#you could make it a metaphor for marriage!

[aparticularbandit]

Big battle! What is Rika's super cool thing?

Oh? She gives ALL of her power to Ryo? Which literally stripes her Biomerge Digivolution Sakuyamon down to nothing? (LITERALLY.) Just so Justimon - Ryo's Biomerge Digivolution - can grow his laser sword extra large to cut down this part of the D-Reaper? And it leaves Sakuyamon super duper weak after while the big strong man gets to go wreck stuff with his super long sword that has been made super long by taking the main female character's full power and stripping her down to nothing?

YEAH, THAT'S NOT A SUPER GROSS METAPHOR FOR ANYTHING.

UGH, I HATE IT.

[izzyspussy]

i feel like i remember people posting happy birthday character posts for mickey in june? is that right? well, even if he doesn't have a canon birthday (or if he does and it's. wrong.) he has a summer birthday To Me. and i've never seen a guy who is more obviously a capricorn than ian, so! if mickey's summer birthday is indeed in june specifically (i'm thinking cancer, but it would also be really cool if mickey and mandy are both gemini - twins who aren't twins), then mickey is technically two years older than ian for about half the time.

[goodhickey]

been on a cronenberg kick if you couldn't tell, and dead ringers just killed me dead

[purple-petrichor]

A PANASONIC ADVERTISEMENT???

IN MY SERIAL KILLER ACTION ROMANCE MANGA???

[sorcerousundries]

I’m dreaming of all the possibilities

A Valyrian wedding with Aemond

Warnings: Valyrian!reader, typical targcest, reader is Aemonds niece, mentions of rape(not by Aemond), readers hair is long enough to be braided, a lot of blood, I think dragon metaphors are romantic leave me alone, reader is described as beautiful, minimal dialogue, nicer!Aemond, shit pacing, Valyrian might not accurate

NSFW warnings: thigh grinding, marking, slight power imbalances, virgin!reader, Aemond dirty talks in Valyrian, no protection, vaginal penetration, slight voyuerism.

Translations: Issa ābrazȳrys, nyke kivio naejot ao naejot sagon aōha mīsio, aōha egros, aōha sumby, nykeā raqiros ao kostagon confide isse, aōha jorrāelagon skori ao dijāves issa, nyke kivio naejot ūbremagon naejot ao rūsīr undying devotion hae nykeā zaldrīzes would tend naejot pōja drōma, nyke krimvo aōha prūmia syt choosing issa, kostagon ao feel hae dāez rūsīr issa hae ao gaomagon va zaldrīzes arlī - my wife, I promise to be your protector, your blade, your shield, your friend you can confide in, your lover when you desire me, I promise to tend to you with undying devotion as a dragon would tend to their eggs, I thank your heart for choosing me, I pray you can you feel as free as you do on dragon back || Valzȳrys, kostagon aōha jēda rūsīr issa sagon lēdan rūsīr passion se perzys, kostagon īlva jorrāelagon zālagon hotter than vhagars perzys, nyke kivio naejot sagon pazavor, naejot sagon compassionate, naejot shifang se trūmāje parts hen ao rūsīr devotion se pāsagon, nykeā zaldrīzes emagon daor limits se neither shall īlva jorrāelagon. Ziry jāhor sagon remembered daor sepār hae union hen gaomilaksir se sacrifice yn hae mēre hen jorrāelagon - Husband, may our marriage be filled passion and fire, may our love burn hotter than vhagars fire, I promise to be loyal, to be compassionate, to understand the deepest parts of you with devotion and love, a dragon does not have limits and neither shall our love. May our marriage be remembered not just as a union of duty and sacrifice but as one of love. || Sīr vok syt issa, issa dōna ābrazȳrys - so perfect for me, my sweet wife || kotlu - please

NSFW content under the cut

When you first heard about Aemond it was from your mother, she had talked to you about betrothal before but for the most part the topic remained untrodden territory.

She understandably wanted to wait until you had came of age, remembering the unbearable pressure of being constantly presented with suitors who wanted her blood for their offspring or her place on the throne.

But when the greens offered to form an alliance on one condition. She betrothed her daughter to queen Alicents youngest son.

When your mother sat you down and told you the news you cried and screamed, even as your sobs died down your mind raced with images of what he might be like.

Would he be fat and greedy to consumed with his own need to tend to his wife preferring the company of common whores or would he be thin and unnerving with a wiry smile who would bring you to dungeons and molest you til your hole bled and throat was sore from screaming?.

You felt your stomach churn at the thoughts but they continued to race through your mind each one more grotesque than the last.

When the day finally came for you to meet your eyes stung with panicked tears, you looked at yourself in the mirror a thousand times. your white hair braided in intricate braids you couldn’t even remember the names of, a green gown with an embroidered neckline and golden details that shimmered with the flicker of candles.

You had hoped the Hightower green would please him, you felt wearing traditional Targaryen red and black would send the wrong message.

As much as you hated the situation, you couldn’t help but want to pacify it in every way you could.

———

The gathering took place in the council room, the orange light reflecting around the room making it feel dreamy.

From the moment your eyes locked with his blue ones your heart jumped, you couldn’t pull your eyes from him if you wanted to, it appeared he felt the same from the way his eyebrows rose ever so slightly, his eyes trailing up and down your figure returning to your face as if he wanted to memorise every small detail of your face, wether it be the curve of your bow or the slope of your cupids bow.

He sneered when his mother called his name, prompting him to tear his gaze from you.

You couldn’t even focus on the chatter of your mother and the greens, your gaze felt stuck on his handsome face.

It was only when he stepped forward and took your hand in his calloused one pressing the back of it to his lips you were able to focus on his words “princess, it is an honour to be named your betrothed” he spoke, his voice was velvety smooth as it reached your ears.

You were snapped out of your daydream when you felt everyone’s eyes looking upon you, awaiting your response “the honour is all mine” he smirked at this.

You can’t remember much of the meeting only that as you watched the greens sail away your mother smiled knowingly at you, kissing your forehead “it pleases me that you do not have the same reservations that I did” she comments before walking back up the pathway to the castle, leaving you standing with your dress blowing in the wind, thinking more positively about your betrothal than before.

———

Your relationship with aemond was fast paced but not unwelcome, you often sat together in the library discussing whatever topic came to mind or even sitting in silence wanting nothing more than to enjoy each others company.

You stood in front of the mirror looking at yourself similar to how did approximately nine moons ago, this time instead of green you were dressed in a white robe dipped in redm a golden headpiece said upon your head with tassels dangling by your ears.

“Princess, it’s time” one of your handmaidens called, you thanked her taking a deep breathe before starting the walk to the altar, you’d practiced it before, you counted exactly six hundred and forty eight steps, that’s six hundred and forty eight steps until you’d be married to Aemond.

The steps seemed to fly by, as your feet subconsciously sped up as if you blinked and there was aemond stood in front of you, dressed in a similar garment, his hair braided to match yours.

The officiant stood between you both first handing aemond the dragon glass shard, he brings it your lips and slices downwards, the sting painful but soothed by the cool wind blowing on your face. then your turn, bringing the shard to his heart shaped lips and sliding it down, the blood starting to drip.

His hand cups your jaw as your lips crash together, a mix of the metallic tang and expensive westerosi wine is all you taste, it makes you moan quietly into his mouth before you pull back hesitantly, a stupid grin on your face that he returns.

The taste returns to your mouth as you both drink from the same cup of blood, watered down with wine to make it go down easier. The amount of blood on your lips causing the red liquid to drip onto your dress and down your neck.

“Today we bear witness to the union of the prince and princess of house Targaryen, may their marriage be long and prosperous, filled with devotion and everlasting love to each other as their two souls bind into one, they may now recite they’re vows as oaths and promises to each other and their marriage” the officiant steps down from the altar and you join hands with him.

“Issa ābrazȳrys, nyke kivio naejot ao naejot sagon aōha mīsio, aōha egros, aōha sumby, nykeā raqiros ao kostagon confide isse, aōha jorrāelagon skori ao dijāves issa, nyke kivio naejot ūbremagon naejot ao rūsīr undying devotion hae nykeā zaldrīzes would tend naejot pōja drōma, nyke krimvo aōha prūmia syt choosing issa, kostagon ao feel hae dāez rūsīr issa hae ao gaomagon va zaldrīzes arlī” the words rolled from his tongue as if he didnt have to think to say them.

You take a deep breathe running quickly through your vows in your head before speaking “Valzȳrys, kostagon aōha jēda rūsīr issa sagon lēdan rūsīr passion se perzys, kostagon īlva jorrāelagon zālagon hotter than vhagars perzys, nyke kivio naejot sagon pazavor, naejot sagon compassionate, naejot shifang se trūmāje parts hen ao rūsīr devotion se pāsagon, nykeā zaldrīzes emagon daor limits se neither shall īlva jorrāelagon. Ziry jāhor sagon remembered daor sepār hae union hen gaomilaksir se sacrifice yn hae mēre hen jorrāelagon” you smiled, your joined hands causing the cuts on both to mix blood, feeling the bond between you both seal.

You keep your fingers intertwined as you both walk down the stone steps of dragonstone, towards the castle

———

Your dress fell from your shoulder, your breasts bouncing as the dress fell to the floor, leaving you completely naked.

Aemond sat on the foot of the bed, still in his wedding robes though he’d discarded his eyepatch, Leaving the gleaming saphire embedded in his eye socket on display, he sighs in content as his eyes rake your figure before he pats his thigh in invitation.

You straddle his thigh, your bare cunt pressed against the mix of linen and the firm muscle of his thigh. you lean forward smashing your lips onto his, the sudden change in position causing your clit to catch on the fabric, tearing a gasp from you.

The searing heat of need pulsates through your cunt as you start to grind against his thigh, you bite your lip and throw your head back.

He takes the initiative to start sucking and biting your neck, claiming you as his by marking you.

Your thighs tense and your abdomen pools with molten heat as you feel the knot in your stomach start to coil, “A-Aemond!” You moan, he licks a stripe up to your ear “cum for me, hm?” He encourages.

Fire rushes through your body as the coil snaps and wetness soaks Aemonds robes.

Your chest heaves as you pant for breath, trying to come down from your high.

Suddenly the room spins around you, you realise Aemond has flipped you onto the bed underneath him. His eyes are hungry as he gazes upon your face, a beauty only heard of in history books of old Valyria, he could scarcely believe such a beautiful woman was underneath him and all his.

He spread your legs with his lean one, slotting his pelvis flush against yours, gripping your hips as he presses his lips to yours, a sloppy clash of tongue, teeth and blood, fighting for dominance.

Your nails drag down his back, no doubtably leaving red stripes in their wake under his blood stained robe.

“Sīr vok syt issa, issa dōna ābrazȳrys” he moans into your mouth, the words slurred and murmured in need. The rolls of his tongue as he spoke the words making your cunt pulse as you imagine his tongue on your clit.

“Kotlu, I want your cock” you practically drool, bucking your hips up against the prominent bulge in his trousers.

He unlaces the front of his trousers, dipping his hand into waistband before pulling out his cock, the sight makes you moan.

It wasn’t exceptionally girthy but it was long, he laid it across your stomach and it almost reached your belly button, it curved slightly to the left. It would hit your gspot deliciously you thought, the prospect making your eyes roll back in your head.

But the thought of it was nothing compared to how it felt pushing inside your tight walls, it burned slightly, your hole never being penetrated before but his comforting grip on both your hands made it bearable as you tried to focus on the mouthwatering drag of his cock on your walls instead of the burning sensation.

It felt like an eternity before you finally felt his hips against your ass, all of his cock sheathed inside your cunt, the tip pressed against your spot, nudging it every time he shifted slightly.

“Move” you whined, his hips reeled back before he pushed in again over and over, the rhythm slow at first but he quickened as your moans grew louder, the wet squelch of skin slapping filling your eardrums along with his light groans.

