of frustration prickles your eye at the prolonged agony of denied ecstasy. Just as you are incapable of defying them anymore and have to break, Benedict pauses, pulls back, and watches with that killer smile as you protest even louder, breasts wet with his saliva, goosebumps covering your entire body.

“She is so beautiful like this, brother,” Benedict groans, grabbing himself again and squeezing a few times as if staving off his own orgasm. “You should see it from here….” he adds as he falls back upon the opposite bench.

“I want to,” Anthony confesses, kissing your temple. “I want to see what you look like, my girl, struggling like this; I wish this damn carriage had a mirror….”

“There is one way….” Benedict shrugs, probably aiming for nonchalant but missing entirely. “She may do the same to me?”

“Do you want that, my girl? To sit upon my brother as well?”

“Yes, my lord,” you confess, always eager to gratify them both. “Will I be allowed to come if I do?”

He chuckles into your skin. “Not yet. But if you are good for him too, maybe then.”

Hope flares as Anthony closes his legs and hoists you up and off his cock, you emitting a slight lament at the loss of him as he helps you to turn around and guides you onto Benedict’s lap. Before you know it, you are once again invaded intimately, the stretch different in ways you can’t fully articulate but just as wonderful. Sliding deep, Benedict’s responding moan is hot in your ear as you settle upon him. He hooks your legs over his in the same manner Anthony did, pushing his knees wide open, perhaps even more so, and you hiss at the tugging sensation in your tendons.

“See, brother?” Benedict crows. “Look how spectacular she is…” the words are nuzzled into your temple as he drops a sighing kiss there.

“‘Tis quite the sight…” Anthony agrees lowly as he starts to unwind his cravat while sitting back to admire you. “But I feel she may need those rebellious hands restrained….”

Your belly roils as Anthony grabs your wrists, jerking them forward and binding them with the soft white silk, looping the fabrics many times before tying a tight bow that is unyielding. He doesn’t even ask for your colour, knowing such things are always a green light. What’s new is he guides your bound hands up high, then backwards, curling them behind Benedict’s head with an amused arched eyebrow.

“Don’t you dare move those arms until I say so,” Anthony warns, and all you can do is nod and bite your lip.

“Oh, excellent idea,” Benedict rhapsodises, staring fervently down the plane of your body draped naked over him.

It’s all at once similar and yet different to moments ago with Anthony: the stretch of a cock impaling you, the ache in your thighs forced so wide open, but now with the pulse in your wrists with your hands bound behind Benedict’s strong neck, your fingernails sinking into the plush ruched fabric on the wall behind.

“Watch me, my girl,” Anthony commands.

Drowsy and shaky with unmet needs, you observe as he touches himself again, his proud cock still glistening with your juices as it passes through his fist, tempting, teasing you. Attempting relief by undulating upon Benedict, but balance is more difficult now your hands are bound, instead resorting to supplicant pleas, hoping his empathetic nature will win out.

“Not yet,” he soothes through gritted teeth, but you can sense his quandary, wanting so much to rut into you, his hands flexing upon the dip of your waist. 

“You believe I have learned my lesson, do you not, sir?” Your soft appeal is blatant manipulation, reluctantly looking away from Anthony to twist sideways and stare beseechingly into his hazy blue eyes, finding a storm of desire there. Your lips tingle for his kiss as he goes to answer but is interrupted.

“Stop trying to cheat my girl,” Anthony counsels tersely. While he has welcomed Benedict into your dynamic, sometimes residual jealousy rears when you appear to have a moment of connection with his brother, wanting to gain control—the upper hand.

“You heard him. So, are you going to be a very good girl for me?” 

Benedict’s voice is a resonant vibration through your back, his frilly shirt tickling your spine. You would do anything for him when he asks like that. Your resounding nod is rewarded with a kiss, and his long fingers snagging around your nipples, your pussy clenching reflexively upon him as his tongue rolls over yours. It makes him stutter a growl into your mouth, which tastes like sin laced with smoky whiskey. 

And so you do as asked—sitting meekly, submissively, that heavy distracting weight inside you keening quietly, throbbing between your legs as Benedict tweaks your nipples almost lazily between his paintbrush-calloused fingers, his lips on your neck, sucking gently, a sensation that is all soft, wet heat. Your hooded gaze is glued to Anthony idly stroking himself, only a fraction of movement designed to keep himself aroused, no doubt. 

Minutes tick by, so you lean back into Benedict’s body as his touch softens, allowing your breathing to syncopate to his, his chest rising and falling against your back. Despite your thrumming arousal, the effect is soporific, and you find yourself growing so sleepy, eyelids too heavy…

…“Wake up, sweet girl,” Benedict’s bemused voice rings in your ear.

You startle, having no concept of how much time has passed. You are impressed when you realise he is still rock-hard inside you, your legs closer together now.

“For how long was I asleep?” You query, stifling a light yawn. A warmth blooms behind your ribs when you realise that, at some point, they unhooked your arms from behind Benedict's head, your hands resting in your lap, still bound in Anthony’s cravat.

“About a quarter hour,” Anthony chuckles. “You looked so peaceful, but we decided to rouse you to deliver the good news. We believe that you have indeed learned your lesson, sweet girl….”

“Yes, my lord, I have!” You enthuse, suddenly awake again, feeling an instant quickened throb in your clit, hoping it means they will finally take pity on you, fuck you, let you come.

“Then it is time for your reward…” 

Anthony’s tone is both benevolent and filthy as he flicks open a small vial that he must have retrieved from somewhere while you were sleeping. He shuffles his trousers down his legs a little further, the smell of olives and clove swirling in the air as he pours the oily substance onto his cock. 

“What is my reward, my lord?” You ask as your stomach clenches. 

But you already know. There is only one reason he does this. It’s when he wants to claim your bottom, not your pussy.

“You get both of us inside you at once, darling,” he answers with a dangerous smile, and Benedict groans as again, on instinct, you clench around him in excitement.

“She likes that idea, brother,” Benedict offers sardonically from behind you.

“Use your cravat, sir, blindfold me,” you petition, twisting your head to look at him, wanting to feel as much as see tonight.

“By god, I adore you,” Benedict gruffs, his voice laden with admiration and arousal as he dives in for a quick kiss. 

Then you feel him fighting off the teal silk behind you, unwinding it rapidly before settling it gently over your face, the gossamer soft fibres still warm from his neck, scented lightly of him. He ties a bow behind your head and then drops a kiss on your shoulder. Then two sets of hands assist you up off of Benedict's cock. You revel in their touch as they gently spin you and guide you backwards onto Anthony’s now bare lap, his trousers around his knees.

As the carriage rocks gently, two oiled fingers slide between your cheeks, and Anthony whispers sweetly as he swirls a finger around your bottom, extolling soft praises as he always does when he takes you here, preparing you for him. 

When you murmur that you are ready, you exhale shakily as you feel that intense blunt pressure, now more familiar to you, as he breaches your tight hole, your body stretching to accommodate his oiled cock, slowly sinking into his lap as you take slow, relaxing breaths. 

“Exquisite,” he stutters, his hands moving to hold your waist tightly, guiding you the last few inches until you are seated to his root—the utter fill like a sense memory. After a few moments of allowing you to adjust, Anthony changes his stance, pulling your legs open wider and shifting inside in a way that feels pleasurable and makes your hands flex in your binding.

“You like that, do you not?” you can hear the smirk in Benedict’s voice even if you can't see it, feeling his intense gaze upon your body as you raise your head to the sound of his voice and nod.

“Hands above your head, my girl,” Anthony instructs, and instantly, your hands shoot up, the silk binding on your wrists flexing as Benedict grabs your arms and hooks them behind Anthony’s head, his heat looming over you as he does so.

“Good, now are you ready for me too?” he checks, and you just know he has an arched brow, that menacing look; you can hear the pump of his cock in his fist, saliva gathering in your mouth at the very thought.

“Yes, sir.” 

“You do not want gentle tonight, do you?” Benedict intuits, likely seeing the hunger writ large across your blindfolded face as he kneels on a little footrest; you can feel his hips at the perfect height, the edge of his cropped jacket snagging the soft skin of your inner thigh.

“No, sir.” 

“So very different to the first time we did this,” Anthony remarks knowingly in your ear, invoking the memory of that landmark night in your burgeoning dynamic—the night you truly became a throuple.

It makes you almost wistful even in this carnal moment, that now familiar press of both their bodies, of being sandwiched between them as Benedict leans in. Although tonight, it is not warm skin upon yours, but the slight scratch of wool, the tickle of silk as they remain clothed. 

“Perhaps we indulge you too much, with both of us at once…” Anthony chuckles.

“No! Let me have both..” you twist back to implore him, even though you cannot see. “I need you both so much, my lord, sir, I am aching…”

“Well, I cannot deny such a pretty appeal as that, brother,” Benedict avows, and that is all the warning you get before he guides himself into you. 

You groan loudly as his tip nudges into your pussy, the stretch of two cocks always making your eyes roll, your toes scrunch hard. Anthony’s hands grasp your thighs, holding you open as Benedict slides deeper inside, their breath uneven, knowing they can likely feel the pressure of each other as much as you can. A curse slips from your lips as they both finally rest entirely within you.

“Darling girl, you always take us so well,” Benedict’s voice lauds, dark and decadent, “so magnificent.”

Your eyelids flutter hard against his cravat, bound and blindfolded, split open upon two cocks… you can think of nowhere else you would rather be.

“Please fuck me…” you entreat, feeling as if you have been pleading for hours with them, your mind scratchy, clawing, like a wild beast clambering up the sides of the carriage, wailing to be sated.

You almost howl as finally, finally, they take pity upon you. Benedict withdraws and then thrusts back into you, aided by the rocking motion as the carriage hurtles through past the fields of Kent, the journey seeming to speed up, mirroring the fevered atmosphere within.

Blindly, you seek a kiss from them both, swivelling to Anthony, then Benedict. Desperate, hot, open mouths meet as you start to set a rhythm together, the friction and fullness radiating pulses of pleasure outwards from where you are joined.

You love it when you are caged between them like this, pinned, hands tied, unable to see. Unable to do anything, indeed, but submit to their whims, entrusting your body and gratification utterly to them, to lay back and take it. Take the endless surges of pleasure, the push and pull, the drag of them both inside you as they change tempo, catching you unawares and making you moan and babble. The noises they wrench from your body are drowned out by the thrum of wheels upon dirt, by the thundering of hooves before you, all of you chasing destinations, literal and ephemeral. Windows fogging with panted breaths, the carriage air almost cloying, all three of you moaning unfettered as pleasure mounts.

“Do you think the coachmen above can hear us?” you gasp out, eyes rolling at the overwhelming sensations of both moving within you, their hips snapping roughly.

“Do you honestly care?” Anthony challenges, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he rolls under you.

“She wants them to watch, most likely,” Benedict pants, his hands a vice-like grip on your waist as he fucks into you.

When you do not respond they both huff a laugh.

“Your silence says so much,” Anthony remarks and suddenly, your hair is in his fist, the force making your back arch, sliding both of their cocks deeper, your moan unbridled. “Whose good little whore are you?” he demands hotly, a glance of his teeth upon your jaw.

“Yours,” you rasp, eyes fluttering against your blindfold, head tilted to the carriage ceiling, feeling the burn on your scalp, your nipples pebbled hard against the rough rasp of Benedict's jacket lapel.

“Then repeat it,” Benedict bites out, his mouth sucking harshly upon your shoulder, leaving his mark, a darkened patch you know he will have you look at in the mirror in the coming days.

“I’m your good little whore,” you echo breathily, for them both, the degrading words ratcheting you higher.

They both groan at your utterance, their hands becoming a more urgent hold. Fingertips grazing and tweaking your nipples, you know not whose. Teetering so close, you beg. Beg them to go faster, to touch your clit, to hold you down, be rough, do anything to make this fever upon your skin, buzzing in your mind, break over you, release you from this prolonged heightened state, leaking profusely around their cocks, slack-jawed, strung out with need.

When a hand worms between your bodies, snagging against your clit, you convulse around them, both groaning at the restriction, curse words falling from them in harsh pants as finally you reach the peak you have been seeking forever. One flick of a thumb, and you are gone.

The intensity of your orgasm is breathtaking: transported and hurtled into the skies far above, your whole pelvis contracting and rippling around both of them as they cry out as your vice-like grip. Static buzzing in your skull as they seem to sandwich into you even harder, your lungs gasping for air as your body feels rearranged, your mind floating on a sea of bliss as their movements become harsher, more desperate, you pulling them over the edge with you. Benedict withdraws suddenly, a warmth splashing upon your lower belly as Anthony growls hard under you, feeling the ripple of his cock as he releases inside your bottom.

For a few moments, it’s just panted breaths, all slumped together in a damp pile. Exchanging sated smiles as they tenderly unwrap the cravat from around your eyes and wrists, delicately kissing your skin as you rearrange. Playtime over, back to yourselves, a shared affection between that is undeniable now.

“How much longer until we reach your country home?” you ask as you curl up into their joint embrace, hands caressing your skin in soothing swirling patterns, a languorous pull in your bones now that you are finally satiated. A flickering glow behind your ribs at the idea this is just the start of something new with your boys.

“I have absolutely no clue, my darling,” Anthony confesses with a carefree bubble of laughter, “and I do not particularly care as long as you are in our arms, right brother?” he adds, tilting his head leisurely towards Benedict.

“Absolutely,” Benedict concurs, “If only all carriage rides were this stimulating…” he jests wistfully.

“They could be… if you always take me with you,” you breeze, giving him a chaste kiss.

“We shall never travel again without you,” Anthony attests over a stifled yawn, his stubble abrading your collarbone as he burrows his head into your neck and sighs contentedly.

And that is how you all finally rest, a tangled pile of limbs, your naked body warmed by their tight hold as the carriage whisks you through the countryside under a blanket of stars. 

Taglist pt 1: @makaylan @longingintheuniverse @iboopedyournose @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @queenofmean14 @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @elizah99 @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @amanda08319 @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kmc1989 @desert-fern @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @vane28282 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @kisskissshutmydoor @y0ur-favgerman @sya-skies

[leclerckiss]

prince of monaco ౨ৎ

notes: charles leclerc x reader, est. relationship, suggestive content, alcohol, insinuation of nudity (bathing) but no explicit details or sexual activity.

a/n: i wrote this at 11pm & it's a little ridiculous but this is also me projecting my manifestations for him to win his home grand prix this weekend.