You swear you could even hear maids giggling outside, at the sound of your moans they could tell aemond was practically in your guts. The image of them sneaking around corners, cunts dripping with need knowing they could never have the gorgeous Valyrian statue of a man behind you, taking you like an animal in heat made you smirk. Despite your head being stuffed into the silk pillows, moans muffled as Aemond had you on all fours, your moans could be heard two corridors down, the sounds echoing off the stone walls.

Your legs started to shake as you felt the rush of heat in your stomach again, drool leaking from the corners of your mouth “fuck, m’gonna cum!” you cried, he said something that you couldn’t hear as ringing sounded in your eardrums, your legs shook violently as you soaked aemond and the bedsheets underneath you.

He rubbed your hips as he fucked you through your orgasm, hips grinding and rolling in circles as he shot ropes of cum into your cunt, filling you up with his warm seed.

[baeshijima]

— “hands off! i’m taken!”

for the first time in your drunken daze, you don't recognise your own husband.

CONTAINS : gn!reader, 983 wc, fluff, (attempts at) humour, mentions/reference of alcohol consumption

A/N : neuvillette is in pain (emotional) while you are in pain the morning after (literal).

it’s not often neuvillette finds free time amongst the seemingly endless piles of papers on his desk. when he does get some free-time, he always makes sure to treat you out to the places you most recently show interest in. however, these evenings out more often than not result in you having one too many drinks. (“it’s a rare evening date!” you would tut, waving a finger at him while your free hand holds the wine glass.)

he worries for you and your health after all, and he most definitely doesn't want you to experience these so-called "hangovers" you bemoan about as he coddles you through it all the mornings after.

and so what better way to help prevent such a tragedy than by putting a stop to it prematurely?

“hands off! i’m taken!”

…or so he thought.

regardless, that doesn’t change the fact neuvillette now stands in the middle of one of the (now quite humid) private rooms in the upper floor of hotel debord, clutching his stinging hand close to his chest while staring at your huffing form in a mixture of hurt and shock. he blinks once, twice, thrice as he slowly begins to process your words — or, lack of.

“pardon?”

“i said,” you stress, narrowing your gaze at him as you begin to sit up, “hands off! i’ll have you know i’m happily married to the loveliest, most beautifulest man in teyvat and i don’t need some… some meddlesome old creep trying to get in between that.”

were this quite literally any other day besides one you were drunk on, neuvillette would be jumping for joy over the moon (metaphorical… probably) and documenting this moment in his diary he keeps safe and secured in a locked drawer under his desk, positively cooing and sighing in pure adoration at your adorable self.

(he also doesn’t have the heart to tell you beautifulest isn’t exactly a real word, but he’s flattered all the same. and it makes you that much more adorable in his eyes.)

alas, this isn’t any other day. no, instead it is a day which marks his drunk spouse being unable to identify their own husband, and your intoxicated words render him silent. 

now, don’t get him wrong, he’s glad you are, for a lack of better words, raring to defend your marital status and honour when intoxicated. however…

‘meddlesome old creep’? is that how he appears? he thought he looked quite dashing this evening, what with the way you sang his praises after he got himself dressed and questioned if you were actually married to one another.

then again, he supposes it’s still accurate to say you’re still questioning whether or not he is your husband. just not in the joking manner you initially did.

seeing how you’ve begun to grow a little restless with his prolonged silence, neuvillette awkwardly clears his throat and begins in what he hopes is a tone which masks the minor betrayal your words caused. “i’m glad you feel that way about our marriage, mon cœur, but—”

“stop!” neuvillette’s mouth instantly ceases movement. “how… how dare you, a stranger, call me that! just who… who do you think you are? my husband?”

“actually, i am.”

you blink at him. “you’re what?”

“i am your husband. neuvillette.” in all honesty, he doesn’t know why he’s nervous. perhaps it’s your scrutinising gaze causing him to sweat, taking him back to the first days when he could finally put a name to the emotions you brought out from within him — ones which have never weakened, but only seem to grow stronger as the days pass by. his hands clam up, and he’s glad you can’t see him wiping his palms against the fabric of his clothes from where you sit. even when you’re drunk, you tend to remember the most random moments. more often than not, they end up being in some relation to him.

(neuvillette laments the times where you only remembered his brief loss of composure.)

after a few more agonising seconds of staring, you speak up once more. “you’re lying.”

there are many things neuvillette wishes to say in response — such as showing your wedding rings, pulling out the small polaroid of you both nestled within his inner coat pocket, recalling the first day you met, the first day you talked, the first “thank you” you ever said to him, the first—

quickly, he snaps himself out of this spiral. just in the nick of time too, for you open your mouth to say something else. “my neuvillette is cute and lovely and pretty and everything a person could only dream to have.”

is he not cute right now? is he not lovely and pretty right now? is he not everything a person could only dream to have right now? what makes the him through your drunken lens so different to the him in your memories?

against his better judgement, he decides to ask the big question.

“then… may i ask what i am?”

“a liar.” and, as if to rub salt in the wound, you add, “i don’t like liars.”

neuvillette feels as though he could cry.

(when you awoke to a pounding headache the next morning, the last thing you expected was your husband brooding on the edge of the bed, his back facing you as he mumbled something along the lines of, “i would lie for you… not to you…” though it was a little hard to tell amidst the incessant pitter-patter of rain against the window.

despite racking your brain in an effort to figure out what caused him to be in such a state in the first place, the only things you remembered from last night were him wiping his hands on his clothes, as well as him looking as though someone slapped him across the face.

yeah. perhaps it is best you don’t tell him that.)

mon cœur = my heart, which can be read as my sweetheart/other half/life, etc.

if you enjoyed this, then reblogs with/or comments are greatly appreciated !! <33

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[milkteabinniechan]

♡Dear Lover - Hyunjin

MINORS DNI 18+ ONLY MEMBERSHIP//M.LIST

pairing: fiancè Hyunjin x fem! reader

summary: Your parents have picked a husband for your sister and the two of them have been writing love letters back and forth for years before they meet on their wedding day. There is just one problem: you've been the one sending the letters to her future husband and now you're in love!

warnings: just fluff! some angst, drama, very soft hyunjin, lovesick reader

“Maybe start with why you were the one writing me the letters and not your sister?” Hyunjin’s nostrils flared as he spoke. But his tone wasn’t angry, just confused. You looked exactly how he pictured you from your letters. A softness about you that translated through your words.

“She asked me to. In the beginning, she didn’t want to write to you. So, she asked me to do it instead to make our parents happy.” You pulled at the hem of your shirt, twisting it this way and that while your eyes stayed fixed on the ground. “Please, don't be upset with her.”

Hyunjin stepped back for a moment. His eyes searched yours as the two of you finally locked onto one another. Eyes that he had pictured late at night. A face he had only seen in his dreams. Everything he had said in the letter was true. He was in love, just not with your sister. But the wedding was planned, the invitations sent out.

It was springtime when the letters first began. You remember the sound of birds chirping outside your bedroom window when your parents made the announcement that your sister was to be wed on the year of her 21st birthday.

“But I don’t want to marry someone I’ve never met!” She screamed. You were only partially paying attention. You were no longer the focus of your parents' attention. You were twenty-four now and practically a spinster. Your sister was going to have her wedding the very next spring. One year. She had one year to comply and accept what was happening.

“We’ve already failed with your older sister, we will not fail with you.” Your father boomed. His fat finger pointed sternly at you.

While your little sister protested for a few weeks, she ultimately agreed upon the marriage if she could at least see who she was to be betrothed to. But letters are all his family would agree to. A stern, traditional family that negotiated the terms of advised letters to be written once a week for one year until the wedding day. Meetings were held in secret by the patriarchs of the two families. Hands were shook and large cigars were smoked in celebration of the upcoming union. Then one cool spring night, your sister came knocking at your door with a favor to ask.

“You’re a writer. Just write the letters for me and make me sound good okay?” She begged, her hands folding together while her eyes pleaded with you.

Reluctantly you agreed. One week after the other, you tried your best to sound like your sister. You wrote about her interests instead of your own. You included her favorite color and her favorite kind of food. But somewhere down the line, you slipped. Hyunjin had written about a favorite book of yours – Little Women. He had written paragraphs discussing the different characters and the depth of their description and diversity from one another. He had gushed about the writing style and the eloquent use of simile and metaphors. And your heart fluttered, fluttered and flipped in a way that was new and exciting. Your next letter was completely you. It was your voice, your thoughts, your ideas. The words just flowed out of you like wine and you would feel almost drunk by the time you signed your sister’s name at the bottom.

Hyunjin would soon write about more personal subjects; his fears and insecurities. Of which you felt a kinship with. You would respond with words of comfort and love, thanking him for being so open and vulnerable with you. You would tell him about a beautiful sunset you saw or the lovely sound that snow made when you take a step early in the morning. Hyunjin would tell you how ready he was to hear that sound. How eager he was to hold you, to hear your laugh and touch your lips at last-

When everything was said and done, you knew the exact moment that things had gone too far. You had said “I love you” in your final letter before the wedding. Hyunjin had responded that he was on his way and that he “loved you more that there were stars in the sky.”

You held that last letter tightly in your hands as the all black town car pulled into the driveway of your family home. You would see him, finally see him, and he would see you. Only you would be a shadow cast behind your sister. Hyunjin could never know that those words were not hers. He would marry her and you would go back to your life before. As Hyunjin slowly stepped out of the car, the sunlight shone through his hair like a beacon. His forearm flexed as he gripped the car door and closed it behind him. He stood still for a moment, his eyes flicking between you and your sister until his gaze finally landed on you. Your sister hastily stepped in front of you and introduced herself. Hyunjin shook his head for a second to break the stare between the two of you before smiling warmly at your sister. He held her tightly, his long arms sweeping around her waist and pulling her close to his chest.

“I am so happy to meet you in person, my love!” He exclaimed, his hand coming up to cradle your sister’s face.

Dinner was a complete blur. The clanking sound of silverware and glasses swirled around your ears while your mind drifted further and further from the dining room. The voices of your family were distant, just an echo of a sound as you attempted to keep your food down. After dinner, Hyunjin and your sister snuck off somewhere in the house to be alone. You made your way up to your room and lied on your bed, willing your brain to erase the last year so the heaviness in your chest would subside.

“Fine! Okay? I didn’t write those stupid letters! But that doesn’t mean anything, right?” your sister shouted from the other side of the wall. You stayed in bed and made your way to the wall that divided your two rooms to see if you could hear anything. “She’s a loser! You don’t want her!” Your sister screamed.

“If she is the one that wrote all those letters, then I do. I do want her.”

Your heart dropped. You moved your head away from the wall and turned to face your bedroom door as you heard footsteps approach.

“Please, don’t be upset with her.”

“I’m not upset with her.” Hyunjin took a step closer, closing the gap between the two of you. “You look just as I imagined.” He whispered, his breath brushing softly against your neck.

Your breath hitched as he moved closer. Your hands move instinctively to his waist. Your hips coming into contact with his as his hands move down your back and come to rest at your sides. He leans into your ear and speaks in a low tone. A secret shared just between the two of you. Something intimate that nothing in this world could penetrate. “You’re the one I want to marry. You’re the bride I have been waiting for.”

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[bunnys-kisses]

Hi bunny I have an idea

What if reader and lando lowk hate each other and are rivals but one night at vegas they wake up after being blackout drunk married and they only have photos (a bit like the hangover movie) and then they get a flashback of everything with a fruitcake, crostata, cranberry juice and coffee plss thanksss bunny !

bakery menu

want to submit your own order? then hit up the menu! there are tons of items to check out, thank you so much for those who have submitted, these have been a lot of fun to make. i really love this concept so thank you for putting it in front of my eyes! i hope you enjoy <3

fruitcake: "i'll make tonight special." + crostata: “stupid slut, this is what you wanted huh? wanted me to fuck you like i hate you.” + cranberry juice: mean!character + coffee: rivals served by lando norris (formula one)!!

tags: smut/pwp, rivals au, driver!reader, drinking, drunk marriage, hate sex, mean!lando,

light streamed through the large windows in your hotel room. your eyes cracked open and your mouth felt instantly dry. your lips couldn't form words as you just groaned. you were no stranger to hangovers, but when you turned away from the evil sun, your cheek collided with something firm. someone firm. it was a body, your eyes open wider. you looked to see who was the mystery man in your bed.

while you were expecting some babe from the strip. you instead saw a sleeping lando norris.

and when you recoiled away from you and put your hand over your mouth, you noticed something even more terrifying. you had a gold band on your left hand.

it started over drinks, you could see lando from across the bar as you leaned back into your seat. your teammate followed your gaze. not this again.

lewis had the displeasure of hearing almost all of your drunken rants about lando. he knew very intimately how much you loathed, but also wanted lando. he was your proper rival. while the rivalry wasn't the more fierce in the history of formula one, he wanted you to just get over your stubbornness and sleep with the mclaren driver to get over the tension.

"i hate him." you sighed, "he walks around the paddock like he has the biggest cock."

"and how would you know his cock isn't the biggest?" lewis laughed which spurred you to laugh.

"well, c'mon. we all know that my cock is the biggest. in a metaphorical sense anyway... but it takes big balls to be the only female driver. gotta keep up with the boys." you laughed and winked at your teammate.

lewis chuckled, "can't argue with that." then took a sip of his (non alcoholic) drink. he watched you look over at the mclearn drivers at the other end of the bar. while oscar gave a wave, lando glared at you.

you made a face before you took another sip of your cocktail, "he doesn't act like that with anyone else. he is practically running max off the track and he is still more friendly than with me. maybe he hates women." the alcohol was flooded in your brain and your tonuge felt looser.

your teammate laughed, "right, right. he hated woman." he watched you ramble. an unintentional plus side to not drinking was that he got to be the sober person in the room when fellow drivers spilled their guts over drinks. eventually he said, "i think you need to talk to him."

and you were so drunk at that point you took hew advice and got up on shaky legs. you started to make your way over to lando, which shocked lewis. you never took his advice like that. he also knew that he wasn't going to be seeing you for the rest of the night.

he looked around for a moment before he took another sip of his drink. he hoped that you didn't get into too much trouble tonight. and made a mental note to check in on you in the morning. someone could get into heaps of trouble in a place like las vegas.

you don't know this happened or what you said. but lando was soon in your room with his large hands all over you. you groaned at his touch and he wanted to devour you whole. you wanted the same for him.

"i'll make tonight special." he said as he got you out of your mercedes branded t-shirt. and eyed your breasts.

"never seen tits before, norris? i thought you went through women like pairs of socks." you laughed before lando pushed you further up against the wall.

he chuckled lowly, "you like getting me mad, huh? you like driving me up the fucking wall. stupid slut, this is what you wanted, huh? you wanted me to fuck you like i hate you." lando then groaned, he pinned you to the wall, "you're such a whore. i bet you keep toto's bed nice and warm during the off season."

"fuck, shut up. you basically are between the legs of zak any time he asks. like a fucking dog." you bit back before lando kissed you once more.

the months of feuding had come to a head. as lando continued you to mark up your breasts before he took your bra off. he hungrily licked his lips and groaned a little.

the bed seemed far and you ended up on the couch. both of you were stripped naked, your flushed body on display for him as you straddled his waist and he held on to your hips like you two had done this a million times. you moved well together.

"i thought you were a virgin because you never put out. turned out you're a proper whore." your moan only spurred him on as he pushed himself inside of your achy cunt. he felt you in such an intimate way.

"i'm not a whore" you groaned as you fully seated yourself onto his cock.

he gripped you by the ass and replied, "there's no shame in being a whore. especially my whore. don't worry, i won't throw you away. nah, i'm keeping you." he groaned as he started to fuck you. and you felt the flood of pleasure in your body.

you had to admit, lando made you feel good. there was something about how it made you feel that made you move faster. damn lando norris, damn him.

his kisses got hotter the more you both rutted against each other.

"you feel like heaven. the hottest piece of ass on the track." he groaned, "you're always trying to be the best, but i know you well enough. fuck you drive me crazy!"

you asked, "is that why you hate me?" you felt the pleasure pair with the liquor in your system. it all clouded your mind.

"could never actually hate you." he groaned, "i'd bully and tease you. but that's because i want you so badly. spent so many nights jerking off to the thoughts of you." his breathing became heavier, "wanted to fuck you in front of the grid. i wanted you all to myself." his tone was hungry, but his words were true. he needed you. you had invaded his thoughts.

"fuck, lando." the haze of it all kept you moving. there was a painful heat between you. it was unlike anything you felt before with anyone else. sex was fun with others, but with lando it was a deep need.

he excited you sexually, just as he ddi on the track. you two kissed once more and lando moaned against your lips. youmoved faster, you could feel his cock hit against your softest areas. and you felt heaven on earth. and as you climaxed, the feeling was closely compared to winning a grand prix.

"fuck.' he groaned as you came. you kissed once more and practically melted against him. he gripped your hips tightly.

you continued to fuck him through your orgasm. and by the time he finished inside of you, you had marked up his shoulders with your nails because he made you finish for a second time.

when you slowed to a stop, you rested against his toned chest. he wrapped an arm around you and gave you a lazy kiss on the mouth.

he groaned when he pulled away, "fuck it. i'm keeping you. let's get married." there were a lot of ways to get into trouble in las vegas.

-

you laid in bed beside a sleeping lando. you looked at your wedding ring in shock. it only made the hangover worse. you had no recollection of most of the night, you remembered being intimate. but no details about your wedding.

your phone rang and you reached for it. you picked it up and heard lewis' voice on the other end, "good morning mrs. norris."

you sat up in bed and the throb in your head got worse. "how did you know? jesus christ." you said as you got out of bed to have this conversation in the bathroom.

"i mean, you sent me photos of your wedding. didn't take you as someone who wanted to be married by an elvis impersonator. how drunk were you last night?"

you closed the bathroom door and looked into the mirror. and saw all the marks lando left you the night prior. you said, "i couldn't tell you... i remember nothing."

"well they already updated your name on the track for next weekend." lewis laughed, "i'd suggest your change it on your track id, don't want any problems, mrs. norris."

"you hate me, lewis. you want me dead."

lewis replied, "not as much as toto wants you dead. have fun with your husband, let me know if you're flying to qatar with him or not."

when the call ended, you looked through your photos. you got married to lando norris. your rival. you felt your stomach dropped when you saw all the photos. the bathroom door opened and you were face to face with your husband.

you looked at one another in shock. you looked down at the photo on the phone screen. it was you in a short white number and lando in a white button up and tan slacks. you had no memory of this.

your hands shook as you showed him the photo. there was a silence between you two. before you could say anything, you jumped as you phone rang once more.

your stomach twisted when you saw the caller id. it was your boss, toto wolff. <3

[hedwig221b]

Do you by chance have BAMF Stiles recs? I'm reading your stories and all you rec so thank you for being awesome!!

Thank you so much! One wouldn't know by looking at my fics, but I absolutely adore BAMF!Stiles lol. He's a delight!

Daybreak by TheObsidianQuill

"There . . ." Stiles swallowed and looked down at the bottle in his grasp as he slowly swirled the amber liquid inside. "There's really nothing left. For me. Everyone is . . . gone, and it feels like I haven't thought of tomorrow in years." His words rang in the air like a gunshot, he took another heavy drink. "I would trade every last breath I take to just have another shot—not even a guarantee, just a chance to make things right and bring back even one of them."

The pack was gone. He had nothing left. He had no one. With nothing to lose, Stiles puts everything on the line to go back in time to try to prevent the future from becoming his past. Broken, guarded, and haunted by his past, only one overgrown-pup of a wolf seems able to get past his defenses. Changing the future? Easy. Finding a place for himself in the Hale Pack? Impossible.

The Roads Not Followed by SylvieW

Scott decides to leave Beacon HIlls with Allison and her father. Stiles is left alone to deal with the supernatural troubles of his home town, so he turns to Derek.

Years later, Scott’s new pack is threatened, and the only ones who can help them are the Hale pack and Derek’s powerful mate.

Not Your Disney Romance by Wrennefer

After a long-forgotten agreement of an arranged marriage between Derek and the daughter of another pack's alpha resurfaces, Stiles takes it upon himself to become the most amazing fake fiancé that a clueless, desperate alpha werewolf could wish for.

This is Ridiculous by zosofi

There's a unicorn in Beacon Hills. A fricken' unicorn. In fricken' Beacon Hills, California. And it turns out that unicorns aren't drawn towards virgins in a happy-go-lucky let-me-lay-my-not-at-all-metaphorical-horn-in-your-lap way. No. They kill them. And guess who's the only virgin idiotic enough to get sucked into the Beacon Hills supernatural scene? Stiles, that's who.

A Tangled Refuge by wanderingeyre

The Hale House has been rebuilt for the past five years and for all five of those years, it’s been a sanctuary for supernaturals that needed a place to stay, a halfway point, a place to recuperate, or a place to be safe from whatever was on their tail. Word traveled quickly in the small world of the supernatural and now they rarely had to seek out people who needed help. Most came to them.

What Fresh Twilight Bullshit Is This? by isthatbloodonhisshirt

“I am not Bella!” he insisted, shaking his fist angrily at Jackson, as if he’d been the one to suggest he was. “I am not Bella! I am, like, a Jacob, at least!”

Lydia made a noise of debate from his right and he whipped around to look at her.

“What?! What was that sound?!”

“You’re more of a Mike,” she insisted, shrugging neatly and flipping some curls over her shoulder.

“Wha—” Stiles had never been so offended in his life! “I am not! No way! I am a solid Jacob!”

“Mike,” she argued.

“Who’s Mike?” Scott asked.

“Shut up, Scott!” Stiles insisted, pointing a finger at him but still glaring at Lydia.

Came For The Spark, Stayed For The Flame

Derek felt the panic build up in his chest as Jezebel held out a hand. He smelled it before he saw it, because who could forget the scent of what destroyed your life? Fire and spark and smoke curled from Jezebel's hands, and the wood stacked at Stiles' feet flared up.

When Stiles and Derek get bonded as Emissary-and-Alpha, hidden attractions become a lot harder to hide, secrets are kept and secrets are surfaced, and an evil teenage girl is planning even more ritualistic sacrifice. Canon divergence from the end of 3a.

Dangerous by jjmash

There are a lot of things that the pack doesn’t know about Stiles.

Some of it is little things he simply has no reason to mention, like how he almost failed organic chemistry his first semester at Stanford. Some of it is bigger stuff that he just can’t bring himself to think about, like the nightmares that still plague most of his nights and trap him inside his own mind in increasingly horrific ways.

But most importantly, the pack doesn’t know all the ways in which Stiles has transformed during his time away from them. He doesn’t need fangs and claws to be dangerous.

The Person You'd Take a Bullet For (is Behind The Trigger) by SadieHerondale

The road to hell is paved with good intentions, but until he gets Derek back, Stiles' actions are going to be worse than bad. And he will get Derek back, come hell or high water.

Something More Than Human by gatergirl79

Stiles Stilinski has a secret, a huge secret. A secret that will change the way everyone sees him. No, he hasn't been bitten by a werewolf. Stiles Stilinski is the product of a government experiment to create the perfect soldier, a human weapon. As a second generation transgenic, Stiles has been living a normal life with his dad in Beacon Hills, playing the role of klutzy sidekick to his werewolf best friend. All that changes however when Derek saves his life, Stiles finds himself slowly embracing who he really is. - But at what cost?

Red Witch by rootbeer

The red hair of a banshee. The red eyes of an alpha. The red hoodie of a mage. The red of fire burning.

Derek Hale has been a prisoner to the hunters since they burned his family alive. But now someone has come to save him: skinny, defenseless Stiles--147 lbs of skin and fragile bones. Turns out, sarcasm isn't his only weapon.