The sweet aroma of your Miss Dior: Eau de Parfum in damask rose and incense against pink peonies, clean linen sheets mussed about the inviting embrace of the bed, café au lait from a drained mug on the nightstand beside sweet-smelling lilies, and white, lace stockings abandoned and draped over the velvet loveseat.

Charles' claim of 1st at the Monaco Grand Prix was most blessing, and the perfect excuse for a long night of a plentiful of Moët & Chandon champagne, honorary chants, and celebratory reverie: announcing him the 'prince' of his beloved home, a victory he has been yearning for, since forever.

You had remained with him through the week, watching and admiring through every practice session from your usual seat, enjoying luncheon together and laughing over the usual lovey-dovey or noncommittal subjects as a means to distract him from his nerves before qualifying – the kind of thing he doesn't admit to but you know is only human – and your never-leaving gaze throughout the Grand Prix itself.

Until you got to watch from below with love hearts in your eyes when he stood on that podium, in his true and most divine stature whilst the crowds called for him and the Monégasque anthem resonated like the music of the heavens.

Now, it is quiet in the apartment you both call home, all minimalist but comfortable interior in a palette of white, créme, beige and hints of colour against the décor that define it as yours: the polished trophies before the white-varnished piano, heavy and velvet curtains stirring lazily about closed balconies of their rocaille-esque motifs, the abandoned sweater forgotten on the sofa, your rose crocheting yarn on the coffee table beside a copy of last month's Vogue.

Peaceful and content, stood before the ornate mirror in the en-suite of polished marble and quiet luxury, humming some gentle and absent tune to yourself as you comb your hair – dressed down to the comfortable, white gossamer silk of your négligée – whilst the only tune that resounds being the hushed television down the hall.

It is only a minute later that you are interrupted from your daydreaming by the sound of the mahogany front door as it draws open and closed. The familiar clink of keys set down on the oak furniture in the foyer, shuffled footfalls a little less balanced than usual, quickly silenced against the sound of a familiar voice like melting caramel on the subtle, slurring song of inebriation.

"Chérie?"

Hair comb set down on the neat counter beside the porcelain embellished basin, you absently gnaw at your lower-lip whilst silent feet wander the parquestry of the flooring through the flat in your approach to the source of your boyfriend's return, tucking a hair behind your ear, "Charles, I'm–"

The words are lost on the edge of your tongue the second you emerge from the bedroom's suite, down past the plush sitting area to be met by the sight of him where the corridor joins the rest of the homely setting.

"Bonsoir, bébé."

Even when he is slightly hair-tousled with damp, brunet strays falling about his forehead and the linen of his shirt slightly wrinkled, Charles is a handsome man, devastatingly so; the kind of beautiful that renders the air from your lungs a little even when you hold back light laughter at him now.

From his posture, an effort of an elegant curve to his physique like he is trying to be some suave, pretty flirt from those old, romance comedies you watch, where one elbow is propped against the wood arch of the threshold – the only thing evidently holding him upright – whilst his flushed cheeks strain a little on a dimpled, lazy and contagious smile.

"Hello, Charles."

"Ma belle, I missed you, I'm home," With something close to a brief pout and an attempt at a wink, the man lets his lovely eyes dance down and along your own figure in a lingering admiration and a slow, drawn-out smirk that looks both laughable and far-too-endearing, lithe fingers absently adjusting his loosened shirt collar as you come closer.

"I can see that," In response, you try not to appear amused though it is perceptible on the curve by the corner of your sweet mouth when his eyes follow the subtle shift of your hips as you draw forward until your arms fold around his midriff, breathing him in: champagne and cologne, hints of warm amber and rosewood. "You're drunk."

His arm falls around your shoulder comfortably as he sways against you, kissing the crown of your head like a useless reassurance when he murmurs a lieu of words in the thickened curl of his accent, "Non, ça va, je–"

"Charles." Your face shifts with a look, the both of you stumbling a little backwards where his weight almost has you falling on the edge of a floral rug, a hushed, noncommittal sound close to a chuckle falling from the man as he buries his face into the side of your neck with the punctuation of an open-mouth kiss.

"D'accord, d'accord."

"Stupid," You mutter affectionately, rolling your eyes fondly despite knowing all too well what has him so distracted, the warmth of his mouth and the gentle rasp of his five o'clock shadow tickling the underside of your jaw and the sensitivity there, a purr reverberating from the back of his throat as a response.

"Are you hungry– would you like anything?"

"Just you, chérie, I want to..." The Monégasque trails off momentarily like he is disputing internally with his own dialogue, lightly calloused palms feeling the curve of your waist through pale silk before pausing at your derrière absently – tracing his tongue against the edge of pearlescent teeth – as the two of you move further through the sitting room, his voice a whisper, "Je veux te baiser, mon ange."

With a blush dusting the edges of your cheekbones at the obscène words, you offer a half-apologetic smile whilst stroking back his tousled hair, "How about we get dressed down and settled first, at least?"

Initially, he seems reluctant to offer any hint of acquiescence but he eventually nods a little with a vague sound of acknowledgement, fingertips still feeling over your figure as you walk the path together before reaching the bathroom, the door falling shut gently.

Even when the reality of the presence has you accepting tonight shall be long, the man is undoubtedly his most entertaining and equally sweet as romanticised prophecies when he is intoxicated.

"Mm," It is the only indication you are given when Charles' touch falls upon the lace edges of your négligée, drawing it down the curve of your shoulder slowly as he traces the shell of your ear with his mouth, "You're wearing my favourite."

A soft laugh leaves the depth of your chest – a hushed affirmative sound in reply – before his hands come to cradle either side of your jaw tenderly whilst his thumb caresses the apple of your cheek, the kiss that follows his gentle persuasion more loving, his lips parted softly.

Just as quickly as the almost peaceful, drawn-out intimacy begins, it ends when he gives some hushed, breathless sound of sheer enjoyment whilst his hips absently meets yours until you feel the edge of the basin behind, a palm splaying over his chest just enough to encourage him from pausing.

"We can have a nice bath first and then I might consider your suggestion, monsieur," You offer gently in hushed humour, undoing the remaining buttons of his shirt whilst sealing your sentence with a chaste kiss near his chin.

"I'd much rather have you."

"So romantic," Muttering the words quietly, your nose brushes the bridge of his own fractionally where you see the slight glaze of liquor in his eyes, like gentle moss and warm oak, his mouth shifting almost proudly with momentarily met gazes.

"Only for you, mon cœur, I could write you sonnets of love, la mélodie de tes yeux–"

"Okay, Romeo Montague, how about you wash first?"

The initial hope had only been to coax him into the warmth of the bath waters amongst a touch lavender oil that threatens to lull him further into quiet and peace, wash his hair from your seat and prevent the possibility of any difficulty, though clothes are mutually forgotten on the marble floors and small, white-cotton rug when he guilts you into joining him.

"Charles," A whisper of his name though the cadence of your voice lacks the intent of reproach, bodies close together as he guides you into a comfortable situation about his lap whilst you work nimble fingers through his dampened hair slowly, hoping to distract him from anything but washing and settling down from the dizziness of too much alcohol.

"You smell nice," He mumbles indulgently against your shoulder, tracing a kiss on the jut of your collarbone in the dreamy lull of his voice as though lost in the figments of his own thoughts, "Like les fleurs..."

"And you smell like a bottle of Moët."

The man offers a lowered tune of disagreement, a palm idly stroking the curve of your thigh and down the inside of your knee beneath the warm water as you lather the product through his tresses, holding back a smile when he responds drunkenly like some smitten, hopeless lover of the poets:

"Non, c'est seulement le parfum des nuages."

It is the kind of sweet words that would usually have your cheeks warming or laughing like some conjured image of him in your mind, rifling through books of poetry because you cannot fathom him thinking of such phrases alone, though the moment his lips find the curve of your throat and the sensitive area beneath your jaw, it is harder not to succumb to the gentle temptation and let him have his way, a sigh falling from you.

"What are you doing?"

"Loving you." He says the words so easily, like it is the simplest, most natural truth he could ever admit, the warmth and wetness of his mouth trailing the lines of your throat and across the arch of your shoulders.

"You're ridiculous."

"Ridiculously in love with you," He sounds proud of himself. Then, he is guiding the two of you, bodies pressed flush against one another as you are moved back, the weight of him familiar and the pressure of his mouth meeting yours slowly, "Let me love you, s'il vous plaît, ma chérie."

There are the smallest fragments of his soul and the secrets of his heart within the way his body moves, the gentle touch and the softness, the vulnerability and the passion even in the humour of his intoxicated mannerisms; how he makes love and the manner he holds you after, and there is an undeniable and irrefutable trust you hold for him alone.

[causenessus]

try again

part 0.2. PLANTS.

“there’s a blue light, in my best friend’s room. there’s a blue light in his eyes.” “he sits in the waiting room. each chair has its own arms. they’re nimble and plastic, and the material of the cushions is a scratchy green. they’re the type you would find in a conference room, and he can’t decide if he likes them or not. he feels too big for the small room, but he likes the song he can hear playing from a small speaker. it took him a little bit to find it, and he constantly turned his head, trying to find where he could hear it the loudest. “there’s a ship that sails by my window.” there. he sees it on the little oak ladder shelf to his right. it’s a small white circle, and he wouldn’t have thought it to be a speaker if not for the grated cover on the front and the soft music it was playing: “i think it’s sailing. miles crashing me by. crashing me by.”

content warnings: mention of a scar (nothing about where it came from, i was thinking a bicycle accident before i decided to leave it up to interpretation), mention of "promising to stay alive", it's a therapy session so it's a free for all. lmk if i missed anything

he’s not sure he’s in the right place. maybe he missed a sign on his way in that'd tell him where to go or who he was seeing, but he'd wandered down a hall and ended up in a waiting room that had felt right initially. but now he’s wondering; he’s the only one in this tiny room, and he hasn’t seen anyone pass by. it’s silent, besides the small hum of music.

then he hears two muffled voices of laughter come from the wall behind him, and the shuffle of footsteps nearing the door to his left. he’ll find out where he is soon enough, he supposes.

the door knob clicks and creaks, automatically grabbing his attention as he looks toward the source of the noise. a girl who appears to be in her late teens or early adulthood walks out first, whom he’s never seen in his life, but he recognizes the second girl that walks out.

of course he does, how could he not?

he saw her nearly if not everyday of his life when they were kids, all the way up until their first year in high school, where gradually he started to see her less and less until he never saw her. she disappeared from the school halls and the streets they used to walk down together. he knew she was still there, somewhere, but he could never find her. they’re both frozen now, staring at each other. whoever walked out before her seems to get the message and bows slightly before taking her leave.

he’s not even sure what to say. the first words that come to mind are ‘i’m sorry.’

for what? leaving her? watching her leave and not stopping her? the next thing that comes to mind is ‘what even happened between us? i missed you.’ 

of course he fucking missed her, although it feels like he's just now fully realizing it. she had been nearly as important to him as volleyball, and it had been nice to have something in his life not connected to the sport. he loved the sport, he truly did, and it was his biggest priority when he was younger, but now he was starting to feel that passion wane, as much as he hated to admit it. if he hoped to get anything out of talking about this problem with someone, it was that he’d be able to enjoy the sport again. and maybe it’d be like old times. maybe she would be the center of gravity he revolved around again, being the anchor that keeps him upright even when times got rough. 

she felt sick, seeing him again. she had been wishing to see him again for so long, and yet apparently, in reality, she wasn’t ready to see him again. her thoughts immediately went to her appearance, and how she had looked and acted, seeing off her last client. and, most importantly, why was he here? why was she seeing him here of all places?

then it clicks. atsumu's "friend."

of course.

of course he would pull something like this.

her brain immediately goes on autopilot, because she can’t stand there all day gawking at the man who hasn’t ever left her mind. not since she first met him. not since they stopped talking to each other. not even nine years later, after the night she cried alone in her bed when she finally accepted the truth that he didn't care about her, and she’d never see him again. “om��� sakusa. hi. good to see you. why don’t you come in?”

she retreats back into her office, quickly setting a pillow back up on the nearby couch in a futile attempt to tidy up the room before she retreats to her own seat.

he follow her in without a word, eyes taking in the interior of her room. he likes it more than the waiting room. there’s a wide window taking up most of the wall in front of him, displaying the sight of a more rural side of osaka. it took a train ride and a bit of a walk to get here, but seeing this view, he decides maybe it was worth it. maybe more walks in open spaces was actually all he needed to feel better.

or maybe all he needed was her presence.

she sits in a chair across from the one he’s in. there’s a small glass coffee table between them with a group of small succulents centered atop it and the decoration surprises him. for as long as he's known her, she always somehow managed to kill every bunch of flowers he gave her within a few days. his grandma would buy him a small bouquet after some of his volleyball games when he was younger and he never wanted them. he'd give them to her instead because she loved plants, despite never being able to keep them alive.

but it’s obvious from the number of pots lining her windowsill that she’s changed. he wants to bring it up, but he’s not sure what she would think. he doesn’t even know what she’s thinking about now.

it’s silent between them. the tension is suffocating. he’s not looking at her, but she can’t tear her eyes away from him. she’s never thought about how she’s grown, but looking at him now, it feels strange; like there’s a younger version of herself inside of her that can still see right through the man across from her, into the kid in him. but they’ve both matured, both locked that childish wonder behind many walls in their hearts now.

she hasn’t seen him since their first year in high school. of course, she's seen his face in print and on screens, but it was much different in person. compared to the image her eyes would always remember, of a boy with brighter eyes, filled with aspiration, always looking towards the future, the edges of his lips curved ever so slightly into a confident smile whenever he had his mask off–now he just looked tired. he had the same hooded eyes as always, yet they looked duller, and perhaps there were darker bags under them. his lips were permanently pressed into a thin line, with no traces of a smile anywhere. his frame was larger from years of hard work, yet he was downplaying it with his posture, shoulders curved and head held grim and low. his hands were long, but worn and calloused, and his legs were restless, nothing like the calm and still body that she used to stand side by side with.