Oh my (let me look at those eyes) by Gorgeousgreymatter

A few months ago, he might’ve been able to solve this with some force—a little man-handling, a snarl, a glimpse of teeth. But he looks at Stiles’s broken face, knows he’s seen too much horror and blood and evil, the whole Big Bad Wolf routine is just going to fall flat. Because Derek looks at Stiles and he doesn’t carry himself like a teenager anymore. He carries himself like a soldier.

Other fic recs: pack mom!Stiles | angsty fics | historical AU | baby/mpreg | outsider POV | possessive Derek | smut | hurt/comfort | magical Stiles | mafia | Stiles gets kicked out of the pack | omegaverse | witch!Stiles | creature!Stiles

[after-witch]

Two in the Hand [Yandere Sukuna x reader]

Title: Two in the Hand [Yandere Sukuna x reader]

Synopsis: Sukuna wants to eat you. 

Word count: 1000ish

Notes: yandere, threats of cannibalism, mentions of sexual conquests 

Inspired by the interaction prompt: Sukuna says he wants to eat you. Reader replies: "Ah, I'm flattered, but I'm saving myself for marriage!"

The dual reactions on Yuji’s--but not entirely Yuji’s--face play out swiftly. Yuji’s cheeks flush a pinker hue at your words, while the mouth currently planted in the center of one cheek curls downward… and then upward. 

It’s almost dizzying, the way you’re trying to pay attention to both of them at once. Yuji, your friend; Sukuna, the curse currently lodged inside him, of which you can only see a mouth that has shifted location three times during Sukuna’s diatribe about consuming you.

He means it literally. You realized this early on. Or rather, he admitted it directly without so much as a metaphor when he discussed the best cuts of human meat, the best ways to consume it to ensure best flavor, and the way that he wonders if modern humans taste better or worse than their predecessors. 

“You would let your spouse consume your flesh?” Sukuna asks, and Yuji slaps his hand over the demonic lips on his face to silence them.

”Just--” Yuji begins, but he cringes--

The lips reappear on the top of Yuji’s hand, unbothered. 

“Answer me, human. Or I’ll eat you right now.”

You almost want to ask him how he plans to eat you when he’s currently a pair of lips, but if Sukuna can make the lips on Yuji’s body speak, perhaps it’s not far off to assume they might be able to tear at your flesh.

So you start to think, and think quickly. You keep your posture meek and you even give a little bow.

"Of-of course, Sukuna." You pause. Should you call him something more deferential? It might help. You've gained the strongest sense that he sees himself as vastly superior to everyone else in the world, human and curse alike. "I mean, of course, lord Sukuna. I'd be happy to offer an explanation."

If only you could think of a proper one, beyond your initial excuse, stammered out because you didn’t know what else to say to such an awful, violent, disturbing threat aimed at you from a demonic pair of lips. 

There's a moment of silence. Two, three or four. And the lips on Yuji's hand--still there, despite Yuji attempting to literally shake them off--begin frown again. They’re starting to twist, perhaps to threaten you again, when you perk up.

“It’s just that…” You lower your head in deference again. Yuji quirks his head, but you can see from the corner of your eye that the lips have ceased to curl downward. “Being devoured is the ultimate act of intimacy. And if I’m going to be one with someone forever, my lord, it’s only proper that it’s my spouse.” 

You fiddle with the edge of your shirt. “I certainly couldn’t imagine some stranger consuming me, keeping me with them forever like that. It wouldn’t be right. It wouldn’t be proper.”

You swallow against spit and the faintest hint of bile, before daring to glance up. Yuji’s gaze goes between you and his hand, until--

Laughter comes from the lips embedded into his skin, low and mean. You can imagine, if Sukuna were in front of you, that he would throw his head back in mockery. 

And then, Sukuna says something. It’s not a word that makes any sense, really. But Yuji throws his head back and suddenly, he’s not Yuji at all.

He’s Sukuna.

With black markings on his face and a look in his eyes that makes you want to run. Only then, a thought comes to mind, something your father told you when you were little, and hiking in the woods: 

Never run from a predator. It only makes them chase you.

“You’re most entertaining,” he says, while you stand there, open-mouth, trembling like a cold wind has blown through the air. 

“Entertaining?” You parrot. You take a step back, and he matches it forward.

“Most humans are too frightened to do anything but beg for their lives, if they even get that far, when I threaten to eat them.”

You force your hands into fists and will them to stop shaking. They don’t.

“I suppose,” you begin, looking downward, partially out of the fear of not showing respect and partially out of the way you hate to look at him. “That most people are concerned with dying when they hear you say that.”

Sukuna’s smile widens into a grin.

“And you aren’t concerned with dying, little lamb?”

This conversation might as well take place on a butcher’s block, you think.And you’re the cut of meat trying to convince the butcher to put you back in the freezer. 

“Of course, I wouldn’t want to die.” You stare down at the ground. He’s taken another step forward, and his shoes--no, Yuji’s shoes--are in  your line of vision. “But that is where the question of… spousal intimacy comes in, you see. With a stranger…” You shake your head, feigning distaste. “It’s simply not proper. But with my spouse, well, I would become one with them in a manner far beyond simple matrimony.” You manage a smile, feeble, but hopefully not too fake. 

There’s silence, for a moment.

And then there’s a finger on your chin and it feels like cold steel as it tilts your chin up, and you’re forced to look at him, though you keep your eyes averted. 

“Aren’t you prim and proper?” He says, low, teasing. “You know,” he says, taking your chin between two fingers, “it was always the prim and proper ones who came the most undone in the past. They were raised to be so uptight…”

He leans in closer. There’s something awful that seems to come with his closeness, a darkness and heaviness that threatens to pull you down to the ground. 

He’s going to kiss me, you think. He’s going to kiss me and then rip open my mouth and chew the flesh and--

But he doesn’t kiss you. Instead, he lets go of your chin and takes a step back.

You look at him with what must be the loudest confusion in the world on your face. He laughs, and tilts his head back. 

“If we’re to be spouses, I intend a traditional courtship first. Kissing comes later. Wouldn’t that be proper?”

There’s hardly any relief to be felt when it’s Yuji, not Sukuna, looking at you.

“Huh?”

[laurorne]

༊*·˚ CRAVING YOUR WARMTH | aegon ii targaryen x targaryen bastard sister!reader

summary: two dragons who seek to move closer for warmth during their grief must remain apart, as they can only hurt one another with their sharp teeth and barely contained flames. though they both share the intentions of a close relationship, they're unable, for reasons they cannot avoid.

content: targaryen incest, angst, allusion of self-mutilation/harm, bastardphobia in westeros, night after intimacy suggested, self-hatred, blood, wonky metaphors and personification, no beta we die like vizzy t, badly written angst, that damn necklace

word count: 1.5k

a/n: let me tell you that i struggle writing angst, but god do i love reading it. i'm like my own self entertaining paradoxical concept and it astounds me

A gentle hand smoothing over his back is what stirs him from the throes of sleep, nails skating along his marked skin softly enough to tickle. He shifts as the hand moves from the expanse of his back up to his hair, rubbing circles into the crown of his head. Twirling bits of hair between deft fingers as she presses a kiss to the slope of his shoulder.

He hums, limbs stretching out clumsily as he rolls onto his side, fingers weak as his hand dances along the goose-down duvet until it reaches her. Her, and her softness, and her warmth.

“Wife.” He’s barely awake, even with the exasperated sigh that comes from his older sister.

“We are not wed, Aegon.” A gentle reminder from soft lips, her eyes taking in his tired demeanour, the curve of his brow.

She brushes the strand of choppy hair from his face, thumb dragging along the apple of his cheek.

He doesn’t speak for a moment, lids finally fluttering open as he stares up at her with those watery eyes. The ones he knew made her weak to suggestion. He lets his hand creep up her calf –where he can still feel the divets of scars from their childhood running through the gardens– until it finds home on the hand she has in her lap, he threads his fingers with hers. The number of rings adorning her fingers was thanks to him: he and his obsession with keeping his older sister glamoured. 

Imported Dornish rings that gleamed with the heat of the sun, Essosi ornate cloth and dresses that were far from the modesty of Court, hair pins adorned with pearls from the Summer Isles, and an intricate necklace crafted from the smelted metal of a Valyrian sword, inlaid with gemstones he had pulled from the Red Keeps vaults.

She was wearing it now, the stones gleaming under the sun that spotted through the lace curtains of her room. The engraved details scatter the few beams of light they catch like dew drops upon spider silk. The stones dangle between the valley her breasts create, the smallest of them twirls some intricate dance as she shifts. Like molten silver, it fits her without any of the stiffness metal should have. 

“We should be.” He glances down at his hand intertwined with hers and watches her thumb rub over his —in the way she always has ever since childhood— it makes him all the more rueful.

He’s hopeful, far beyond it. His bones ache and his head throbs from a swelling hangover, and he feels his throat ache something terrible at its use. His eyes trail from their hands to her face, he wants anything aside from sorrow to be there.

It’s worse. 

Her brows are furrowed as she stares down at him with pity, oh how he wishes it wasn’t pity.

“Oh, sweet boy.” She pulls her hand from his grasp and holds his face in her gentle hands with all the care he needs. “Some things, they just can’t be.”

His lip curls, a pathetic smile covering his visage as he cups the backs of her hands in his own. “But they could. Helaena would not care, she loathes our marriage. As do I. We could take Valyrian vows on Dragonstone. Just as our sister and uncle have. We could leave.”

“Aegon.” A wistful breath of his name, pained and twisted with grief of things that never were and never will.

“We don’t need to stay. Just you and I, riding atop Sunfyre. Across the Narrow Sea.” He moves onto his knees, staring into her wet doe-like eyes as he speaks. He doesn’t leave her an opportunity to doubt him. Doesn’t allow her to pull away as he keeps her hands on his jaw.

Her lips twitch and so do her fingers against his. “Aegon, don’t be foolish.”

“You mustn’t know what you mean to m-”

“Aegon, please.” She tries to pull away now, but he winds his hand into the hair at the nape of her neck and presses forward. Wine-stained lips crushing against the curve of her nose, fluttering across her brow like the gentle wings of a cotton moth as it devours silks and linen allied— devourer of all things beautiful and plain. 

He drags his lips to hers finally, soaking her up in a way only someone as depraved as he could. It’s like stretching out upon a rock after not feeling the son for years, like stripping yourself of shackles you’ve worn since birth. Her lips are chapped, a split in her lips from all the worrying she does to the poor thing scratches along his upper. He surges forward, pulling her so fully against him that it fills some empty part of him, like a puzzle piece that’s never been slotted into place. But oh —how it has— and how it always disappears just as quickly as it comes to him. He licks at her bottom lip, sucks it into his mouth and shudders out a breath as she reciprocates. Her lashes fluttering against his cheeks as they finally shut, as she cups his neck and presses her butterfly kisses onto him, licks into his mouth as she breathes hotly across his face in a way only Aegon can enjoy.

He nips at her tongue accidentally, overexcited and eager as he is. And that seems to bring her back from whatever hole he had dragged her into. But he persists, hand drifting down to the smooth metal of her necklace as he thumbs at a jewel. He tries to savour her presence even as her face scrunches and her fingers fist the hairs behind his ears. It nearly pains Aegon, with the way his head tilts away from her just slightly, Adams apple jumping against pale skin as he stares oh-so adoringly, heady breaths stinking of wine fanning her bruised lips.

“We could start a family in Essos. As many children as you want.” He desperately reaches for her again.

“Aegon.” 

“A home in Braavos, on the beach. Where we could lo-”

A hiccuped sob that withers in her throat is what stops him, punches the wind from his lungs.

Her lips are pursed and her hands have loosed upon his hair and move to cup his ruddy cheeks. Nails pressing into the flesh of his face hazardously. His eyes are dark and his lips part as he stares up at her, he sees the tears edging along her waterline. That deep frown she has when she’s trying not to cry, whether it's about something he had done or when she’s ordered by their Grandsire to stop her hysterics.