“so,” she breaks the silence, knowing they’ll have to talk eventually. she’s playing with her own fingers nervously, feeling like the break of silence is a crime. she's not ready to talk to him, but maybe if she remains passive and neutral towards him, he’ll act the same way back, and they won’t have to think about how much they really know about each other–that she could still tell him exactly how many moles line his arms, and he could tell her about the scar on her upper thigh. “you made an appointment with me?”

“did you know it was me? you agreed to see me even though you knew it was me?” they’re the first words he’s said to her in years and they come out words brashfully, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth before he can even process what he’s just said.

her eyes are soft, while his are sharper and bolder. the way they droop gives her a safe, welcoming appearance as if promising that she can keep a secret, that she will listen without judging, and that he'll feel better after he talks to her. but her brows furrow in hurt, and he sees the glassy look in her eyes after his words. “i didn’t know it was you. i see atsumu all the time and he asked if i’d be willing to see one of his friends and i said of course. he said 'his friend' was on the fence about therapy so we just agreed that if he–you–wanted to see me more, we could figure that out later. i had no idea who you were–and even if i knew i did, is there something wrong with that? did i do something wrong?–” she clamps her lips shut, realizing she's said too much. she lets out a quiet sigh to restart before smoothing the fabric of her pants, “i’m sorry. that’s unprofessional of me. forget i said that last part. but i mean– did he not tell you who you were seeing? he just told you to show up here?”

he doesn’t like her being professional. he misses her smile. not the one she gave to the client she saw out before she told him to follow her in; the one that she would give him when they were together and he said something she found amusing. he doesn’t like what he said to her, and he digs his nails into his palms, regretting how this meeting has turned so sour, all because of him. “no. he didn’t,” he says, and he realizes his voice is still cold. he should add something else: “but there’s nothing wrong with that. it’s good to see you.”

he means what he says, but her frown remains, and she looks at him like she doesn’t believe him. she doesn't say anything in response, instead pulling her laptop from a nearby table onto her lap. “okay. well, you came here for a reason. what’s been going on? you can start from as far back as you want. this first meeting will serve as an introduction to both of us, so that you can get a feel for how i do things and so that i can understand what you’re going through, and how i can best help you.”

she’s cutting off any chance they have to look at each other as friends anymore, and he hates that, but there’s no way out of this spot she’s cornered him into, so he does what she asks. he tells her of the day he was benched, and how it's affected him ever since, leading to thought spirals and feelings that have been building up every day, which he's been choosing to shove down instead of getting out. 

“would you consider writing down your thoughts, then? either in a notes app or with actual pen and paper, either one works. but the action serves as a way to clear your mind. you can do it whenever you’d like, whether that be when you first wake up, at the end of the day, or even in the middle of the day. the point is to write down any thoughts you have that are stressing you out, like all the things you feel that you need to get done. you write them down so that you're able to take those thoughts out of your mind and put them somewhere instead of letting them stay stuck in there forever, bothering you and weighing you down even long after you’ve forgotten what it is you’re stressing about.”

she suggests things and reiterates some of the points he makes ever so often. the way she takes a backseat in the conversation, letting him do most of the thinking and talking, makes it easy for him to pretend he hasn’t known her for years, but he doesn’t want to think of her that way. he finds himself looking around her room as she talks, taking in all the small details. maybe on the train ride home, he'll take into consideration what she's just suggested and write down what he thinks of her office. 

her place is warm and inviting, and the more he looks at it, the more he thinks that it’s so her. from the mute, natural colors of the furniture that she’s meticulously picked out, the way she’s neatly organized a stack of papers on a desk nearby, along the same wall as the window to his side looking out to a verdant landscape– he even thinks about the books he saw on the shelf outside in her waiting room. he had recognized some of those books, and yet he hadn’t pieced together why he had such a nostalgic, longing, feeling in his chest. 

it was because it was her. 

perhaps the plants are what threw him off. the plants. again with the plants. he thinks about the daisies planted outside her house, that he passed every time he visited. he remembers seeing her mother out there, using a hose to water their flowers while she sat on the porch, waiting for him. she would complain to him about the fact that her mother wouldn’t let her help with the garden work, because of her “cursed black thumb” and the way her mother scolded her, hearing her daughter complain about her while she could still hear her.

she’s giving him the chance to pretend that they’re nothing more than a therapist and a client meeting for the first time, but he wants to decline the offer. he wants to ask her about what’s going on in her life, and he thinks maybe that would help with his own struggles, too; if he could hear about what she’s been doing with her life. he thinks it would help to go out for late dinners with her again, spend nights over at each other’s places again, and to just talk to her normally again. seeing her face once more after so long, he can’t look away. being in her presence now, sitting in a room filled with her heart, he feels a weight lift from the back of his head that he hasn’t been able to get rid of for so long. maybe she’s what he’s been missing this whole time.

his roommates know him well, atsumu knows him best, but none of them compare to her. nothing compares to the memories flowing through his head, of the late nights they spent out by the fire pit in her backyard, of nights spent in each other’s rooms, laughing and sharing stories, of the time her mother pulled out a foldable, stiff, scratchy bed stand for him to sleep on at their first sleepover when her mother wasn’t yet sure of him. he had tossed and turned around restlessly on that bedstand. when she asked him what was wrong, he told her he was homesick, and she let him sleep with her in her bed. nothing compared to the conversations they had late on his bedroom floor, where she slept beside him when it had become too weird for them to sleep in the same bed. nothing compared to the promises to stay together or to stay alive. and yet he’d broken that first promise.

he was telling her now about everything that was going on in his life, every thought he was having, but he wanted to just stop and say, “you already know this, don’t you?” because they were the same thoughts that had plagued him for years. the obsessions and compulsions that bothered him at all times, the strangling feeling in his chest–she’d heard all of this before.

but that silver laptop on her lap seems to be a wall between them, preventing them from being close like they were before. she keeps typing away, nodding, flicking her eyes up to meet his ever so often, but never too long for him to be able to read anything about them.

the time goes by faster than he thinks, and an hour has passed before he knows it. he wouldn’t have noticed if they had gone on for even longer than an hour, but she cuts them short when she puts that cursed computer to the side and straightens out her legs, “well, i would be open to meeting with you more, sakusa. everything you've told me today sounds like a lot, and i think it would be beneficial for you to have some extra support while balancing such a taxing career, but it’s your decision. the way i work, the first meeting is always free since it's just a warmup. if you want to see me again, your insurance should cover the majority of the cost. i’ll write down my email for you so that you contact me if you’d like to make another appointment and then i’ll walk you out.” she gets straight to the point, standing up and finding a stray sticky note to scribble something down on before walking towards the door like she’s eager to have him out of her space.

there’s so much he wants to say:

“call me omi, like you used to.”

“i still have your number saved, can i text you instead?”

“of course i want to see you again. and not just in this setting. but as friends.”

but he knows it’s too early to say any of that. he’s stuck in his head again, pulling at the fabric at his pants before he realizes she’s waiting on him. the door is open, and she wants him to leave. “okay,” he says quietly. “thank you for listening to me. i’ll think about it and email you if i decide i want to see you again.”

inside his head, something in him feels more triumphant, like he’s won control of the situation again. it’s his decision if he wants to see her again; he decides if she sees him again.

but in his chest, something twists. he wants her to say it back, that she wants to see him again. that it was good to see him again. but of course she won’t say that. he’s the client.

he wishes she would say something. anything. just one thing that’s not “professional,” or whatever she calls it.

“sounds good. if you send an email, just include what your availability is and i’ll tell you mine,” she says, holding out the note for him to grab as he passes by her. he feels lightheaded, and he has to force himself to keep walking, ignoring the way his body automatically pulls himself towards her.

“and sakusa,” she calls out, making him lose any sense of control he had left. he never could resist her, could he? whenever she asked him to sneak out of the house or buy her something to eat. 

he freezes in his steps and looks back at her. he’s not sure what his face looks like; if his eyes are wide, mouth slightly agape, and it’s obvious that he’s hoping she’ll say what he wants her to. or maybe his face is stern and apathetic, and he’ll shun her away like he did before.

“it sounds like you’ve made it really far. you’ve made a name for yourself, and you’re working towards your dreams. that’s good. you’re doing good,” she has a small smile on her face as she stands facing him, half hiding behind her wooden door. it’s nothing like the wide smiles she would give as his ears rang with her laughter, but maybe this one was even better. it’s a smile that says “maybe we can be more. maybe be can try again."

he’s at a loss for words, still looking at her. maybe it’s stupid and embarrassing, but he really hopes his face is expressive instead of something emotionless and unreadable. 

because he takes too long to respond, and suddenly the door is shut in his face, leaving him in her tiny square waiting room, painfully aware of how alone he is.

again.

.

.

.

" the mind forgets, but the heart always remembers. "

prev. | m.list | next

extras <3

sorry for any repetition!! i tried to do it three times since that's a grammar thing i think <3

slightly more light hearted next chapter! thank u for reading <3

gonna put little notes at the end of the chapter from omi, just detailing his thoughts like y/n suggested him to do <3

taglist: @eggyrocks @wyrcan @guitarstringed-scars @strawberryuri @violetesensou @kakeru-eem @glmge @heytheredemonsss @mollyrolls @bemebiu @daszy @snail-squasher @0moonii @thiisisntlovely @todorokiskitten @rory-cakes @hyenagoated @iatethemochi @yuminako @savemebrazilhinata @kismyscars @bokutoko @nobodybutnnoorr @wolffmaiden @daisy-room @softpia @lees-chaotic-brain @v3nusplanetofluv @crispchocolates @phoenix-eclipses @hhoneyhan @encrypta @rockleeisbaeeee @cr4yolaas @zombriesworld @localgaytrainwreck @moucheslove @hibernatinghamster @notverymarley @certaindreampost @akaakeis @ciderscape @lucien-luna @strawbrinkofdeath @wave2mia @samuel1004 @01trickster10 @dazqa @cosmiicdust @chemiru

[hometoursandotherstuff]

The road leading up to the castle is long. (i.e. It has to be plowed in winter.)

Welcome to Bedford Castle in Bedford, WY. (That's what the desc. calls it, but a plaque says 'Heiner Castle.') It's a fairly new castle, built in 1992, but it's pretty impressive inside, for certain reasons, not all of them great. It has 5bds, 7ba and they're asking $14M. Well, it's on 40 acres of land, too.

It's built among the pine trees and mountains of Wyoming in the background. It looks a little like an Austrian castle. Can you imagine yourself running, dressed in a pinafore, singing "The hills are alive with the sound of music?"

In the summer, it looks like the Emerald City. We're off to see the wizard.

The grand entrance stairs. There's supposed to be an elevator somewhere.

In many ways it looks like a castle, with stone arches, but I like a more medieval look, with dark wood.

I wonder if the big lion would convey.

Check out the great hall/living room. It's kind of rustic, but with stone castle pillars.

Large dated kitchen. It looks like a house kitchen, not particularly castle-ish.

The dining room has a big fireplace with a modern insert. Is it me, or is that table ridiculously high?

Now this is a castle. Big white stone fireplace and columns. Very nice. Love the blue chandy.

Looking up at the mezzanine.

Here's the elevator. I can't tell where it's located, though.

Winding castle stairs.

What is that thing? It looks like a trapeze. Do you have to grab onto it and hoist yourself up?

Assuming that you got up here, this must be the primary bedroom.

I'm gonna say that this treacherous ladder, that looks like it has rollers for steps, goes up to the kids bedroom.

They have a bunker style room.

Very large bath. Dated. When you build something like this, you gotta think timeless. Oak cabinets w/carved fronts was a trend that quickly went out of style.

Here's another bedroom. I like the fireplace mantle with the thick columns.

And, this is one of the other smaller baths. Actually, I thought that was the elevator when I first saw it.

Metal stairs to the tower. This is super cool.

40 acres in Wyoming would be beautifully green in the summer.

But, you gotta be into snow, too.

https://www.trulia.com/home/2150-robinson-ln-bedford-wy-83112-299621690

[thisblogisaboutabook]

When the Lightsinger Calls (I Hear a Symphony)

An Azriel Drabble

Azriel daydreams of his mate -Inspired by ‘I Hear a Symphony’ by Cody Fry

I used to hear a simple song.

The warm winds of summer blew through the Illyrian mountains as Azriel sat sprawled on a thick branch fifty feet in the air, one leather covered leg dangling as the other stretched across the branch, his back resting against the trunk of an old Oak tree.

Cassian had been butting heads with Devlon for hours. Same shit, different day as they heatedly negotiated new terms for the training of Illyrian females. Devlon, of course, remained as stubborn as an ass. Even after decades of his bullshit, it never failed to chafe Azriel’s nerves that they were under the regime of the most powerful High Lord in Prythian’s history yet had to make nice with stuck-in-their-ways pricks like him. Today in particular had left Azriel feeling less than giving.

Cassian booted Azriel out of negotiations in record time, which admittedly, was likely for the best. Azriel’s dominant stance, deadly gaze, and violent whirling shadows were not best suited for these futile attempts of “sweet talking” Devlon out of his deeply rooted misogyny. If Azriel had his way Truth Teller would do all the talking, but diplomacy unfortunately took precedence.

He may have put up more of a fight when storming out of the Camp Lord’s office had Cassian’s weapon of choice today not had a unique way of toeing that line between diplomacy and force in a way that even Truth Teller could not. No blood spillage necessary, though, Azriel thought with a smirk, the weapon could do just that as well.

The warmth of the suns rays shining through the rustling leaves and the scratch of bark lightly grazing the sensitive membranes of his wings - hitting those spots he could never quite reach - had Azriel drifting off into a light dream state.

As he began to doze, shadows hummed around him, the whistling breeze mixing in with their whirring as they sensed for any incoming threats.

Blending in with their simple song, the creek nearby babbled with the sounds of trickling water, crickets chirped beneath rocks below.

His thoughts became more vivid as his conscience drifted deeper into sleep.

His jaw ticked, wings jerking slightly as he dreamed glimpses of deep red coating his marred skin from the countless souls he’d drawn blood from, lifeless bodies scattered across bloody battlefields, dark cells, the bright flare of roaring fire scalding a child’s hands, his shadows melody becoming broken as they attempted to soothe their master.