“Aegon,” It’s a sullen whisper as she lets his face go entirely, fingers slipping down his chest before they land in her lap again. “I am not a trueborn daughter. I will never be. I am not right in the mind. I will birth lunatics and monsters and wailing death. You can’t love me.”

He doesn’t know what to say, for once he has no sharp-tongued quip or comment. He pushed her from a height, just when she had finally reached the top of her spire. He retracts, fingers loosening from the grip he had on her pale hair, and lets her fall back onto the plush of her bed as she stares up at him like he’s burnt her. Like he’s dragged a dagger across the soft of her flesh and told her he never loved her. She pushes herself away, curling in on herself as tears cut through the flush of her cheeks. A wobbly exhale, and another as he drags a hand through her hair.

Her fingers dance down her neck and across the skin of her arms where they find home on the pale scars marring the upper parts of her arms. He can see her fingertips quivering with the urge to dig. To pull at chords of muscle beneath her skin and scratch at her bones. She had told him about things she saw. Things that hunted at the edge of her vision and scattered when she went looking. Dreams that came to the waking world with her. A pale man with the stench of darkness seeping from his pores.

“I love yo-” He leans forward to comfort her. 

“You don’t.”

“I know that I love you.”

“You know nothing, Aegon.” She pulls herself to the edge of the bed and drags herself to stand, the silk bedsheets slip away and her goosebumps raise upon her bruise-marred skin, she’s as bare as the day she was born. Her throat is too tight and her necklace feels heavy as she stumbles to the secret passage, she slips from the room unbidden and leaves a smudge of blood on the wooden grain of the bookcase as Aegon sits in her bed. Salty tears of his own roll down his face as he clenches and unclenches his fists.

[hazelfoureyes]

A Doe in Fall (part 5)

⟢HumanAlastor x FemaleBurlesquerReader - A Doe in Fall

Part 1 - Pretty in Red smut💦 Part 2 - Liar smut💦 Part 3 - A Tragedy smut💦 Part 4 - Enough Part 5 - Too Much Part 6 - Learning smut💦 Part 7 - Recognition smut💦 Part 8 - Trust sexual 🥵 Part 9 - Shiny Things Part 10 - Good Deeds Part 11 - Caught Part 12 - Eddie

Part 5 Too Much

Actions famously speak louder than words, so what did you say, exactly, to Alastor with your actions that night? You were briefly rattled by what happened in the park but not for the obvious reasons. Despite everything, despite your fears, you found the situation deepening between you two when he suddenly invites to stay the night at his home. Perhaps he had fears of his own?

「Warnings/Promises: Human Alastor x Fem Burlesquer reader, No smut! That’s next part because this part was already super fucking long 😭 , but we do flirt our asses off and get taken by the hand, crying, panic attacks, discussions of murder, dead bodies, you really have to stop smoking, deer, adorably nervous Alastor, this man owns more than one mug you fucking know it」

19 days later… 😩 please don’t kill me. 5000 words here, Another like 6000 words are posting this Thursday, also tumblr wouldn’t let me post this for like an hour , just gave me error messages, I had to copy and paste 4 times so there may be some errors in here so let me know if you find spelling or format issues🙏

When he came to, momentarily either unconscious or just incapacitated as his brain started up again, he was frantic for his glasses. He could hear the sounds of a brutal death, the crunch of anger, the squish of rage. 

His eyes focused now, slightly askew and smudged glasses helping him see you clearly. 

Leaning over the man, hands red and face twisted in a marriage of fear and wrath, you were bringing a large rock down on the man’s unrecognizable face over and over and over and—

You flinched when Alastor’s hands delicately slipped down your arms and peeled your fingers from the rock.

Full body shaking, “He was going to kill you!” You said it too loud, too fast. “He was going to—,” Your breath got caught in your throat, “He wanted to— He was trying to kill you, Alastor.”

Wet with mud and blood and the rain still left on the grass, you were pulled into Alastor’s lap. He tucked your head into the crook of his neck with a small wince and hugged you. “He was. He almost did.” Low and slow, his chest rumbled when he said it. “You did such a good job.”

You looked down at your hands, but he pulled your face back up to look at his, “Always surprising me in the best ways.”

You’d forgotten already, how when adrenaline wanes you’re left with terrible tremors and a suddenly clear head. Alastor almost died. You hadn’t thought at all when it happened. Everything had taken place so fast, faster than your brain could process.

You had seen Alastor stop struggling against the man, his body went still and your eyes were blinded with tears, there was a horrible sound that may have come from you, and then there was nothing. A flash of running Colors. Distant muddled sounds.

Maybe you saw someone grab a rock. 

You might have hit the man on the back of the head. 

You think he fell down and something didn’t stop moving against him. 

Perhaps you thought if you hit him enough you could make it have not happened at all. If you killed him fast enough, Alastor would have been fine and standing.

But you weren’t sure. You blinked and Alastor was touching you and underneath you was a pulp of a man’s face. 

Alastor’s heart was racking against his ribs. Arms tightening around you unconsciously as his eyes landed on the dead man.

He’d gotten too comfortable. He pushed too hard. He wanted too much. He was too much.

He felt himself spilling over and staining your hands metaphorically and now literally.

You didn’t feel anything. Not during. Now you felt too much.

Your mind was filled with an echoing chorus of, ‘He almost killed him. He almost died. He almost killed him. He almost died. He almost died. He almost died.” 

There was a strange fear that Alastor had died, and any second you’d blink again and be alone in the trees with two dead men. You twisted in his lap,  hands rocketing to Alastor’s face and gripping the sides of his head. You were staring into his eyes, panting.

“You can’t die. I’ll—,” tears poured down your face in streams not drops. Your throat closed around the words. Short and fast, your breath ran wild. Hands tingling, your lips felt like they were pricked with a hundred tiny needles. 

Alastor pushed down his own mess of emotions, “One deep breath in.” His hands settled on yours,  still on his face. He could feel the familiar stickiness of drying blood in his hair. “Keep breathing in.” You coughed, shaking your head no. “You can, I promise it. Would I lie to you?”

You laughed, managing to catch your breath for a moment, “Y-yes.” 

“Well, now you’re adding insult to injury.” He made a show of rubbing his neck. You smacked his chest lightly, breathing in twice in a row.

He held both of your hands in both of his, “Name a time I’ve ever lied.” He distracted you but wounded himself. He could name a time.

You tried to think. “I don’t know. Maybe you’re just a really good liar.” Your voice was hoarse. 

Alastor nodded, “That’s true, there’s actually nothing I can’t do well.”

Another laugh, a cry, “Stop it.”

His warm, clean hands wiped your tears. “You’re being aggressive again, sweetheart. You know I prefer soft spoken women.”

The laughter helped break the cycle of hyperventilating. As your breathing finally got to a manageable speed you felt exhaustion deep in your bones.

All at once the sensations became prominent. Your knees were red and muddy, your hands bloody, your left side and back wet. You were sticky and sore and cold. “Alastor,” his legs were framing you, yours now folded under yourself and digging into rocks, “I wanna go home.” You adjusted his glasses, “Together.” 

If he had a reason to say no, he ignored it. 

“I thought I was the messy one.” He washed your hands with the water cans and settled you into the passenger seat of his car. Alastor took care of filling the trunk and cleaning the ground before sliding into the driver's seat.

He turned to you, his face dirty and clothes worse. You looked down at yourself; knees a color of wine, and blue dress now dyed brown.

“I know you have to get rid of him. So, I won’t ask you to sleep over. Just,” you felt sleepy, mind asking you to let it catch up, “let me take care of you for a little bit. Okay?”

His hand slipped onto your leg, he wanted to make a joke about sex or murder hoping to make you laugh again. But it was obvious he needed to be quiet, so he just nodded.

Alastor left the car on a side street behind your building. The man whose name you never asked concealed under canvas and red oil tins.

Luckily everything was clean in your apartment. It was small, just one room and a bathroom. The other apartments you’d seen had communal toilets and showers so you were quite proud of your space. You’d made it yours, gifted trinkets here and there, walls decorated with hanging dried flowers you'd had thrown at your feet. A shrine to your abilities.

You peeled off his clothes, tossing them in the kitchen sink and wiping off as much dirt as you could with a damp rag. 

Clothing hanging over the radiator, you both got into the shower. Cold and wet now hot and soaking,  you took his hands and sat you both down in the tub while the water ran down. Taking your time, you gently scratched the blood and mud from his hair and let it all wash away.

When fully cleaned and dried off he slipped on the only bit of clothing he had left, a loose pair of boxer shorts. You had a slip, silky and soft, to comfort you. Your mother wore silk, and it always made you feel safe. The way the fabric slid around its self and others, never catching or bunching up, was something you always hoped to emulate; smooth and cool, but always in need of a little caution and care.

A small bed meant for one, but you offered it. When Alastor motioned for you to slide in too, you didn’t hesitate.

Nose to nose, the room was quickly heating up with the radiator's help. 

You hadn’t been in a bed with Alastor in nearly two months, not since that first time. His words stuck to you like embroidered messages lovingly stitched into a handkerchief you didn’t want to lose. So you kept your hands between your thighs, still and away, to make sure he had space to exist in your bed.

“You saved my life.” Alastor whispered, one of you finally bringing up the obvious.

A hummed acknowledgment, “That makes us even.” He saved you before, you did the same in turn. A little piece of you worried the contract was done and he’d disappear.

“No, my dear. I owe you so much more.” A kiss to your cheek.

A terrifying thought took hold of you. “Roll over.” He looked confused but did. You were always asking him to turn away, always trying to hide your face when you said things that scared you. You hooked your arms under his and held tightly. 

“If I wasn’t there, there’s no one to have told me. How long would I have waited,” another torrent of tears into his back you couldn’t keep in if you tried, “at the phone booth for you to call in the morning.”

You were crying like a child, uncontrolled and with your entire body. Pathetic. 

He had never had someone to worry about those details. Everyone truly close to him was dead. Until now, of course. 

Of course.

What a natural addition you provided to him. He thought it like that it was a long standing fact.

He hugged your arms tighter to his chest. 

A shiver of fear in the warm bed as you continued, “I want to be there. With you. Always.” You gathered your courage. Shields completely down, if just for a moment, “I know there was nothing right about tonight but,” you wiped your tears off his back with your palm, reabsorbing that pain before he could soak it in, “Please. Don’t shut me out now. I’ll go to hell tomorrow for you but please don’t damn me to picking up a newspaper and seeing your name in the headlines; Learning you died in block letters for a nickel. I wouldn’t survive it.”

You didn’t want to meet his eyes, worried rejection was waiting for you there, so you’d asked him to turn so you could hide. He picked up your hands and kissed your knuckles one by one. “Please don’t say things like that outloud. Things like ‘go to hell’ and ‘tomorrow’ so close together. The spirits can hear you.” A kiss to your palm, “And I wouldn’t dare shut you out.” He couldn’t. The very idea of going back to how he was before, alone and mumbling to the dead, made his heart race with his own panic. If you disappeared tomorrow he was scared to think what would happen to him. “Plus, I know you’d just find me anyway. You always do.”

Had you not been there, he would have still tried to kill the man. Waiting in an alley or for a walk home through an empty space. You weren’t at fault. He’d been hurt before, but this was by far the worst situation he had been in. But he would have been in it regardless of your participation. Alastor pressed his lips into your hand, smelling the soap you’d washed him with. 

You hadn’t hesitated. He had thought you would run, that he’d slip away into death and you’d book it to safety. Something he never planned to ask you to do, to kill someone, you’d done it for him when it was the most selfless option. Did he mean so much to you? He wanted to ask, but if you said anything other than an immediate yes he feared he would turn to a pillar of salt and crumble.

If you both could find the courage to just look at each other you’d have all your answers. But you couldn’t. The fear still too strong. So you changed the topic for a chance at an escape.