The melody became lighter as the flame in his dreams became flashes of light, blurred glimpses of a lovely face appearing in and out of his dreams. A soft laugh intertwined itself with his shadows, the solemn hymn becoming lighter, with vibrant bursts of energy leaving his heart fluttering. More images of the ethereal face flickered through his mind, soft blush dusted cheeks, a radiant white smile, supple fingers tracing the muscles of his chest, plush lips on bare skin, all appearing to the beat of the rising staccato. His lips quirked upward in his sleep as his guard dropped lower and lower and the melody continued growing louder, building into the crescendo of the loveliest symphony he’d heard yet, even in Prythian’s most renowned concert halls.

The music filled Azriel’s entire being, leaving him light as shadow, his flaws forging themselves from ugly into something beautiful, something worthy, as the melody carried his soul toward the light.

Just as his body began to slump out of the tree a sing-song voice brighter than day awoke him. “Careful, Shadowsinger. One might think you’re sleeping on the job.”

He looked down to his beautiful mate, the face his dream had called him to. “My little Lightsinger, did you give Devlon hell?”

She beamed. “Worked a little on him. The girls get seven more hours per week and Cass or I can do spot checks whenever we please. I’ll push for more when we meet again in a few months.”

“That’s my girl.” His eyes shone with the pride filling his chest as he launched out of the tree and swept her off her feet.

“Let’s go home.” She whispered, pressing a kiss to his nose. Azriel only blushed and did just as his lady said, the two falling into companionable silence as her light and his shadow mingled in harmony the entire flight back to Velaris.

And now I hear a symphony.

———————————————-

[the-fiction-witch]

Bump

Media The Artful Dodger

Character Jack Dawkins

Couple Jack X Reader

Rating Sweet AF

I continued on my rounds checking my paperwork, as and when required popping in to anyone who wasn't urgent enough to come into the hospital. I checked on my way to the last house for the day, so I put my paperwork away and carried my bag with me, to the familiar deep blue front door, I fixed my jacket a little and swung the silver knocker a few times. The door swung open revealing young Elis Mayflower in her usual dress, "Ohh 'ello Dr Dawkins, we were expectin' you" She nodded and opened the door to let me in "Thank you, Elis," I nodded and took off my hat and jacket which Elis happily took "Where is she?" "Upstairs Doctor" She nodded I nodded and made my way up the stairs bag in hand. I headed down the hall past the paintings and small mostly unused rooms, until I stopped just before the last door.

The door was open a crack, light cascading from within, the sweet gentle sounds barely audible. I pushed open the door enough my body could slip inside, the well-polished wooden floor covered in dancing shadows from the fire, the flames in the fireplace danced and flickered sending the smell of oak wood and tyme across the room, the sound of the wood cracking and popping, the dark purple walls littered with almost too many paintings to even see the walls any longer, the window to the side shuttered up and then a curtain over it letting not a single bit of the harsh light from outside find its way, The various furniture littered the room.

The Main feature of the room, of course, the large wooden bed. With four tall wooden posts and a railing that normally hung purple curtains but they were missing today, the bed sheets were tossed into one corner of the bed, and sitting in it was the most perfect of sights.

Y/n sat in the bed, her back sat up but she had so many pillows between her and the headboard she must have been six inches from it if not more, her legs our straight, her hair free from any braids, and twisted, plaits or anything else, allowed to hang completely free with a slight kink to the hair where it so often lived plaided up and hidden below her hat. Her hair slightly in her face hiding it from me, she wore only a cotton shirt with long billowing sleeves that stopped just below her thigh, I thought for a moment I recognised it, as well as a pair of purple woollen socks that reached her knees with one white stripe around the top, her toes wiggling as they where warmed by the fire, her hands stroking her stomach, as she looked as if she was hiding a small barrel under her dress.

The small wooden and silver box on her table, the small silver ballerina twirling slowly as it paid her the music box song, the slight clicking and tinniness to the song as the music was plaid. And she sang with it, her voice gliding along the notes not loud enough for anyone beyond the door could hear her, as her hands stroked her stomach, tenderly, carefully, almost like she was afraid but loved all the same, her eyes on her enlarged belly and nothing else as if it and she were all that existed.

I couldn't hold back a smile, I must have looked an absolute picture, smiling so widely my cheeks hurt, red with blush to see her this way. I softly closed the door and took soft steps to lean my shoulder on the bedpost not enough to draw her attention, so I stood and watched for what could have been a thousand years, until her music box stopped and thus her song ended. "You're glowing," I spoke up, She jumped a little at my sudden words but she looked up with a sweet innocent smile, "Ohh, Hello Doctor Dawkins," She smiled, "I didn't hear you come in," "I didn't want to disturb your sweet song," I cooed unable to drag my eyes away from her just wanting to look at her a little while longer. She smiled "Aren't you going to examine me, doctor?" "Alright," I smiled moving to sit on her bed, I set my bag on the bed and opened it up to search through for what I needed. "How are you feeling?" "Much the same," She nodded leaning on her arms so I could touch her stomach, I checked her over as we spoke making sure everything was as it should be asking her short questions about how things were going and much of it was the same as last I saw her "So, When will it be?" She asked excitedly,

"Well, that's the question isn't it," I chuckled "I wish I could tell you, but unfortunately children are sort of a law unto themselves, when baby decides its time, then baby will come." I explained "You, I or anyone else doesn't have much of a say in it. But baby will let you know when it's time" I told her stroking her sweet cheek "Alright?" "Alright," she nodded, "I admit I am half tempted to get you a room at the hospital, just so you're close by," I told her, "I want to be here, where I'm comfortable." She said stroking her bump "Are you sure you don't want to be at the hospital?" "I'm sure," She nodded "Alright, as soon as you feel a contraction I want to know" I warn her, "I'll run all the way here if I have to." I winked "Can I? Please?" She pleads I smiled and got my stethoscope from my bag I gave the end a little warm with my hand before I tugged up her shirt just far enough to see her bare stomach, I put the other end to my ear and listened as I rested it on her skin, I shifted it across her skin until I found the best place to hear the rhythmic beating, for a moment I was frozen as I heard the gentle beats, each caused my own heart to swell and I had to fight back the tears "Here," I smiled and handed her the listening end and she happily put it to her ear and listened with the most excited smile I had ever seen a girl have,

She sniffled, tears slowly falling staring at her stomach as she listened "Hi Darling," She cooed and you could see the movement as the baby kicked, "You think he can hear me?" "Of course, he can, He can hear you talk to him, hear you sing to him, You're his mother, he loves you more than anyone will ever understand," I told her kissing her forehead, "Can he hear his daddy?" She asked as she took my hand and settled it on her stomach so I could feel him kick, "Of course, He can." I smiled giving her bump a sweet kiss "Hi little guy," I smiled as I rubbed my nose on her stomach and I gave her bump and our baby kisses. "It won't be long now, I'm sure of it." "Good, I don't want to be pregnant anymore Jack" She laughs returning my stethoscope to my bag,

"No?" "No. My feet are so swollen I can't wear shoes, I don't fit in any of my dresses anymore, I leak everywhere, I'm throwing up all the time, He's kicking me like I'm a football," She explained "It's not fun being pregnant Jack." "You said you liked it?" "I did when I was a couple of months and I had a cute little bump I could stroke as we walked through town." "You were adorable." I smiled thinking back to when she was newly pregnant, wandering around town with her little bump in her dress, I admit it made me feel very proud of myself. "And still are." "I'm as big as a ship Jack." she pouted, "They'll try to hollow me out and sail me to Africa," "You're a ship?" I chuckled, "ummmm" She nodded, "Well then, Permission to come aboard?" I smirked climbing over her to start kissing all over her face and neck which caused her giggle "Ohh yes a very beautiful ship, the most beautiful ship in the world, I shall have to steal her and sail the world single-handedly with her!" "Jack!" she laughed as she pushed me off her, "What's this anyway?" I glared tugging on her shirt, "I borrowed it," She giggled, "Borrowed?" "Well you've been working so much," she innocently smiled "We missed you." "I've missed you both too." I smiled, "But I need to do all this extra work, so I have lots of time off for when baby comes. I don't wanna be stuck up the hospital and leave you here with our little one, I wanna be here to help, and cuddle, and watch him grow. I don't wanna miss anything."

"Good, You can stay up all night when he cries then." "Ohh I know I will, I know what a trial it is trying to get you out of bed when you don't want to." "I don't like to be awoken," She pouts, "I just want this to be over." "Over?" I asked a little worried, "You know what I mean, I'm just… It's been a long nine months Jack, I'm tired." "I know you are," I smiled and kissed her lips "It won't be too much longer sweetheart."

[starspulledfromyoureyes]

The boygenius performance at white oak music hall in Houston photographed by @/madelynnscottphoto on insta

[beejunos]

SINNERMAN | Alastor x f.reader | part 3.

Summary: After Sir Pentious’s failed attempt at spying on the hotel, the Vees approach you to make a new deal—a deal that you can’t refuse. Help them take down Alastor, and you will get to kill him again. After all, the great butcher of New Orleans had killed your brother, so it was only fair that you had killed him in return. And you would love to do it again.

Tags: Alastor x f!reader, slow burn, obsessive behaviour, enemies to lovers, spying, murder

PART 1. | PART 2. | AO3

Chapter 3. Brother, oh, brother

August 21st, 1927. New Orleans. 

The day had been unusually cold for New Orleans in August, but the radio station quickly turned warm as its employees and their families congregated in its halls to celebrate the station's explosive expansion. The clock had just turned ten o'clock at night, and laughter could be heard blending effortlessly with the music from the live band. 

The radio station's celebration occurred in its most splendid room, an old salon converted into a restaurant and lunch room. From the ceiling hung beautiful crystal chandeliers that cast a wonderfully warm glow over the crowd of people mingling all around. The walls were painted in a deep, rich indigo that made the room feel more luxurious and intimate, with dark stained wooden accents and an oak floor. On the ceilings could a faint trace of paint still be seen from a time the ceiling had been painted, but there was no possibility of interpreting what the images were anymore.

You admired the incredible art that hung on the walls as you zigzagged through the people to get to where you thought you had seen your brother. You quickly apologised to anyone you bumped into as you squeezed between groups to avoid disturbing them. Mindful of the cream-coloured dress you had bought with your own money after working long hours as a secretary at the police station, you pressed it close to your body so it never snagged on anything or anyone else. It was the closest thing you would ever come to being considered a flapper. Something you longed for desperately. To be as free as them.

However, that would never be in the cards for you. Born from one of the wealthiest families in New Orleans, it was a miracle that your mother and father had let you work at the police station at all. Like any good daughter, you loved your parents deeply, but sometimes you wished they would loosen their leach on you. 

Thankfully, you had your brother, who could get away with anything. As the eldest son, your parents expected him to one day take over the family business, but in the meantime, they let him do whatever he wanted. This led him to now work at the radio station as one of their hosts, but it was only temporary if your father would have a say. 

Your brother, Joshua, had always been a wild child. Full of energy and a lust for life that you had never seen in anyone else, and as children, he had always had the nasty habit, according to your mother, of dragging you off into his various adventures. All of these minor adventures constantly ended with both of you coming home with dirt and grass stains all over your white clothes. 

These small adventures never really ended, and even now, when both of you were adults, he would often help you escape your parents and their restrictive ways. Joshua frequently talked bout how when he was the head of the family business, he would buy you a one-way ticket to New York just so one of you could be free. But, in the meantime, he would invite you to various events that he and his friends would hold. This time, he had invited you to the event at the radio station. 

You continued to squeeze past a larger group where one of the older men laughed rather loudly at one of his jokes before you saw your brother. You called out his name as he started to walk in the other direction. Hearing his name, Joshua quickly spun around and met your gaze with the same boyish smile you had grown up with.

"There she is!" he called and held out his hand to pull you into the group he was talking to. "Everyone, I want you all to meet my little sister." 

They all greeted you by saying their own names, and you really tried to remember every single one of them. However, after a long evening of new faces, names, and job titles, it became pretty difficult to remember who was who. 

"Where's Alastor? Shouldn't he be here by now?" asked a woman with short red hair as she lit a cigarette. Her emerald green dress sparkled like green stars in the evening light, and you felt a tiny bit jealous since your parents would never allow you to wear anything that beautiful. You had to think of the good family name and reputation, as they would have said.

"Oh, I saw him just a few minutes ago," Joshua answered unhelpfully as he started to look around the crowd. However, he was a short man and could not see that far over the crowd. 

"He's dancing, as always," chuckled one of the men beside the redhead as he took her cigarette and used it himself. They looked so lovingly at each other that you had to turn away, for it felt like you were invading their tender moment. 

"Ah, there he is. Hey, Alastor! Over here!" shouted Joshua beside you and threw his arm in the air. Waving someone over to your group. Forward stepped maybe the most beautiful man you had ever seen. The description 'Tall, dark and handsome' felt like it was made specifically for him. 

Alastor towered over the group but wasn't as lanky as most men his height could be. His broad shoulders and chest balanced him out significantly, creating a statuesque figure that made you think of the marble sculptures of gods and heroes from the old masters. He dragged his hand through his dark brown hair, which was tussled from all the dancing, and you silently wished that it was your hands dragging through his hair just so you could see if it felt as silky as it looked. 

He was dressed in a beautiful maroon-striped suit that wonderfully complemented his warm brown skin, and a small treacherous part of your mind wondered what colour his skin would take if you dragged your nails over his back or chest. 

As he got close enough to join the group, you finally saw his eye colour behind his round glasses. A rich brown that you knew would turn almost golden in the sunlight. The kind of brown eyes that the poets wrote about. A lover's gaze so sweet that it could heal any broken heart. Brown eyes as sweet as honey, brown eyes like a fire-lit light, brown eyes as rich as the depth of earth. He was mysterious, intoxicating, and your heart nearly skipped a beat when he looked down at you with his brilliant smile. 

"And who might this charming belle be? I don't think we've met before." 

You thought you were going to die the moment Alastor took your hand and placed a featherlight kiss on your knuckles as butterflies erupted in your stomach. Your name felt almost foreign on your lips, but oh so right, leaving his.

Behind you, you could hear your brother snort loudly before he playfully hit Alastors shoulder.

"Settle down; that's my little sister you're flirting with." That statement only made Alastor chuckle before he let go of your hand, and you instantly missed his warmth. 

"Alastor? I don't think I've heard your name on the radio. Are you a host or perhaps an audio engineer?" you asked, desperate to continue to talk to the man. 

Alastors smile only grew as he looked down at you. From the inside pocket of his suit, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

"I'm a host, my dear. I host the show after Joshuas," he said as he lit his cigarette and put it to his plush lips. You had to implore a tremendous amount of self-control not to openly stare at his lips and his long fingers as he held the cigarette between his index and middle fingers.

Even his hands are perfection, you thought in despair.

"The Evening Hour? Oh, I've heard about it! You play by far the best jazz in all of New Orleans." 

The smile Alastor gave you felt the most genuine he had made all evening. It made you wonder how often he had to smile to hide his true feelings. 

The rest of the evening went by in a haze as you continued to talk to Alastor, and it peaked when he asked you to accompany him to a dance. The lights felt brighter, the music forever tied to the memory of Alastor's hand between your shoulder blades. It was a moment in time when you forgot who you were and what life you were expected to live. 

For a moment, you were only a girl in the arms of a boy when an infatuation took root in your heart. But all nights end, even the ones that feel like dreams, and soon you were forced to say goodbye to the man with the bewitching smile and beautiful eyes as you and your brother prepared to go home. 

The road home was dark and cold as you walked through street after street. It felt lonelier than you expected, for Joshua did not say a single word to you. You hugged your too-thin summer coat around you as you and your brother took the backdoor through the kitchen to your home.

The room was dark and empty, just as both of you had suspected, and the only things you could see were the contours of objects in the light of the moon. Both you and Joshua quickly took off your shoes before you prepared yourselves to tip-toe through the big house. 

You were halfway through the kitchen when you heard Joshua whisper your name in the dark. You turned to look at your brother, who was still standing by the door.

"Don't ever talk to Alastor again."

"What? Why?" you asked, shocked because Joshua had never demanded anything of you before, but there was a coldness to his voice that you did not like. He had an odd look on his face that you had never really seen before, and it made you hesitate, for it matched the look your father usually had before taking his anger out on others.

With a forceful tone in his voice, your brother turned to you and said, "Just stay away from him. I can't quite put my finger on it, but there's something about him that makes me feel uneasy." It wasn’t a plea; it was a demand and the type of demand that left no room for negotiations.

He gave you a quick glance before hastily making his exit from the kitchen, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

Joshua never invited you to the radio station after the celebrations, so you had no real reason to go over there and talk to Alastor. Days turned into weeks, and slowly, you had to accept that your one night with the man would only be that one magical night.

You had, however, no idea that your life would come crashing down on you. 

November the 3d, 1927

It has been two long weeks since Joshua went missing, and your mother was beyond distraught. She has secluded herself in her bedroom, allowing only food and drink to be brought in and refusing to speak to anyone else but you. The only words she utters were those of cold certainty - she knows Joshua is dead. But you and your father adamantly refuse to believe her words. 

Your father, who has always been a reserved and complicated man, had begun working longer and longer hours, dreading the thought of coming home to what remains of his family. Meanwhile, you were doing your best to keep the family functioning, but the constant worry and sleepless nights were taking their toll. 

You tried to hold onto hope that Joshua had just run away, finally fed up with your father's controlling behaviour. But deep down, you know that Joshua would never have left you behind. 

He had made you an important promise—to get you out of this town and as far away from your parents as possible. You clung to this promise even as the days dragged on with no news of Joshua's whereabouts. The uncertainty and fear were nearly unbearable, but you refused to give up hope.

November the 7th, 1927

The police came knocking on your family's door in the evening. You had taken the day off from work to care for your mother when one of the policemen you knew from the office asked to talk to your father. 

"He isn't home right now," you answered hesitantly. Your father hadn't been home in a few days, and you had no idea when he would come home again. You would call his office every evening to ensure he was all right, but from your short phone calls with your father, you could tell he was not doing well. 

"Do you know when he will be back?" the officer asked, giving you a look you knew all too well. You saw it all the time in the police station. It was the same sympathetic look newer officers would give families when they had only bad news to deliver.

Pushing your shoulders back, you took a deep breath and asked the question that you did not want the answer to.

"You've found Joshua's body, haven't you?"

 The officer heaved a sigh as he looked at you with heavy eyes. A bird could be heard singing its sorrowful song somewhere in the distance as you waited for your colleague's answer. 

"A part of Joshua's body was found about five miles outside of the city. Some hunters in the area found him." 

"A part?" you asked, shocked. "But if it was a body part you've found, how can you be sure it's Joshua's?" 

Your voice rose in pitch with every word you uttered. If only the police had found all of him. If only Joshua had run away and never returned. 

"His head. We have found his head." 

Ice-cold fear pierced your heart as a piece of your soul died right there, in the hallway of your family home on a Monday evening. Your father refusing to come home, a mother who would never be the same, and all you wished was that you were in New York. Far away from everything. 

"I'm sorry to inform you and your family, but your brother was killed by The Butcher."

The butcher, a serial killer who had hunted New Orleans for the past year. Always so far away, jet so near, and now he had spilt his filth all over your family. Destroyed and mutilated your lives. A demon among men. 

A demon whose shadow now towered over you, laughing at your weak soul. Laughing at your misery and sorrow. 

A monster and everyone knew that monsters were to be hunted like the animals they were.

You would see the end of the butcher if you so died trying.

A little flashback. Oh, how the wide-eyed wonder died fast.

Taglist: @martinys-world @tremendoushearttaco @fairyv-ice @azmosposts @nyx91

[hongjoongspoetry]

A Love Written in Gold | Teaser

Part 1 — The Grand Debut

🦢 Author's Note: Here's a lil sneak peak on the first part of ALWIG. I've not beta-read it yet so ignore any possible typos or other mistakes

This is all fiction and not meant to represent the idols involved in any way or form. This work is NSFW and not appropriate for minors as it contains explicit scenes, not necessarily sexual content, but descriptions of both physical and verbal fights, as well as adult language. Minors and ageless blogs, please, refrain from reading or interacting with this work or my blog!!!

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Running around unchaperoned on your first night as an eligible woman was not appreciated by the mamas standing uncomfortably close to their sons. Their judgmental glares stemmed from a place deep within, from a place of concern over what kind of woman their sons would take interest in. It said plenty to see you alone, neither of the Jeong brothers nor that mother of yours that married twice by your side. They do say the apple does not fall far from the tree. No one wanted to welcome a woman carrying the curse of death in her purse with open arms only to later bury their son six feet underground. 

Out of respect for your family’s name and honor, but also to protect your own feelings, you stumbled up the big beautiful staircase by the entrance and turned left and right until you were alone with the walls and striking interior to keep you company. If Yunho got a whim of what you were doing, he would be beyond furious. Instead of socializing downstairs, you opted to hide out in one of the many rooms upstairs. You could already hear his patronizing voice in the back of your mind, asking you how you thought to be courted if you were out of sight for the majority of the night. Would you expect a suitor to fall through your bedroom ceiling? 

Yunho’s nagging came to an end as a faint melody filled the silent hallway and sailed your thoughts elsewhere. Caught in its waves, you followed the mellifluous notes. If you were a sailor, then the player was a siren guiding you to your demise with their lulling melody. The further you walked, the louder the sound became and you recognized it as piano notes. Each press of their fingers on the keys was a chord striking along with your heart and your own fingers itched to dance along the white and black surface. The long hallway led to many different rooms, all of them shut except one with its door ajar and a string of light cutting across the tiled floor. 

You moved slowly, afraid to accidentally touch the door or disturb the mystery pianist, and peeked through the tight opening. Out of all the impressive things you had witnessed that evening, this room would forever be engraved in your memories. In the center of the room by the big window sat a man in front of a dark oak piano, breathing life into the silence. All you could see was his back, a suit the color of snow, and caramel hair reaching his shoulder blades. What a peculiar style for a gentleman, you thought. 

Instruments were placed into every nook and cranny of the room. Guitars, violins, cellos, the pianoforte. This was everything you could ever ask for. You were not aware of His Grace‘s interest in music, perhaps your brother could formally introduce you to the duke later. Looking past the expensive equipment, you took in the room for what it was. The walls were a deep red contrasted by the champagne-carved details on the tapestry and rosewood furniture filled the room, everything from bookshelves to uncomfortable-looking desks and chairs, even a few sofas here and there. As every room of the Park manor seemed to have, even this one was lit up by a chandelier — albeit smaller than the one in the main hall — in the center, right above the pianist. 

He was on the last segment of the melody and you slipped into the room quiet as a mouse stealing cheese from the pantry, but stayed close to the door where the man could not see you until he had turned around. The song was beautiful, far better than anything created by the professional orchestra downstairs. This man was quite the proficient player and you wondered if you too could have been this talented if your mother had not established the foolish rule in the Jeong Household. 

As the man pressed his fingers on the keys and let them linger until the last notes vanished to silence, your feet got caught on the end of your dress, sending you tumbling forward. Blessed be the chair in your way as it saved you from falling in front of the pianist. The screech of its legs was so thunderous and sudden that it had the man jumping from his seat as if physically burned by the keyboard. The clash of your eyes froze you in place. Not only was his playing enchanting, but his appearance deserved a place amongst the many portraits hanging on the walls. The pianist you had yet to learn the name of was the most handsome man in all of London and you believed he even challenged the duke for his looks. The silence stretched on and your face burned hotter than the fireplace in your living room. Upholding your image, you brought forth your hand and cleared your throat just enough for you to hear. 

“Eh– Excuse my intrusiveness, Mr…!” 

Despite the fear swimming in his eyes and his heart thumping louder than the music downstairs, Hongjoong schooled his expression into that of a relaxed man. You did not seem to have any ill intentions in mind, but he could not take his chances. For all he knew, you could be of great relation with the duke and have him arrested for trespassing. His music playing was not meant for anyone to hear or see. He did not think anyone would be as foolish or brave as him to explore the second floor in spite of it being a restricted area for the evening. Hongjoong hid his sweaty palms in the smooth pockets of his trousers and slipped on a — hopefully — charming smile. 

“You may call me Hongjoong.”

© HONGJOONGSPOETRY 2024 - All rights reserved. Copying, editing, reposting or translating my work is not allowed.

[lilspacewolfie]

would it be possible to do a cardinal copia x reader first date but the day of the date copia ends up forgetting due to a stressful day, and expects them to be mad but ends up telling copia its ok and ends with them cuddling copia and making sure he gets a good night sleep.

Thank you for being my first request! I really hope you have as much fun reading this as I did writing it! <3

Content: 1.6k words, gn!reader, very little description to keep it as gender-neutral as possible, soft copia, failed date, sweet ending, just all around very soft and fluffy, no beta we die like nihil!

The little Italian place in town is quaint and surprisingly busy given its midweek. It’s a small hole in the wall, cramped but lively, with beautifully arched windows and candles dotting each table that give off a warm, intimate ambience. 

Arranging a date with Copia had proven to be tougher than expected with both of your busy schedules. But when you managed to figure out the time, Copia had insisted on this place.  

You arrived early—about thirty minutes to be exact, not wanting to be late for your first date. You’ve gotten all dressed up and probably spent a little more on a new outfit than is warranted for a first date, but you want to make a good impression. 

There’s faint music playing above you, slow and swaying. You try not to think about how long you’ve been sitting there, growing increasingly more awkward as the minutes tick by. When you finally do give in and pull out your phone to check the time, you can’t help but feel a bit troubled. It’s close to seven. Anxiety rolls through you like a storm cloud and you swallow, debating on sending him a message. You had agreed to meet at six so you could eat, and then have enough time to take a casual stroll to the Ministry together. You had hoped to enjoy the spring air, but now that's starting to feel like a dream that sadly won't come true. 

You slip your phone back into your pocket and lean on a fist, drumming your fingers anxiously atop the red and white check tablecloth. It’s probably nothing, he’s a busy man, after all. Maybe he just got held up with some last-minute things. So then why hasn’t he texted? 

Copia is the last man you would expect to stand anyone up without reason, and you know he would alert you if he was running late. He’s sweet and thoughtful—you’ve been with him for long enough to gather that he’s one to commit a bit of self-flagellation when he thinks he’s messed up. 

Around you, couples cosy up and laugh, sip wine together and indulge in the restaurant's luscious food that smells divine. Your jealous stomach growls and you swallow thickly when the waitress approaches you for the second time that evening. You can see on her face that she’s hesitant to ask if you’re ready to order, and there’s something akin to pity in her eyes. Not that you need it. 

You’re staring at the rose in the little red vase on the table when she asks: “Are you ready to order?” 

Maybe he isn’t coming. Maybe he forgot? No, no, that's a stupid thought. Even Copia would tell you that himself. You’re a priority to him. 

An idea hits you. 

“Actually,” you say, turning over your laminated menu, “I think I am.”

She smiles, pulling out a little flip book and a pen. 

—

The Ministry is quiet when you make it back, carrying hot, precious cargo in a white paper bag. Your footfalls echo on the marble floor as you traverse the old halls, passing preserved paintings, stone statues of your Dark Lord and stained glass windows that bathe the halls in colour even at night. 

You know where Copia’s office is located, near Imperators just down the hall, and so you make your way over. When you get there the hallway is darkened, but you see exactly what you expected. His door is closed and there’s a thin slither of light spilling from beneath onto the oak flooring. So, he has been held up. 

When you knock, loud enough to be heard but receive no response, worry sits heavy in your chest. You knock again and wait, but still, there’s no response. Your gaze falls to the brass doorknob which you grasp and turn, the door creaking a bit when it’s open. 

Inside is warm, the light from the beautiful Tiffany-styled lamp bathing the room in a cosy orange. His desk is at the far end in front of a massive arched window and there’s a stack of papers on his desk. When you do finally see him, you’re suddenly not vexed or hurt anymore. In fact, you have to bite your lip to keep from giggling. 

Copia is snoring softly, slumped over his old desk with his pen still balanced in hand. He looks so peaceful that you don’t want to wake him, but you know his back and shoulders won’t be thanking him tomorrow if you don’t. 

Carefully you close the door, tiptoe over to the front of his desk and set the paper takeaway bag on the chair. When you round to his side and get a good look at him, you bite your lip again and something uncoils in your chest. The black paint around his eyes is a bit smudged and his handsome face is picturesque, the wrinkles across his forehead softened by the light. 

You touch his arm first, squeezing and rubbing his bicep through his red cassock. You rest your other hand on his wild, mousy brown hair that's sticking up and stroke it down gently. 

“Copia?” You whisper, shaking him a bit. 

He stirs, inhaling and stiffening before his mismatched eyes blink open. He’s awake in an instant, flustered and a bit out of it, and you step back to let him get his bearings. 