A small confession, to turn the conversation away from death. “After our dates, your cologne always lingers on my clothes. Sometimes I just fall asleep in them. When I wake up, my pillow smells like you.” Your body formed against his back, pressing as tightly as you could. How was that less embarrassing than everything else you’d said when it was arguably more pathetic?

He was quiet. You worried you’d pushed too far. Alastor worried he’d already hurt you too much.

“If you asked me,” he spoke slowly, hands resting on yours above his heart, a deep breath, “I’d stop.” He would. 

But, “I’d never ask that of you.” You said it so quickly, like blinking or yawning it happened without you needing to think about it. Alastor did something he felt he needed to do, you saw that look in his eyes before and understood this was Alastor at his truest. And the people he killed weren’t good people. He provided a service to New Orleans that no one appreciated.

He smiled against your palm, making sure you felt it, “Why are you so good to me?”

Without hesitation, Because I love you.

After a beat of silence, “Because you know where I live, obviously.”

A huff, “And where you work.” 

“And the park where I like to get fingered.”

Finally, his unburdened laugh, “I didn’t expect you to say that.” That sound of his joy bounced off the thin walls around you both. He rarely expected anything you said or did. It was part of your charm. Normally he could predict what people would say like reading a bad story, but you were something else. Effortlessly entertaining, was that a compliment? He was sure you’d say no and make that face you always did, something between a pout and a glare, between sad and angry. 

He had been asking genuinely. Why were you so good to him? Why so patient? Why care at all? 

“Can you sleep? Or do you need to go?” 

Alastor thought about it, if he left early enough he could still get home in time to empty the trunk. He hummed an affirmative, when he didn’t move you understood it was the former. He didn’t want to go. He needed more time. He needed to feel you nearby. An odd sense that if he pulled away now the thread holding you two together would pull him apart at the seams with the distance. 

You would think nightmares would plague you after killing someone in cold blood, but no. You practically killed Tommy, when you considered it thoroughly. And while this night was not a joy, you had defended yourself and Alastor. You didn’t feel bad. You didn’t regret it. You were just scared you did a bad job. That you’d get caught. 

The kind of dreams you had were different kinds of scary. Of Alastor always leaving a room when you entered, of falling off the stage and landing too far down, of waking up to feel Alastor cold beside you. 

When you did wake, your arms were still tight around him and he was warm. Your forehead rested between his shoulder blades. You didn’t feel different this time, you didn’t feel changed like after Tommy.

Alastor always had nightmares so he wasn’t surprised to have them in your bed. He dreamt he awoke on the ground, the man was gone but you were there broken into several pieces.

Had it been a dream though? 

After he dressed, you brushing his hair over a shared cup of coffee (you only had the single mug), you walked him to his car. The sun was nearly up and luckily no one else was. You had just wrapped a coat around your slip, not exactly acceptable clothing for being in public.

A shared kiss, small and chaste, Alastor’s mind elsewhere. He opened the door but stopped and turned back to you. It was always in these moments before you two parted that he felt the most frantic. 

“I know we love talking in circles and making jokes, but I have to ask you, bluntly. You killed a man. Are you alright?” When you only blinked, he quickly added, “It’s okay if you’re not.” His expression was pure worry, furrowed brows and flat mouth. “Nothing will change if you say you’re not.”

When you started to smile, Alastor thought he had lost his mind. The sun was rising behind you, making the shadows on your face slowly shift. He took a second to take in the scene. Ankles naked with sockless shoes. To your right was a trunk full of a dead man. And you just smiling like he’d made a joke. Which he explicitly said he wasn’t going to do.

“I don’t feel like I killed anyone.” You said it with a levity that made him glance around, wondering if you’d hit your head a little too hard earlier, “I feel like I stopped someone from killing you. Which feels,” you fought to suppress your smile from growing any further, “kinda good. Like I’m strong. I’m just scared I made a mistake and police will find out. I’m terrified we’ll be seperated. But I don’t feel bad.”

A normal man would be deeply concerned. You didn’t feel bad? For killing a man with a rock? Arguably one of the most brutal ways to murder a person. A normal man would worry he would be next.

Luckily for you both, Alastor was not a normal man. He stared at your face, trying to discern any hints of deceit there before he fell into the comfort of trust.

Your pinky came out, “I’m fine, and if I’m ever not, I will tell you. Promise.” His eyes left your face to stare at the tiny digit, “If I break the promise, you get to break the pinky.”

“Pinkies are useless, we should use a finger that matters.” He offered his index. You let yourself laugh, hooking your pointer finger with his.

Smile to smile, he exhaled his stress and slipped into his normal demeanor, “No worries, darling! No one will ever know what happened to him.” He leaned beside you and patted the trunk. “Leave it to me.”

Alastor drove away with the man, ready to disappear the body and try to sleep before work if possible. A nagging still sat in his stomach, a little pull that maybe you’d change your mind. 

He asked you the next morning, on your routine call, if he could stop by the theater when he finished with work that night. No reason in particular. He’d pull into the side street, and you could run out to see him.

When he arrived, you were in your stage outfit waiting to greet the crowd. Alastor smiled, “The prettiest bird I’ve ever seen!”

“A bird? Alastor just ‘pretty’ woulda been a fine compliment.” 

He offered an apology by way of kiss, soft hands coming to your cheek as he leaned against the door of his car. “I just wanted to see you. Steal a kiss before you stole some hearts. May I return tomorrow?”

Ah, that feeling again. Stupid school girl with her first crush, her first taste of love. “I wouldn’t complain.” 

That flow of conversation eased Alastor, things felt normal already. For you, they were. A small worry remained he may begin to act differently but the only difference was he seemed to be embracing you deeper. 

After your delivered kiss, you took the stage like a woman reborn. The warmth of the light felt like the sun. Pointed toes as you moved along the stage, hips loose and smile coy. 

As you looked around the backlit crowd you didn’t search for a good mark. The times you did play a man’s attention for Alastor were different, it felt like art when you lured men into Alastor’s claws.

A shake of your feathered fans, a very controlled lowering of your head, you let a hip rock out into view. A little flash of inner thigh. Then, your favorite part. One hand gripped your fans as you them with the aide of practiced fingers. Free hand undoing your still remarkably heavy and glittering bra and handing it behind the curtain.

Surprise reveal, a naked magic trick done behind distracting whirling feathers. Arms open, fans high, you waited for the applause to die down. Deep breaths were not possible, adrenaline and the weight of your costume keeping you from hiding the heaving of your chest. 

The whistles were your favorite. You couldn’t imagine Alastor whistling but you were sure it would be flawless in its ability to capture your attention. 

“Anyone wanna smoke? I don’t want to go into the alley alone.” You asked the room, several girls glancing your way and shaking their heads no as you hurried back in from your set.

“Just take the fire escape to the roof. That’s where we’ve been smoking since Mr. Brady said it was dangerous at night.” Florence was normally a perfect smoking partner, never talking too much. The name Brady made your stomach flip though, you had forgotten about him for a second. You’d managed to avoid him until Tommy’s bloody trail went cold, but you knew he still stalked around the jazz and music district.

A dancer laughed, “Nighttime has always been dangerous for women.”

Someone you didn’t see added, “Fuck, daytimes not safe either.” 

You climbed the creaky and seemingly forgotten-about fire escape to the roof. The breeze hit your face before your feet even left the metal railing. 

It was… a roof. Grey painted floors and brick sides. Nothing special, but you could see the bowl full of discarded cigarettes near the front of the building. You looked over the short wall that edged the front, you were able to see the pigeon shit covered marquee. What an unattractive view, the lights flashing out from beneath actual shit.

There was a metaphor there, you were sure. 

Looking around, there were a few wicker chairs hidden in the shadow of the street’s lights, thankfully upside down to keep them clean from the birds.

If more people used roofs instead of alleys Alastor would be out of luck. Tommy was difficult enough with a staircase, the fire escape would have been the nail in that coffin. 

It had been a lovely night, absolutely jarring compared to the night before. You leaned back in the chair, you knew you weren’t the best at saying what you meant. Especially when the words you offered could be used to hurt you. Words of affection and love, when true, were daggers given handle-first to someone else. 

So you hoped Alastor could guess how much he meant to you. You shouldn’t need to say it, right? Actions speak louder than words. You bludgeoned a man to death for what you had thought was a lost cause. It had seemed Alastor was already dead when you first brought down the rock. 

Diamonds are rocks, you considered. The most expensive costume the theater had was peacock feathered with shining crystals. You wanted to say you felt like a peacock, spirit large and wide and colorful. But those were males. Of course they were. The animal kingdom had males compete for mates with pretty colors and lovely songs. Now ladies pranced around in painted faces and short dresses. You didn’t feel pale or small like the ‘fairer sex’ peacock.

You felt like the swan. Vicious and beautiful, not out shone by anyone.

Well there was someone you’d allow to shine brighter. Someone you’d happily let take the lead. You’d thought letting a man walk in front of you was a sign of subservience. It hadn’t ever occurred to you that there could be respect in trusting someone else to go ahead. That the act of going first could be for protection and not power.

“Hey!”

You hurried to the fire escape, “yeah?”

“There’s a man asking for you. Tall guy named Frank?”

Frank?

Oh, Frank.

You’d forgotten about him. He’d left months ago. He was a whale, rich and generous. You took a moment to consider sitting down with him, smiling and laughing at his jokes, letting his hand settle on your thigh. It had been weeks since you entertained scamming anyone, and now you couldn’t even stomach the idea of faking interest in another man. Frank wasn’t one to scam, he just liked having a pretty lady on his arm to make him feel young and wanted, and in exchange you got into private parties and were gifted jewelry and clothing.

“Tell him I’m busy and send him off.” You hollered down. You could buy your own clothes. 

“Did he leave?” Alastor asked you the next morning, you leaning against the glass phone booth in the early morning light.

Your finger wrapped around the phone cord, “No of course not! They never do. I snuck out the back.”

There was a hum, “Well my dear, you’ve offered me a wonderful transition into my next question.” Alastor was sitting at his kitchen table, nervously turning his coffee cup around in circles, “Would you like to come over tomorrow night? I can pick you up after your show.”

Like a glacier drifting away from shore, you very slowly crouched down in the booth. “To your home?” 

“No, to Alabama.” He waited a beat, “Yes of course my home. I can show you what happens after I drive away.” A cheeky smile evident through his voice.

You pressed the phone receiver into your chest, teeth chewing on your bottom lip. What happens when he drives away? So…where the bodies go. But most importantly, the biggest part of this—where he lives. So much can be gleaned about someone from their home. A bookshelf alone could make or break an attraction. You brought the receiver back to your mouth. “Lovely! Sure thing— Alastor. Yes.” you almost added on an awkward nickname like daddy-o or mister man, like an idiot, because your brain was misfiring like you’d seen him in the sunlight again.

Ah, you could see his bed. 

Where he slept.

Did he ever dream of you?

What if it was terribly dirty? Could you still love him if he was a slob? 

“I’m quite far from downtown, pack an overnight bag, okay?” He stopped fidgeting with the mug. When the call ended he sat at the table for some time, staring around the kitchen. The home was large by city standards, but it was old. His mother’s charm was evident through every part. A finger scratched at the wooden table, heavy and solid. Why was his heart racing? 

He walked to the screened back door, looking from the weathered patio steps to the greenhouse. 

No one had ever been to his home. Ever. A teensy part of him was panicking. Was this a mistake? Was he going to fuck up the budding relationship? Throw off the peace of his safest place?

Budding. Okay that was ridiculous even for him. The kind of intimacy gained through murder did not allow any union to be called budding. He’d shared pieces of himself no other living soul knew of. Your image of him was possibly even more complete than his own mother had held, even though he tried to always be the most sincere with her. Even people he did care for and consider close friends had never knew where he lived. Never heard what kept him up at night. Never learned his distaste for a random lay.