“Amore?” He blinks at you a few times, forcing himself to sit up in his leather desk chair. He glances at the clock above the door, then at you, then back at your clothes and his shoulders slump. You watch the horror and recognition play across his face.  

“Oh, cazzo,” he swears quietly, scrubbing a hand over his face, as he looks back up at you with big, glossy eyes. “Amore, perdonami, ti prego… I… Sister wanted me to finish some last minute things and I must’ve fallen asleep and—merda…” he says, anguished. 

“Copia, shh, it’s okay,” you soothe, taking his face in your hands and stroking your thumbs across the hair of his sideburns. He leans into your hold, wide-eyed. You shake your head, smiling and he deflates, pressing one of his leather-clad hands to yours on his face. 

“But you got all dressed up and—“

“It’s okay,” you say again and you think he might actually start crying, but you’re not about to let him catch the self-flagellation train tonight. 

“I’m so sorry, amore,” he whispers again, sadly. 

“Don’t apologise,” you chide gently, “you’re tired. It’s okay. I figured something was wrong when you didn’t show. Don’t be sorry, I know Imperator has been hard on you lately.”

He winces a bit, but you lean in and kiss him tenderly, soothing his hurt like balm on a stinging wound. He relents, stroking his thumb over your knuckles, and when you pull away he sighs. You know he’ll feel awful about this for a while, but at least you might be able to help him feel less bad. 

“I brought takeout,” you flick your eyes to the paper bag, pulling back. Copia follows, taking one of your hands and you help pull him to his feet. 

He groans, and winces again, muttering a few choice swears that make you giggle. When he looks you up and down with a new form of clarity that isn’t veiled by torment, his expression relaxes. 

“Sei bellissima, amore mio.”

You lean in and press your mouth to his, brief and chaste and Copia hums, wrapping you up in his arms for a proper hug.

You take dinner back to his room, letting the relaxed atmosphere carry you both into its sweet lull. 

You borrow one of Copia’s shirts and his many tracksuit bottoms to change into while he freshens up and scrubs the paint from his face. When you’re both done, you pop Bram Stroker’s Dracula on low in the background. You lounge together on his bed, munching on the takeout pasta and drinking the wine Copia had intended to give you at the restaurant. Every time he attempts to apologise for missing your date, you silence him with another sweet kiss that tastes of wine and creamy pasta sauce, watching him blush sweetly. 

By the time you’re both finished, bellies full and thoroughly warmed from the wine, you’re both too exhausted and comfortable to move. 

Copia’s flush to your side curled around you with his head on your shoulder while you play with his soft hair. You press the occasional kiss to his temple, smelling his zesty shower cream and the heady wine on his breath. You watch, quietly amused, as he tries to focus on the movie, blinking hard and forcing his eyes to stay open. You love it when he’s like this, vulnerable and sleep-warm. You don’t need a fancy restaurant. This is perfect.

“Sleep if you want,” you tell him, trailing your fingers lazily up and down his bicep. 

“Are you sure?” He mutters guiltily, lifting his eyes to yours. There's still small flecks of black around his eyes that never seem to leave. He looks adorable and exhausted. You gently wipe away the smudge of black on the tip of his freckled nose.

“Of course,” you smile at him. “You had a long day, Satan knows you need it.” 

Copia turns his face and kisses the skin of your collarbone, adjusting again before he settles. You tug the blanket that’s haphazardly thrown over you both further up his body and make sure he’s tucked in.

He’s asleep in mere moments, body growing heavy against your side, and the sound of his slow, laboured breaths mixes with the buzz of the movie as it slowly plays out.

masterlist ⛧ Ao3

[shesjustanothergeek]

His Love

|Aegon II Targaryen x Fem!Reader|

Part Eighteen

Masterlist of Series

Summary: Being a bastard born in the slums of Flea Bottom was all you were known for. Not the streak of white you had in your dark hair, the violet ring around your pupils, or how your sharp tongue and skills with the blade resembled your father, Daemon Targaryen. You were just a bastard, nothing more, but to him, to Aegon Targaryen, you were everything. You were his love.

Author's Note: Sorry for blue balling you for the past two weeks, but we're finally at the long-awaited feast for Aegon's 20th birthday! I hope my kitty meow meow gets everything he wishes for. Thank you so much for sticking with me through 18 chapters and counting! Y'all have no idea how much it means to me when I see every comment, note, or notification regarding this story. It always makes me so happy. :)

Chapter Warnings: Ableism, implied sex slavery.

"scream 

so that one day a

hundred years from now

another sister will not have to dry her tears 

wondering where in history 

she lost her voice."

- Jasmin Kaur

You were in the guest chambers, readying for the feast that concluded this week-long celebration. The days had been daunting, anxiety and hardship looming over you like a cloud covering the morning sun. You hoped the future held a more effortless and less taxing light, but your sense made you believe otherwise.

Fiora and Dyana took to bathing you, assuring your flesh had no speckle of dirt or sebum, inspecting each limb, then scrubbing with a floral soap imported from Yi Ti. They changed the typical lavender body oil you wore to a sweet and uplifting scent of Port Wine Magnolia for the special occasion, the candy-smelling flowers that were one of the many planted in Aegon the Conqueror's Garden. Jeyne sorted your attire, holding pieces of different golden jewelry to the sparkling cider of embroidered fabric that was your dress.

It was not your usual color choice, finding comfort with your family's statement reds and blacks. But tonight was not about Houses and the game of thrones you constantly played. It was only an evening meant for you to unwind, perhaps indulge more in food and wine, and dance until your feet bled.

You were drained from the daytime already, desiring to crawl under your refreshing cotton blankets and sleep until your servants woke you in the morn.

Jeyne hardened your struggle with consciousness as her gentle movements in your hair made you relax further, leaving your black tresses in the same underlying style from before but braiding it elegantly and sticking twinkling Aurelian pins to hold the thickness together.

The three ladies ushered you out to the Great Hall, escorting you until you heard the waves of laughter and the hum of music. The tall oak and bronze doors were left open for the many entering and exiting guests, chuckling in their expensive and different-colored outfits, each aiming to display their wealth to those around them. Two guards stood on each side of the frame, hands hanging stiffly at their sides.

The fare had yet to be served, but the small group of musicians in the corner played a spirited tune for the people dancing and clapping between the rows of long tables, a substantial pile of gifts just out of view. You wondered if Aegon was asked for input on this. You were sure if he was that there would be much fewer male servants working tonight and more women as you took an open seat closer to the royal family.

You assumed that you would be given a place at the high tableland with them since you were also a royal, but every chair was taken though there was plenty of room to fit more. No doubt a detail Queen Alicent enforced to slight your faction of uninvited Targaryens and further plant the seeds of their secession in the court's mind. Everything with the Hightowers was carefully planned and crafted to the final minute detail. You were zany to think tonight would be any different.

A male orderly walking with a silver tray in his palm caught your attention, signaling him to ask for a drink while you waited for the celebration to begin with the arrival of the King.

From Aegon's elevated off-centered place at the royal table, he could see all who came and left, sizing each noblewoman on who would be the easiest to bed. He was drowning in his cups before you entered, his blurry vision creating an almost ethereal glow to your silhouette in the gilded room.

You looked stunning, utterly unaware of the Prince's gaze. Aegon nearly lost his grip on his chalice filled with his favorite wine as he saw your sandy dress, dragons of the same color sewn into the bodice, reminding him of Sunfyre.

Did you pick that shade specifically for him, knowing it was his favorite? Had you stood in your bed chambers in your thin chemise, nipples pert from the cold air as you stared between your plethora of gowns and, by chance, settled with something he adored? No. You were a pragmatic woman, meticulously determining your and your opponent's next ten moves. You choose this for him.

Aegon knew you weren't upset after last night, a sentiment of relief settling in his gut along with the wine. It was just the loss of your post-coupling bliss that allowed doubt to fester. His little dragon was finally experiencing the emotions and urges that came with eros and didn't know how to cope appropriately. He remembered when he first encountered it. That insatiable��itch. Having been exposed to sex at such a young age, Aegon understood what to do and how to handle it, placing his fist on his more petite cock during youth and pumping it until ecstasy.

You had grown in many ways, but with regards to fucking, you were still that same little girl from Flea Bottom with those peculiar, searching eyes, looking to him for guidance as you asked for the knowledge of pleasure.

The band finished playing their last melody as the King entered, the dancers parting like the sea to make room for his chair as they carried him to the middle of the high table. There was a small bandage on his cheek that had not been there earlier, and it made you smile, knowing that someone took your words seriously. Viserys stood from his wooden throne, using the table for support as he raised his brass goblet to the room.

"A toast," he wheezed, gazing at nothing imparticular, "in celebration of this joyous occasion. My eldest son, Prince Aegon, is now a youthful twenty, married to his beautiful Lady Wife with two healthy children." You noticed Helaena fidgeting in her olive green dress, looking down at her empty silver plate. "Let us drain our cups to the children of the House of The Dragon! May they live long and prosperous lives..."

Viserys trailed off with a cough but was drowned out by the roars of people shouting "hear! hear!" to his toast, vibrating the high narrow windows as the musicians started another upbeat tune.

Servants dressed in red emerged from the oak and bronze doors, carrying plates and trays of different food. Scores of delicacies were served before you. They brought pigs, mutton, goose, venison, and enough hearty sides to feed the entirety of Flea Bottom into the Great Hall. The smell was enough to make your mouth water, waiting to be served after the royal family as you took a swig of your wine, your rings clinking against the cup.

Through the flurry of servants and maids, you felt the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. An uneasy feeling washed over you as a woman set a platter of meat on the table, blocking your vision for a moment but then revealing the fierce look of Dalton Greyjoy across the room. You had the urge to give him an annoyed expression for staring but thought better of it as you remembered his importance and position. Instead, you extended a smile, nodding your head as you began to plate heapings of food.

The eldest Prince was too engrossed with the arrangements of sweets in front of his mother to notice the exchange, sneaking a hand to snatch a sugar-coated puff pastry before the Queen could stop him.

Soon you had your full, eating in silence as the nobleman next to you was not one for conversation, no matter how you tried to start one. You could still feel Dalton's watchful brown eyes on you, attempting to ignore him as he observed every sip of wine and swallow of food you took. With the screech of Ser Otto Hightower's chair, he announced that the gift ceremony could commence, snapping Aegon out of his dessert-induced trance.

You were apprehensive about the present you got him, a simple, tiny box tucked into your skirt pocket. It was commissioned before what happened last night when you were in a happier and more sentimental mood. You regretted it sorely as you saw the different Lords and Ladies kneel before Aegon sat in a carved wooden chair before his family.

They bestowed him with countless grandiose and superficial gifts of swords, pelts, jewels, and a diamond-encrusted wine decanter. At one point, a Lord from Pentos came strolling in with two caramel-skinned women, all clad in turquoise and bronze. They were so beautiful and exotic-looking that they would shame the most gorgeous women in Westeros.

"A gift to you, my Prince," the man bowed, gesturing the women forward as their metal jewelry jingled. "My pick of the most beautiful desert flowers. May they serve you well in whatever way you desire."

The Queen bowed her head in embarrassment as her son eagerly rose from his seat, gathering the women under his arms as he thanked the man most graciously. Aemond placed a comforting hand on Helaena's back as she looked forward, not entirely seeing what was happening. Your expression mirrored Alicent's, looking away with downturned lips as Aegon stole a glance as he returned to his honorary throne.

You felt like a fool for getting him something so plain, the box it resided in burning through the palms of your hands. It would have been best had trusted your gut when walking into the local jewelsmith. At first, your present was meant to be an insult, knowing his desire for extravagant things and only getting something plain, but after the moment you shared in the Godswood, you decided to make an ordinary object into something special.

Your lip was nearly raw from your incessant chewing, feeling the thin liquid of blood pool into your mouth as you ripped a thin piece of skin.

After the line of people dwindled to only a few, you gained the courage to step in with the rest of the noble people, shifting your weight on the soles of your feet in anxiety. It also didn't help as you felt Ser Dalton stare at the side of your face, the urge to unsheath the dagger from your calve and plunge it into each of his annoyingly observant brown eyes. Life would be better without men in the world, you thought to yourself.

Soon you were only a meter away from Aegon and his two desert flowers leaning over his form, whispering words you did not want to hear as they trailed their fingers along his skin. He quickly swatted them away once he saw you standing before him. You inwardly scoffed as you bowed into a deep curtsy, your breasts nearly spilling out of your bodice, much to the Prince's delight.

He could now see you in all your beauty. The way your dress sparkled in the candle-lit room, watching your decorated chest rise with unsteady breaths. Aegon hadn't noticed the half-golden wreath of flowers on the back of your head, contrasting wildly from your silky black hair with rings of the same metal on your blanched fingers tightly gripping a small box. You were a picture of the Maiden with your radiant youth and innocence, and despite his best efforts, he felt his heart beat faster as he watched your painted lips move.

"Lady Targaryen, daughter of Daemon and Rhaenyra Targaryen," you introduced, even though Aegon knew who you were.

"Come now, sweet cousin! No need for formalities; we are kin!" He said jubilantly, his voice echoing in the cavernous hall. Aegon signaled a serving maid for another glass of wine, downing the entire contents of it and placing it back on the tray. "Now, what have you gotten me, cousin?"

You unfurled your grip, walking closer to Aegon before a steward came to have you gave the present to him. The Prince waved dismissively, rising from his chair as he met you at the foot of the stone stairs.

Opening the tightly sealed case, you took a breath.

"A ring for the eldest Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, crafted by the finest jewelsmith in King's Landing. Black garnet mined from the Dothraki Sea is the main centerpiece, and Rubies from our land in Westeros are embedded in the solid gold band," you paused a moment, steeling yourself for the consequences of your past actions as you angled the ring in the yellow light. "And here, a personalized message for His Grace."

As Aegon studied his nameday gift, you bowed your head, retreating a few paces. You saw his pupils dilate as he read it, his throat bobbing as he swallowed.

'For my sweet boy, Aegon.'

He left you to stand in uncomfortable silence, beginning to gnaw on your lower lip once more as he slipped the gift onto his left pinky, admiring it in the glow of the candles. Aegon met your gaze when finished, filling the gap you made with his tall but stocky body. You could smell the sticky scent of Arbor Red wafting off him, his lips stained.

Fear coursed within you at that moment, the memory of how he forced himself upon you the night prior flashing through your mind's eye, but you steeled yourself. Clenching your soft jaw and digging your nails into your palm until you were sure they broke the calloused flesh.

Aegon opened his arms, signaling he wanted to embrace in thanks for your present. You hesitated but leaned forward as you saw the hundreds of eyes watching you. He squeezed you harshly, nearly suffocating you as he brought his mouth to your ear, inhaling your candied scent before he whispered.

"You are too good to me, little one. I know you are frightened by what happened last night, but there is no need to be. Any uncertainties you have, your sweet boy will help you."

A shiver ran down your spine at his words, your knees nearly buckling as he pulled away and kissed both cheeks. You stood there for a beat too long, your head reeling at losing his warmth and the haunting things he promised. You swiftly curtsied again as you saw him plop down into his seat, a smirk on his rosy lips, and returned to your own.

You stayed there as the rest of the Lords and Ladies gave their gifts to Aegon, staring down at the food scraps on your plate, your appetite never returning, not even for dessert. When the sounds of stomping boots vibrated the stone floor, you still refused to look up, lost inside a blank yet cluttered mind.

You should be relieved that Aegon was not upset with you for abandoning him and that your plan could continue. You should be smiling, knowing that everything was falling into place, but you weren't. You were terrified. Terrified of what you had gotten yourself into. This was the only way to assure Aegon never ascended the throne, but the cost was almost too much to bear.

Your family.

Rhaenyra, Daemon, Jace, Luke, Joffrey, and even little Aegon and Viserys. You had to think of them. This was for them. Everything you did was for them. Selling yourself to Aegon and giving in to his depraved desires would save them all from a fate that could break the Targaryen dynasty forever. A small price to pay for the sake of those you loved, you told yourself.

"Cousin?" A soft angelic voice startled you from your stupor. "Would you care for a dance?" Helaena asked, her palm facing upwards as you stared at the serval vein-like wrinkles expanding across it.

You gave her a polite smile, though it did not reach your eyes, nodding as you wiped your hands on the green cloth napkin on your lap. Keep your mind off the impending future for a moment.

"It has been quite some years since I last shared a dance with you Princess," you said as her delicate fist wrapped around yours. "I am much more skilled at the art now."

Helaena giggled, leading you out to the ocean of people. "I seem to recall us never needing any guidance on it before. 'Tis more fun to sway to your own beat." Her grin reached her ears, crinkling the creamy skin around her eyes as she spun you in a dizzying circle.

Neither of you paid attention to the other's rehearsed moves, creating your own as you jumped, clapped, and spun. It felt like you were both girls again, laughing as she linked her slender arm with yours, skipping back and forth, your skirts in your free limb. The momentum of your movements continued as you grabbed her hands, lifting one arm to twirl her underneath you, her golden hair tickling your chin.

Helaena was always a beacon of light in the darkness, the embodiment of the lantern the Crone used to guide those in her wisdom. Her laugh was like the first breath of spring after a seemingly never-ending winter, her voice as gentle as the early morning rain in summer. She was all heart and kindness and too good for this world, too gracious to deserve the hand she dealt with.

Helaena loved her family and was one of the few who treated your brothers with the same politeness as if they were anyone else. She had a deep bond with her brother Aemond, a bond that only blood could give. The type you could only dream of with yours. And despite the man she was forced to marry, she still loved Aegon. Not the way a wife would love a husband, but the love of siblings who were forced into something they had no choice in, pushed into the confines of duty.

You felt guilt for what you did with Aegon, the disrespect and shame you would bring upon her if anyone found out. You knew she would not feel scorn the way a partner would, though that did little to ease your conscience. While it was a relief not to hurt Helaena like that, she would still have that same sense of betrayal she did when Aegon went out to the Silk Streets.

You resolved your thoughts. Helaena would have to understand why you did what you did unless she desired to see the casualties of war.

Pushing those feelings down, you brought another smile to your lips, your cousin placing her hands on your waist and spinning you until your steps faltered, nearly tripping over your skirts. Helaena steadied you, closing the space as she grabbed your biceps with a guffaw. She moved a strand of hair that had fallen over your shoulder in your promenade, smoothing it down your head as she rested her palm against the base of your neck. You watched her with a curious but joyful expression as her other hand moved to grip the side of your face.

To anyone observing from the outside, it appeared as if she was about to kiss you, but if they saw the look within her amethyst eyes, glazed over, looking at you. No. Looking through you, they would see she was not in the moment.

"Hand turns loom; spools of green, spools of black; dragons of flesh weaving dragons of thread," she whispered against your face, your noses nearly touching. You grasped Helaena's wrists, trying to pull her away as her touch became painful. "Beneath the boards, rats bite; their teeth burn, a sacrifice of her blood, peace reborn."

Her words covered you in a blanket of dread, cold and unwelcoming, as her nails dug into your skin. A whimper escaped your throat, wriggling uncomfortably at the sting and confusion.

The guests around you continued dancing, unaware of the agony piercing into your flesh, Helaena repeating her words with urgency.

"A sacrifice of her blood, peace reborn. A sacrifice of her blood, a sacrifice of her blood, her blood, her blood, her blood."

"Sister," a baritone voice cut through the air. Helaena suddenly released you with trembling fists, stumbling backward into her brother, clad in black leather.

"Aemond," she gasped, grabbing him by his forearms. "A sacrifice of her blood," she heatedly whispered as you placed a comforting palm on her shoulder.

You glanced at Aemond worriedly, but his eyes were trained on his younger sibling.

"Sister," Aemond repeated, this time softer. "Mother requests your presence at the table."

Helaena nodded absentmindedly, ridding her mind of her trance as her brother's one-piercing eye trailed after her retreating form. You continued to stare at Aemond, your mouth opening to speak before he interrupted.

"Pay no mind to Helaena; she sees and understands things in ways we could never comprehend."

You wished to ask for more but knew you would only receive what Aemond allowed. He was so protective over his sister, and you understood why. In spite of having a fearsome dragon of her own and having done the difficult task of birth while still a child, she was not hardened, nor did she need to be. She was just Helaena, meant to be guarded and cared for, and that was enough.

You started into a curtsy to bid Aemond farewell, assuming he had only come to rescue his sister, but instead stopped you with the wave of his hand and outstretched it, an invitation to dance. Raising a quizzical brow, you stared, eyes flickering from his chiseled face to wrinkled palm. Perhaps he felt obligated to offer it after Helaena had frightened you, but you still hesitated as you narrowed your eyes at him.

"My Prince, I know you have never cared for me or my brothers, so do not insult me with this farce of chivalry," you said unabashedly, crossing your arms.

You expected Aemond to give you a sneer, storming away and back to the high table with the rest of his family, but he did neither. On the contrary, he laughed wickedly and unwrapped your arms as the music changed to a darker ballad, the minor chords sending tremors up your spine.

As the One-Eyed Prince led you into song, you focused anywhere but on him, your lips pursed and your body stiff, attempting to put as much space between your linked elbows.

You continued your silent dance, refusing to be the proper lady your Septa taught you to be as Aemond lifted you into the air by your hips at the swell of the tune, forcing you to seek purchase on his slender shoulders. An arrogant smirk laced his lips as he brought you to the ground, your digits burying into his leather tunic for balance. He didn't give a moment to recover as he took your hands in his, pulling you close to his chest before unwinding you into a subtle push movement as you struggled to become centered.

Before you could think to protest his nauseated action, he brought you back in, twirling your arms so your back was pressed against his front, a position that was hardly proper for the duty-bound Prince.

"Have you found yourself well to be back in King's Landing?" Aemond purred darkly into your ear. You swallowed a lump that had formed in your throat, trying to turn your head to face him.

"It has been a rather eventful occasion, though it hardly looks of the Red Keep I know. If I were not any brighter, I would think this is the seat of House Hightower, not Targaryen," you replied coolly, voice neutral to not expel your beliefs.

He hummed in response, releasing you from his harsh embrace as you proceeded to the next step in the choreography. "It gladens me to hear you are in good spirits. I could not say the same if I wore your shoes."

You snuffed the instinct to sneer at the arrogant man. Tilting your head, you peered at him from your lower height as you began to circle one another, like a fox to a rabbit. Which one you were you did not know.

"Oh? And why would that be, your Grace?" you asked with feigned interest.

"If I were summoned to a place which held such harrowing memories, I would be aching to return home, not taking a permanent position on the Small Council," Aemond answered in a grandiloquent tone.

You had to resist the urge to bite at his jabs, nearly snarling your teeth before you took a calming breath, plastering your political costume that was a smile. You were keen to the art of backhanded courtly discussion and realized the second son was trying to get a rise out of you, tormenting the bastard princess when he could not do the princes.

"Time heals all wounds," you quipped shortly. "I've made peace with what happened to my family. They broke the law, and our honorable Lord Hand served justice." The Prince replied with a grunt to your lies, following with the other nobles in dance as they jumped and clapped on the beat. "Tell me, Prince Aemond, have you returned to Driftmark since that fateful night?"

You saw him stiffen as you repeated the movement from before on his other side, only to be stopped by an iron grip. "Do not presume to speak freely before me. I am a true-born prince of the realm, not a bastard to the Lord of Flea Bottom."

That had you smiling genuinely, rising to the tops of your feet as you met his one piercing eye with your two, brimming with barely controlled ire.

"A true-born second son, but not good enough to be the spare. A crippled boy whose eye was taken out by a child half his junior." Your words poured out like the molten steel of a sword, searing into Aemond's essence as the ballad ended.

Yanking your arm out of the Prince's grasp, you backed away; chin held high in triumph. He took significant bounding strides in your direction in response as you prepared to defend yourself just as Lucerys had. Perhaps you could carve out his working eye and offer it to the younger boy? He had told you of his fear regarding Aemond, the hatred he held in his heart for the loss of sight.

By the grace of the Seven, a loud shriek was heard from the head of the Great Hall, momentarily distracting Aemond as you scampered into the crowd of people, making your way to your seat. Luckily there was no danger to be found at the royal table, only Prince Aegon diving under the skirts of one of his desert flowers as men cheered and women turned away in shame. You ignored the disgust that came as you saw him lift her on his shoulders, his head hidden underneath the sheer layers of her dress.

***

The hour of ghosts was upon you, but the feast still raged, no signs of anyone retiring soon. The wine and mead had settled in everyone's stomachs, making for an ear-deafening obnoxious roar of laughter and cheers.

You, too, had begun to feel the effects of alcohol but had not ventured out to the dance floor since the interaction with Aemond. You were right to be cautious when he offered you his hand. It was only a ploy for him to gain superiority over someone he deemed less than him, but ultimately it failed, turning it around for him to become the victim of his own game. Life was cruel, but it was good not to be on the receiving end of it for once.

You rested your chin on your knuckles as you watched the twirling fools before you, yawning. You realized it was time to retire as you felt your fist slip out from under you, nearly slamming your face on the now-empty wooden table. Releasing a heavy sigh, you stretched your upper body, quietly groaning as you downed the last few drops of your drink.

"Surely, my Lady Targaryen, you are not retiring so soon," a familiar gravelly voice asked.

"I am, Ser Greyjoy. The hour grows late, and there is much to tend to on the morrow," you answered unhurriedly.

"I had hoped to steal you for a dance or two, but much of tonight, you were already preoccupied."

You scoffed, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. "Not by choice, I am afraid. I would not have denied you had you asked," you replied truthfully, standing from your seat with another stretch.

"Well, if you'd allow me to escort you to your rooms, I'm sure we could make for lost time," he offered with the bend of his elbow.

You were exhausted from the facade required to put on for appearances and slouched as you took his offer without resistance.

Unbeknownst to you, a pair of violet eyes had followed the whole night, observing his little dragon but never moving to mount. He hadn't felt the need to until the squid boy hooked himself on you, a problem Aegon knew he would have to remedy but was unsure of how as he fidgeted with the new ring on his finger.

Aegon watched you exit the Great Hall with Ser Dalton, a frown tugging on his crimson-stained lips as he took another swig of his Arbor Red. The girls beside him noticed his sudden change in mood, one tracing an extended slim index along his jawline to capture his attention, the other whispering something he did not care to hear. He saw the squid lord link arms out of the corner of his eye before one of the women brought a full cup to his mouth, your glimmering golden dress a distant memory in his drunken mind.

"I must say, my Lady Targaryen, you looked ravishing tonight. The whole court could not take their eyes off you. I was afraid I might have to defend your honor," Ser Dalton chortled, following your lead down one of the many corridors that led to the guest wing.

"That must have been why I felt like I was being stalked like a doe in the woods," you snipped with your nose in the air.

Dalton turned, his lengthy Dragonglass colored hair falling over his slim shoulders as he laughed, his canines glistening in the yellow torchlight. His teeth were so white, so sharp. It looked as if they could pierce flesh with a single bite.

The exhaustion, combined with the half a dozen glasses of wine you had drunk, lowered your inhibitions and made your lips loose. "I had half a mind to gouge out your eyes and feed them to my dragon," you joked.

Dalton stopped his long strides at this, causing you to jerk and do the same, stumbling around to face him. Suddenly, your world was a blur of colors, your head struggling to keep up with the fast movements of the Red Kraken as he led you to an untraveled hallway.

"Lord Greyjoy!" you shouted in protest, groaning as the abruptness made you sick.

"You speak lots of threats for a lady of your stature," he taunted, his toned arms caging you in.

It took you a moment longer than expected to process what was happening, but you were in no state of alarm despite the nonconsensual circumstances. You didn't feel the same rush of fear you had with Aegon, only raising one unamused brow as you gave Ser Dalton a lofty stare, almost daring him to try something as you released a huff.

"And what, prey tell, are you implying, Lord Reaper?" you questioned with a lazy tilt of your head.

Dalton laughed lightly, raising his arm to toy with a strand of your hair as he leaned closer. "Only, my Bastard Princess, that you have the fire of a true dragon born of pure Valryian blood, not something muddled with common folk."

"You think our people are beneath us?" you asked pointedly, arching your back to reach his slumped form. "What would happen if your armies raised their swords against you, hmm? Our people let us rule."

Lord Dalton dropped the hair he was toying with, running his digits through the rest until he reached your waist, pulling you flush with his. Your eyes widened in surprise as you felt his manhood press against your stomach, freezing for a moment as your mind went blank.