Opening the screen door with a signature creak, the sound many southerners could call comforting, he walked to the greenhouse.

The newest part of the property, the glass walled structure was built shortly after his mother’s death. Double doors: locked. Just beyond the glass was a forest of plants and potted trees. They had no need for a greenhouse, but Alastor had a need for them.

He set about preparing his home for another occupant, a task that brought him such a shock of joy and anxiety he began to wonder who he was. New sheets on the bed, extra pillows set against his wooden headboard. Large glass jar in the backyard full of water and tea bags.

It was also unexpected he was thinking so much of his mother. In a perfect world she’d be there to greet you. Though if she was alive, he wouldn’t have been in that alley that night. He made a mental note to not mention his mother, at least not as much as he was remembering her as he walked around the two story home tidying.

Would he have met you if he wasn’t a killer? 

A flicker of fear was quickly extinguished by romance. Definitely. You both ran in the same scenes. He’d seen you before that night, he just never approached you. He hadn’t anticipated how much more you were than the facade you put on. Nothing about your sweet face said, ‘I have a high tolerance for murder.’

Alastor spent the day at work physically present but mentally pacing his living room. He nodded along to discussions of who was to be live on set next, smile never faltering as he worried if he had breakfast foods. He rarely ate breakfast, did you? How had he not thought to ask. Sloppy.

The only outward sign he was feeling any stress was the tapping of his finger on his desk, which he hadn’t even noticed until the stage manager commented.  

“Alastoooor,” her voice was high, like it seemed many women’s voices were recently. Was it a trend? “Impatient? Hot date with a young lady this evening?”

While she meant well, she always pried, always asked questions he didn’t appreciate. 

Alastor shook his head, smile strained. A perceptive person would have picked up on it, but Brenda was not perceptive.

“Oh.” A noticeable disappointment, “That’s boring.”

Actually on second thought maybe she didn’t mean well.

“I’ve had too much coffee, is all, Brenda.” He pulled his hand into his lap. “Was there anything you needed?” 

“No,” she pouted, much less endearing than you.

If he murdered purely for fun Debra would be dead before sunset. Unfortunately her only crime was being remarkably annoying.

Alastor waited behind the theater, where it was less likely any staff would see him. It was still important to avoid connecting the two of you together, at least at your workplace yet. 

He was quick to grab your bag for you.

“Not the trunk, please.” You said, it took him a second to catch the joke. He set it on the back seat after opening your door for you. You’d only been in his car a few times but he never failed to be a perfect gentleman. 

Your palms were sweating, when his hand rested on your leg while he drove you resisted the urge to hold it. Instead you slipped yours under his. Alastor asked you about your day, about work, about if Frank came back. Typically as soon as you left the theater you were in a cone of silence until your phone call with him the next day. It was kind of nice, having someone to speak to. Before meeting him there were times you worried you’d forget how to talk naturally, how to sound like yourself.

The glowing eyes of deer popped up from the side of the road, startling you. Eerie. You held your breath, would they run, stay still, or sprint into the road.

“Is it true their antlers can break car windshields?” You asked not breaking eye contact with a doe as you drove past.

Alastor nodded, “If a buck hits your car the wrong way, not even the car will make it out of the accident.”

“Are there a lot of bucks around?”

“Will be soon, as fall— wait why am I telling you this,” he laughed, “Miss Autumn Hind already knows what makes the bucks run wild.”

You shouldn’t be smiling, it was a dumb rut joke, but it felt like a compliment. 

The car lights passed over the home as he turned into the dirt driveway. Powder blue. It wasn’t a color you associated with Alastor. He was caramel, honey, midnight blue, red. His sometimes sinister smile didn’t look quite right against powder blue. But, for a home, it was lovely.

“Is someone home?” You saw a light on in an upstairs room.

Alastor reached behind you for your bag, “No, I leave it on when I’m gone. Gives the impression that the house isn’t empty.”

A minor bit of acting, Alastor opening the door and offering to bring your bag upstairs before a tour like a good host. His anxious energy was barely contained by that grin of his. For your part you played the appropriately impressed guest.

But deep down you were very impressed. An actual house. Your mother struggled to keep apartments rented. Alastor had a home. With stairs. That went to more home, not a neighbor. What a lovely thing. What did he do with all this space?

He could probably hide quite a few bodies in there.

Alastor opened his bedroom door and motioned for you to enter.

You took in every detail as shrewdly as you could. Two circular nightstands, a wide dresser with a few framed photos and a radio. One large window facing the yard, you could see the car outside from where you were standing. “Wow a man’s bedroom. I tend to avoid these.”

“What a coincidence, so do I. Bedrooms in general, really.” He placed your bag on the dresser, offering to unpack it for you. Your smile screwed up, shaking your head no. You couldn’t imagine Alastor folding your panties and setting them into a drawer. 

Well.

“Yes please.” You took a seat on the end of his bed, watching him tenderly empty the bag before beginning to put things away like you’d come home from a trip. “A bed big enough for two people. You didn’t tell me you were a fancy man. Ooh la la.”

Alastor laughed, “Your bed was quite comfortable.” He set your dress onto a hook attached to the closet door, hands running down the fabric to straighten out the wrinkles, “But I have a feeling that had more to do with you than anything else.”

The floor was clean, the rug beneath the bed a simple but pristine white. What an odd color for a rug.  

You truly did avoid men’s homes. The power dynamic shifts too much.

“Are all men so clean?”

“Oh god no. Have you really never been to a man’s home?” Without a moment of hesitancy his long fingers flattened out your underthings and neatly folded them. You could call it erotic, knowing what else his fingers could do.

A hum, you swayed side to side, “Too much risk. I don’t know where the knife drawer is, which locks stick, what windows open all the way.” 

He set the empty bag into a reading chair in the corner, “That sounds stressful.”

You shrugged, “My mother taught me to always have an escape. From situations, from rooms, from people. Not terrible advice.”

That was true, he thought. If the few women he killed had considered that, he would be less prolific. Women tended to be easier in some regards.

Alastor finally let himself look at you sitting on his bed. Were you wearing the black garters today? He liked those. He appreciated the red dress you’d worn.

Taking off his jacket and vest, he hung them up while his eyes kept returning to you. Your legs were crossed, thighs soft and pressed together. He remembered feeling them against his ears. A little cough to clear his throat and mind.

“Are you hungry?”

You werent, but you weren’t ready for sleep either, so you asked for some bread and butter. Alastor sat beside you at the table, watching you look around. It didn’t look like a killer's home. 

“Ya know, I was going to rob you. I had been wanting to talk to you, before that guy caught me off guard when I was smoking.” You said it easily. 

He smiled, “Oh, why’d you change your mind?”

“Well, you slit a man’s throat in front of me.”

“Tsk tsk, you give up too easily, my dear.”

Salted butter, soft bread. Simple. Happy. “You were so handsome-,”

“We’re?”

A snort of a laugh, rolling your eyes dramatically, “and you looked well off. I was searching the room for the lights reflecting off of your glasses all night.”

Alastor grimaced, fighting the well of his ego, and leaned on his elbows, “Is it too morbid to say I’m glad that man tried to kill you? I like this timeline more than being robbed and never seeing you again.”

“That’s very selfish. I would have enjoyed chasing you down and finessing your wallet off you.” You set the glass lid back over the butter dish, content with the snack. “Some men come back actually and confront me at the theater.”

He howled. The idea was ridiculous, “Seriously? Why not just tell the cops.”

“Men don’t like telling other men they got taken for a ride by a dame.”

Alastor stood, “What would you have done if you had robbed me and I marched into the theater demanding my cash back.” It took a second to realize he was being serious in wanting you to play along. 

You popped the last piece of bread into your mouth and stood too, “You rake!” A fake smack to his chest, “I booted you to the curb! You had more hands than an octopus!” 

Alastor tried to stay in character but his smile kept cracking through his serious face. “And my wallet? None of my hands can find it.” You took a few steps back, feigning shock at the accusation.

“Sir! You were so drunk I’m not surprised you lost it.” When Alastor closed the space between you with two wide steps and pulled you into his chest you giggled, hitting softly at him, “You should be ashamed of yourself. Trying to take advantage,” his hands wandered down your hips, making your voice catch in your throat, “of a good woman like me.”

His mouth came to your ear, “Well, miss, I think you owe me the opportunity to try again.”

You went stiff against him, the sudden turn of his voice into seduction taking you by surprise, “If you were a real mark, I’d punch you in the face for saying that.”

“But for me?” Breath against your neck.

Your hands slid up his chest and to his collar, pulling him down and into a kiss. His smile spread across your lips. 

His mouth stayed against your cheek as he pulled you into a hug, “Ready for bed?”

“Are you sleepy, hun?” You pulled away, a sincerely worried face. Two nights now you’d interrupted his normal routine.

Alastor’s eyes seemed to sparkle behind his glasses, head shaking, “No, not at all.” You felt the heat rise up your face. Wanting to avoid assumptions, you tried to temper your expectations.

His hand pulled you toward the stairs, you dragging your feet, “Did you want to show me around?”

“In the daylight.” He led you up the stairs and to the right.

“Oh okay….”, your mind was reeling, mouth dry. No dead body in sight. No blood. You hadn’t pressed him or asked for anything. Maybe he just wanted a good cuddle, or some kisses. You often enjoyed necking near the car before he would go home. Right. Let him lead.

You followed him, letting him guide you hand in hand back to his bedroom.

ᡣ𐭩ˋ°•*⁀➷ masterlist

∰ Summoning the Horny Little Deer Cult (general tag list):

@cxrsedwxrlds , @nonetheartist , @tsunaki , @janchei , @wettiny-in-smutland , @moonmark98 , @hoebihoeshi , @pansexual-opera-house , @polytheatrix , @lorddiabigmommymilkers , @backinthefkingbuildingagain , @harley2223-blog , @coffee-colored-hopeless-romantic , @poinappel , @midnightnoiserose , @spookieroz , @missmidorima , @ivebeenthearchersstuff , @downbadforfictionalppl , @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx , @sleepylittledemon , @aether-th3-enby , @dontfuckbutimfab , @breathlessaura , @aperfectidiot , @certainlygay , @jth12 , @star-kujo-platinum ,

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🏹Alastor stalkers: @celestial-vomit , @amurtan

@faeoffaith , @sailorsmouth , @jeannyjaykaydeh , @jyoongim , @cosmic-lavender , @saturn-alone , @lustylita , @radio-darling , @kaylopolis , @dickmastersworld , @leviskittywh0re , @asianfrustration13 @alittletiredcry @sirens-and-moonflowers @alastorssimp , @angelxx7 , @katgirl05 , @impulsivethoughtsat2am , @sugurubabe , @zzzykiek , @phamtasic

[novaursa]

A Lion's Leap (under the dragon's eye)

- Summary: The king announces the betrothal of his youngest daughter, you, to Tyland Lannister. But even the Lannister Lord is taken off guard, as there has been some miscommunication regarding the proposal.

- Paring: targ!reader/Tyland Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: 1

- Next part: namesake

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

Tyland Lannister paced back and forth in his chamber, wringing his hands and mentally preparing himself for what felt like the most dangerous conversation of his life. Not even the thought of facing down his brother Jason after their last argument felt as terrifying as what he was about to do: approach Rhaenyra Targaryen for advice. On how to woo her sister, no less.

The marriage was only a week away, and despite his best efforts to appear composed, Tyland was at a loss. You were kind, gentle, and far less fiery than your older sister, but in truth, he barely knew how to connect with you. He had decided to give you a small trinket, a gift to show his affections and intentions, but what sort of thing would you appreciate? Something personal, meaningful—but what? After hours of agonizing, he had concluded that only one person could help him, even if she would rather throw him into the Dragonpit than give him advice.

And that person was Rhaenyra.

Summoning every ounce of Lannister courage (and pride), Tyland found himself standing outside her chambers. He adjusted his tunic for the tenth time, tried not to wipe the sweat from his brow, and knocked, his knuckles sounding louder than intended. The door opened slowly, revealing the princess herself. Rhaenyra looked up at him, her expression immediately turning guarded, and Tyland could feel the temperature drop several degrees.