"With a dragon, no one could stand in my way. We could burn all who dare test the power of House Greyjoy and Targaryen. We do not sow. We will reap through fire and blood." Dalton leaned closer to you, his spine hunched like a startled cat from the height difference. "There was no mistake in my intention yesterday. You will become my wife."

Your head finally started working again; instincts pounded in from years of training controlling your movements. Wrapping your leg around Dalton's hips, you brought him closer, angling your body so that your skirt rose above your ankle. You snaked your fingers down his back, nails scraping his maroon woolen tunic, unsheathing the hidden dagger your father gifted and pointing at his chest.

The Lord Reaper of Pyke's brown eyes briefly flashed with terror but swiftly smoothed into their dark expression, a taunting grin on his lips.

"Ser Dalton of House Greyjoy," you chortled. "I have heard many rumors about you." You pushed the blade tip further into his chest, where his heart would be. "Of you emerging from battle, drenched in blood from a thousands cuts on your body. Claiming a Valyrian Steel sword in victory. Of your countless salt wives who would rather throw themselves into the sea than bed you?" Dalton's pupils dilated as he watched your mouth move, nails digging into the plush skin of your waist. "You get bored of women too easily, and I do not intend to move from one forgotten position to another."

You clenched your leg, cinching him to you in a vice-like grip.

"Tell me, Red Kraken, will you bleed the same as I when you tear my maidenhead?" You slid the dagger tip dangerously up his chest, resting just below the notch in his throat and causing it to bob uncomfortably.

You observed Dalton licking his lips, hands sliding to the plump flesh of your arse as he ground his manhood into your heat. Both stared, willing the other to break it and lose the unspoken challenge. The many ways you could quickly kill him popped into your head with a sly smile, continuing to size him up as you saw the faint trickle of blood down his neck.

A chorus of giggles caused you both to default, the contest ending in a draw as you saw the two desert flowers from earlier walk in your direction. They draped over Aegon's sides; all smiles as he led them to what you could only assume were his bed chambers. You felt sick at the sight, unraveling your limbs from Lord Greyjoy and placing your dagger back in its holder. His hands moved to a more appropriate place on your body as you both turned to acknowledge the Prince's presence.

The searing emotion of betrayal coursed through your veins as bile burned your throat. How could Aegon whisper such intoxicating and mind-numbing things about your time together but, in a fell swoop, go whoring with two women he did not know? Anger tugged on your heart, inhaling a raging breath as you both bowed to the eldest Prince, his purple eyes bypassing you and Dalton.

A part of you wished for him to notice the Lord's improper hold on you, for Aegon to become filled with the same scornful rage he created within you, but you swallowed the thought down, turning to your escort to continue the journey to your rooms.

It was silent from then on, your wrath simmering just below the edge. You were certain Ser Dalton could sense it.

Once you arrived at the Guest Wing, you turned to him, swiftly ordering the guard at the door to walk to the other end of the hall so he could not overhear your words.

"If you wish so ardently to marry, Lord Dalton, I suggest you do it correctly," you commanded sternly. "You will court me properly as any other man would, then when the time is right, you will contact my father, informing him of your intentions. Just because I was born of sin and impropriety does not mean I want to live it myself." You raised your black eyebrows at him, waiting for a response.

"I understand, my Lady," he confirmed solemnly. "You will be given the respect you deserve and I hope you can accept my sincerest regrets for my actions prior."

You rolled your eyes, slightly probing your hip out as you stared at him, unbelieving. "Do not apologize," you said bluntly, "I know you do not regret it. Had you did then, that would have never happened."

You saw a slight smile grow on his thin pink lips.

"I expect a letter from you upon your return to Castle Pyke. We will converse and learn about one another until the time is right." You moved away from him, pulling the handle to your chamber door, and bid him goodnight. "Sleep well, Ser Dalton. I await your letter should you decide to write me."

As you enter your chambers, you couldn't deny your hope that you were just another one of his female conquest he would tire of, calling for your maids with a bell. You wanted to stick to your plan, and Dalton would be another obstacle in securing Rhaenyra's throne.

The same exhaustion from before crept through your bones as you slumped over your vanity, your servants arriving a few moments later to undress you.

Today had been fruitful, and you prayed to the Seven that everything would fall into place as time passed. You knew this would be difficult and had prepared yourself accordingly, though you sensed that something would happen to topple that self-perseverance as things tended to do, but shoved it away with the rest of your many doubts and worries.

As you drifted into a peaceful slumber, you dreamed of a time filled with less duty and more freedom, a distant memory of long ago filled with laughs and love that had now been forgotten.

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I hope this chapter was worth the wait. Aegon really needs to work on his drinking habits because he literally walked right past his girl with another man! He becomes a different person when he's under the influence of alcohol. If Aegon was only a bit tipsy, you know that man would've beat the fuck out of Dalton even though he is severely outmatched. I also want to mention that I purposefully don't have Aegon speak in High Valyrian when calling the reader "little dragon" because I remember Tom Glenn Carney saying something along the lines of Aegon hating the traditionalism of the Targaryen and being that rebel child, but at the same time he uses that God complex whenever he sees it as an advantage. Idk. Just a little peek behind the curtain of my writing lol. Thank you for reading!

Tagged Peeps: @zeennnnnnn , @malfoytargaryen , @targaryencore , @justasmallbean , @alexandra-001 , @omgsuperstarg , @sommornyte , @silverslive , @unclecrunkle , @prettykinkysoul , @duesobabe , @djlexi , @ynbutbetter , @honestlykat , @graykageyama , @legolas017 , @iiamthehybrid , @brezzybfan , @dd122004dd , @ladybug0095 , @millies0bsimp , @kalfild , @sheislonelyalways , @tempt-ress , @bellameshipper , @minttea07 , @trikigirl271 , @esposadomd , @buckylahey , @justarandomflowerchildofthenight , @partypoison00 , @please-buckme , @pastelorangeskies , @joliettes , @existential-echo , @priyajoyy , @valaenatargaryensdragon , @merovingianprincess , @rachelnicolee , @candy12110 , @w3ird11 , @ruhjkie , @somemydayy , @ariana-dumbledore8 , @marikkjj , @zillahvathek , @sunfyresrider , @sunny-boy-06 , @heavenly1927 , @prettylittlelady

[tv-girl]

Sept 21 // San Antonio // Aztec Theatre // Tickets Sept 22 // Austin // Emo’s // Tickets Sept 23 // Houston // White Oak Music Hall Lawn // Tickets Sept 24 // New Orleans // House of Blues // Tickets Sept 26 // Tampa // The Ritz Ybor // Tickets Sept 27 // Orlando // House of Blues // Tickets Sept 29 // Atlanta // Masquerade // Tickets Sept 30 // Asheville // The Orange Peel // Tickets Oct 1 // Richmond // The National // Tickets Oct 3 // Baltimore // Soundstage // Tickets Oct 4 // DC // The Fillmore Silver Spring // Tickets Oct 6 / Philly // Franklin Music Hall // Tickets Oct 7 // NYC // Terminal 5 // Tickets Oct 8 // NYC // Knockdown Center // Tickets Oct 9 // New Haven // Toad's Place // Tickets Oct 10 // Boston // Roadrunner // Tickets Oct 12 // Montreal // Corona Theatre // Tickets Oct 13 // Toronto // Danforth Music Hall // Tickets Oct 14 // Toronto // History // Tickets Oct 15 // Detroit // Royal Oak Music Theatre // Tickets Oct 17 // Cleveland // House of Blues // Tickets Oct 18 // Columbus // Kemba Live! // Tickets Oct 20 // Milwaukee // Pabst Theater // Tickets Oct 21 // Minneapolis // First Avenue // Tickets Oct 22 // Chicago // Aragon Ballroom // Tickets

[shinjiduster]

Slowdive live at white oak music hall. Htx

vid and photos not mine :3

[freddiemercurylegendabovelegends]

Today, on November 10th, 1978 - Queen Story!

"Jazz" album released in the UK

👉 The seventh studio album

➡️ 12/12/1978 - Circus Magazine

🔸In praise of ‘JAZZ’

The boys conjure up a bizarre junket by Mark Mehler

On Bourbon Street, in the heart of New Orleans’ fabled French Quarter, the sign reads, “Bob Harrington-Chaplain of Bourbon Street.” Upstairs, the freelance minister administers to the wicked minions below, while across the street, the Hotsy Totsy lounge features naked women parading across an oak bar from dawn to dusk, and next door, the “X-rated Shop” specializes in scatological posters and joy sticks.

This is Freddie Mercury’s favourite American city, where the Mississippi ends its majestic flow and zealots with big dreams fight a losing battle against hustlers, procurers, and all purveyors of sleaze. It is Freddie Mercury’s favourite city because the lead singer and bucktoothed front man of Queen is, above all, an actor. And in New Orleans, anyone can be anyone they want to be. Tonight, October 31, 1978-Halloween-Freddie Mercury and Queen have flown in 80 reporters from the U.S., Europe, Latin America and Japan, to see a show and be a part of a show at the same time. The third concert on Queen’s 28-city U.S. tour is in the ornate Civic Auditorium. Above the stage are listed the names of the mighty: Shakespeare, Michelangelo, Cellini, Durer, Gounod. Out of the soft blue and green lights and smoke, Freddie Mercury struts like a rooster, striking ballet poses, under an astral guitar blare that neatly skirts the sharp edges of rock & roll. The melodies are undistinguished, but the constant tempo changes of “Bohemian Rhapsody” and “We Will Rock You”, keep an audience awake for nearly two hours of uninterrupted music. The lighting show is one of rock’s most ambitious. Eerie purple lights shine out over the heads of the audience, making their hair seem cloudlike and inanimate. At the midpoint of the show, a smaller stage is lowered from the ceiling and 400 lamps meld into the sheer white plane of curtain light. Freddie is a whirling dervish, dominating every corner of the stage.

“Some people call this song ‘Spread Your Legs’, he tells the audience, introducing ‘Spread Your Wings’. “And I like it that way”.

Starting out in black sequins, he comes out for the first encore bedecked in orange hot pants, dancing around like Peter Pan. For the second encore he’s wearing a revealing, white body stocking. As he wails ‘We Are The Champions’, his voice warbles with mock emotion, and he grasps the microphone for support. At the apex of the triumphant denouement, the top executives of Elektra Records, who have sat smiling throughout the show, arise as one and walk out. Moments later, the show closes with a taping of ‘God Save The Queen’. Body and soul spent, Freddie ambles off stage, drained and spark-less. But Halloween night in New Orleans has just begun.

Back in the ballroom of the Fairmont Hotel, over 400 people have gathered to await Queen and much on a sumptuous table of hors d’oeuvres, such as Oysters Rockfeller and Shrimp Creole. A Dixieland band plays uninspired jazz jingles, until, shortly before midnight, the Olympia Brass band comes marching through the hall accompanied by Queen-the mercurial Mercury, the winsome Brian May, the puckish John Deacon, the velvety Roger Taylor. Suddenly, like a giant circus orchestrated by a deranged ringmaster, a legion of strippers, vulgar fat-bottomed dancers, snake charmers, drag queens, and bizarrely festooned revellers, begin to strut their stuff before the assembled masses. Freddie Mercury is besieged by hungry autograph seekers, groupies and fame-worshippers. People begin shielding their clothes, as an ever-imaginative photographer snaps Freddie signing the bare backside of a willowy transvestite. Freddie begins sucking on his giant overbite nervously, and by 2 a.m., he is mercifully gone. Brian May, who seems to be the true organizer of the night’s carnival, is cornered by persistent Japanese newshounds. “It’s wonderful,” he keeps saying. “It’s so nice to be back.” As the evening wears on, epicene men and butch women act out charades of power that would have embarrassed Hemingway. Three obese black women in g-strings do a pathetic bump and grind, and another female participant amuses a small gaggle of onlookers by putting a cigarette in an unlikely place. People leave to check out the scene on Bourbon Street and drift back to the party like cigar smoke. At 4 a.m., a Queen security guard, haggard and irritable, inquires when it will all be over. “Queen wants the naked disco dancers going to dawn,” informs his partner. And it does. The following day, Queen reappears at a press conference at Brennan’s, one of the French Quarter’s most elegant restaurants. Again, it is Roger Taylor and Brian May who dominate the conversation, as Freddie Mercury seems vaguely preoccupied. The subject of all this is ‘Jazz’, Queen’s new album, which contains no jazz. “People think we take ourselves a lot more seriously than we actually do,” says Roger Taylor. ‘Jazz’, Queen’s reunion with former producer Roy Thomas Baker, offers ‘Mustapha’, an up-tempo Hebrew rocker; ‘Fat Bottomed Girls’, a song that owes a lot to Pure Prairie League’s ‘Amie’; and more indulgent rhapsodies like ‘Jealousy’ and ‘Bicycle Race’, with its topical references to Star Wars, Jaws, and Superman. The ad campaign, like everything about the Band, goes to the limit of good taste: 11 bare-chested, major-league-yabboed women racing bicycles.

“It’s cheeky”, admits Freddie, “naughty, but not lewd. Certain stores, you know, won’t run our poster. I guess some people don’t like to look at nude ladies.”

Freddie, 32, was born in Zanzibar and educated in India, and was a childhood table tennis and hockey prodigy. He studied art and became a graphic designer and illustrator, having given up piano lessons in the fourth grade. But he continued singing, fronting his first band at 14 and forming Queen with Roger and Brian in 1970. After the routine easy grilling, Mercury is cornered outside. “You seem to be removed from the character up on stage. Is that really you?”

“No,” says Freddie, “of course it’s an act.”

He denies pandering to gays; or for that matter, to anyone. He hints at a quiet, restless man who needs to step outside of himself for ego-stimulation.

“I have fun wearing all those costumes,” he says. “I can really cut loose up there”.

Freddie is then swiftly ushered out, and again, Brian May is left behind to field the endless questions of the Japanese. The two-day junket, painstakingly directed by and for Queen, ends with a few straggling journalists eating Bananas Foster and being more cynical than usual. Outside, on Bourbon Street, a folk singer entertains an empty house of red velour seats, affirming that a falling tree makes a sound whether it’s heard or not. Which conjures up something Brian May had said about Queen constantly seeking “direct communication with our audience.” For all the words that describe Queen’s trip to New Orleans, direct is surely not one.