"Lord Tyland," she said, her tone cool, "to what do I owe the pleasure?"

Tyland swallowed, feeling as though he had just entered a dragon’s lair. Which, metaphorically speaking, was exactly what this felt like. "Princess Rhaenyra," he began, attempting a polite smile that probably looked more like a grimace, "I was hoping I could... seek your counsel on a matter of importance." He hesitated. "Regarding your sister."

Her brow lifted, and she crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe. "Regarding Y/N?" she repeated slowly, clearly intrigued but not yet lowering her guard. "This should be interesting."

Tyland took a deep breath. "With the wedding approaching, I... I wish to make her feel more comfortable in our union. I intend to give her a small token of my affection, something meaningful, but I... confess, I do not know what she might appreciate most." He shifted awkwardly, waiting for the inevitable snide remark, but to his surprise, Rhaenyra simply studied him.

For a long moment, she said nothing. Tyland could practically hear the wheels turning in her head, as if she were deciding whether or not to indulge him in this request. Finally, she sighed and gestured for him to come inside.

"Very well," she said, her voice carrying that authoritative tone she so often used. "But let me make one thing clear, Lord Tyland." She glanced over her shoulder as he followed her into the room. "I still don’t particularly like the idea of my sister marrying a Lannister. Any Lannister." The way she said it made his name sound like a bad taste in her mouth. "But..." She paused, turning to face him again. "Since this is happening, I suppose it would be in Y/N’s best interest for you to at least try."

Tyland gave a nervous nod, feeling the weight of her words. "That’s all I wish to do, Princess."

Rhaenyra studied him for a long moment, her eyes narrowing slightly, as if trying to detect any insincerity. After what felt like an eternity, she finally relented, though her voice remained cautious. "Y/N doesn’t care much for jewelry or gold," she said slowly, watching his reaction. "So if you’re thinking of presenting her with a necklace or some grand ring, you may as well throw it into the sea."

Tyland blinked. "No jewelry?" That had been his entire plan—some beautiful Lannister heirloom or a finely crafted trinket, something shiny and expensive. He immediately started panicking inside. What else was there? "Then... what would she appreciate?"

Rhaenyra exhaled, clearly not thrilled to be aiding him in this venture. "Y/N prefers simpler things," she continued, her tone begrudging, as if she couldn’t believe she was having this conversation. "She’s thoughtful. She likes things that have meaning."

Tyland leaned forward slightly, his desperation growing. "Such as?"

Rhaenyra pursed her lips, as if holding back something. She glanced toward the window, clearly weighing her options before speaking. Then, in a voice so low that Tyland almost didn’t catch it, she muttered, "Honeycakes."

Tyland blinked. "I’m sorry, what?"

Rhaenyra’s eyes flicked back to him, and she scowled. "Honeycakes," she repeated, clearly annoyed that she had to say it again. "She has a soft spot for them. There’s a particular kind made with cinnamon and a bit of lemon zest. She’s liked them since we were children."

Tyland stood there, staring at her in disbelief. Honeycakes? He’d been expecting some grand revelation—perhaps a cherished family heirloom or a rare flower from the gardens of King’s Landing. But no. Honeycakes. Cinnamon and lemon zest, to be precise.

Rhaenyra caught the look on his face and smirked, though there was a hint of reluctant amusement in her eyes. "What? Surprised she isn’t pining for a crown of gold?" she asked with a tilt of her head. "My sister’s tastes are simpler than you Lannisters might expect."

Tyland felt a strange mixture of relief and bemusement. "Honeycakes..." he repeated, half to himself.

Rhaenyra sighed, clearly done with the conversation. "If you want to win her favor, find those cakes. But don’t make a spectacle of it." She fixed him with a look that told him exactly what she thought of grand, Lannister gestures. "Y/N values thoughtfulness, not showmanship. Keep that in mind, Lord Tyland."

He nodded earnestly. "Of course, Princess. I... I truly appreciate your help." He bowed, though he couldn’t quite shake the strange image of presenting his bride-to-be with a basket of honeycakes before their wedding day.

Rhaenyra didn’t bother to hide her smirk as he turned to leave. "Good luck, Lord Tyland. You’ll need it."

Tyland Lannister felt as though he was walking into battle. Not with a sword, mind you—he’d gladly take a sword over the delicate parcel he was carrying in his hands. The package was small, neatly wrapped, and smelled faintly of honey and cinnamon. He could only hope Rhaenyra’s advice was sound, though he still had lingering doubts that honeycakes were the key to winning over a Targaryen princess.

He had spent the entire morning overseeing the creation of these cakes, much to the confusion of the castle’s cooks. Tyland had never concerned himself with culinary matters before, but today, he hovered over the bakers like a general over his troops. The result? A batch of perfectly golden cakes, warm with the flavors of cinnamon, honey, and a hint of lemon zest. Now, with the prize in hand, Tyland approached the gardens where he knew you often spent time with your ladies-in-waiting.

As he entered the gardens, he spotted you sitting under a tree, a gentle breeze rustling the leaves around you. You were surrounded by a few ladies, all of whom were laughing softly at something one of them had said. The moment felt peaceful, idyllic—until Tyland realized he was about to intrude on it, honeycakes in hand. Here we go, he thought, straightening his shoulders and adopting what he hoped was a casual, confident stride. In reality, he probably looked like a man trying to act casual while delivering baked goods to royalty, which is to say, he looked incredibly awkward.

You noticed him approaching and smiled, though there was a hint of surprise in your expression. “Lord Tyland,” you greeted softly, causing your ladies to quiet and glance between the two of you with interest. “What brings you to the gardens today?”

Tyland cleared his throat, suddenly very aware of how out of place he felt among the roses and lilacs. “Princess,” he began, holding out the small package as if offering a peace treaty. “I... thought you might appreciate these.” He paused, then added awkwardly, “A gift.”

You tilted your head slightly, curiosity piqued. “A gift?” you repeated, your eyes drifting to the bundle. “What is it?”

“Uh... honeycakes,” Tyland said, his voice cracking just slightly on the word. He felt like a fool standing there, a grown man delivering pastries like some kind of bumbling suitor, but it was too late to back out now. “With cinnamon and lemon zest. I, uh... I heard they’re a favorite of yours.”

Your eyes widened in surprise, and for a brief moment, Tyland worried he had completely misunderstood Rhaenyra’s advice. But then, to his relief, your face broke into a delighted smile, and you reached out to take the bundle from him. “Honeycakes?” you said, your voice filled with genuine happiness. “Oh, I haven’t had these in so long!”

Tyland blinked, startled by how quickly your expression had brightened. You unwrapped the parcel with eager hands, revealing the still-warm cakes inside. Without hesitation, you picked one up and took a bite, your eyes closing briefly as you savored the taste.

“They’re perfect!” you said, beaming at him. “Thank you, Lord Tyland.”

Tyland felt a wave of relief wash over him, though he was still a bit taken aback by how easy it had been. You seemed so happy, genuinely pleased by something as simple as honeycakes. For the first time since this entire betrothal had been announced, Tyland felt a flicker of hope. Perhaps this wasn’t going to be such a disaster after all.

The ladies-in-waiting exchanged glances, clearly entertained by the scene, but Tyland barely noticed. He was too focused on the way you smiled as you continued to eat the cake, your delight evident in every bite. He had never seen you so at ease before, and the sight made something warm stir in his chest.

Still, the moment wasn’t without its awkwardness. Tyland stood there, unsure of what to do now that you had accepted the gift. Should he sit? Leave? Compliment the flowers? He cleared his throat, awkwardly shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I, uh... I’m glad you like them,” he said, feeling rather out of his element. “I thought... it might be something meaningful.”

You looked up at him, your expression softening. “It is,” you said, your voice gentle. “It’s thoughtful. Thank you, Lord Tyland.”

He nodded, though he wasn’t entirely sure what to say next. You continued to eat the cake with such genuine enjoyment that it almost made the awkwardness worth it. Almost.

After what felt like an eternity of standing there, Tyland finally found the courage to sit on the nearby bench, careful not to intrude too much on your space. The silence that followed wasn’t entirely uncomfortable, but it was... well, a bit awkward. You looked at him with a kind smile, clearly sensing his discomfort but not pushing him to speak.

“I... wasn’t sure what you liked,” Tyland admitted after a moment, his voice a little quieter now. “But I wanted to try. To show you that... I’m trying.”

You regarded him thoughtfully, finishing the last bite of your honeycake. “I can see that,” you said, your tone warm. “And I appreciate it, truly. It means a lot.”

Tyland felt a strange sense of accomplishment—something he hadn’t expected when he first started this endeavor. For the first time, he felt like he had made a connection, however small, with you. There was still an awkward distance between the two of you, but it wasn’t as insurmountable as it had felt before.

As the two of you sat there, surrounded by the soft sounds of the garden and the distant chatter of the ladies, Tyland couldn’t help but feel a bit more hopeful. This marriage, which had once seemed like an impossible task, might turn out to be something different. Something better.

Maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t be such a terrible mistake after all.

The great hall was alive with the sounds of celebration—music, laughter, the clinking of goblets—and Tyland Lannister found himself in the very center of it all, though it felt like a whirlwind he was somehow caught in. He glanced to his right, where you sat next to him, radiant in your wedding finery, your presence as serene and composed as ever. At least one of us looks like they belong here, Tyland thought with a nervous sip from his goblet.

King Viserys, sitting at the head of the table, looked positively jubilant, his rosy cheeks practically glowing from the wine and the joy of the occasion. Every now and then, he would raise his cup to no one in particular, chuckling at something that seemed to amuse only him. Tyland suspected it was the fact that everything had gone smoothly, despite the strange, tangled mess of the betrothal in the first place.

Rhaenyra, seated a little further down the table, was sending Tyland sharp looks. But, to his relief, they weren’t the I’m going to feed you to a dragon kind of looks she usually reserved for him. No, these were more the I’m watching you kind, which, while still intimidating, felt significantly less lethal. Perhaps her sister’s obvious happiness had softened her a little—though Tyland wasn’t foolish enough to think she would ever fully approve of a Lannister as a brother-in-law.

Daemon, however, was another matter entirely. Leaning lazily in his chair with that unmistakable smirk plastered across his face, he hadn’t said much during the feast, but his eyes had been on Tyland more than once. And every time their gazes met, Daemon’s smirk seemed to widen, as if he knew a secret that Tyland didn’t. It was, frankly, unsettling.

Tyland shifted slightly in his seat, trying to ignore Daemon’s gaze, when the first of the lords began to approach the newlyweds.

Lyonel Strong, ever the statesman, stepped forward, his smile warm and genuine. “Lord Tyland, Lady Y/N,” he said, bowing slightly. “Congratulations on your union. May it bring great strength to both your houses.”

“Thank you, Lord Lyonel,” Tyland managed to say with a polite nod, grateful for the safe, neutral tone of the congratulations. Lyonel Strong wasn’t one for scheming or underhanded dealings—just the sort of man Tyland preferred in moments like this.

But Lyonel wasn’t the only one approaching. The next figure who came into view made Tyland’s stomach flip just a little: Otto Hightower, Hand of the King and, perhaps more importantly, the very man responsible for mixing up the marriage proposals in the first place.

“Lord Tyland,” Otto said, his voice smooth as silk, his smile conspiratorial as he leaned in just a touch too close. “Congratulations on this most fortuitous match. It seems my... suggestion has borne fruit, wouldn't you say?”

Tyland stiffened slightly, managing a tight smile. “Indeed, Lord Otto. Your... foresight was certainly... unexpected.”

Otto chuckled, a sound that made Tyland want to check his coin purse, just in case. “Ah, unexpected, yes, but beneficial, wouldn’t you agree?” He straightened up, giving a small nod in your direction. “The realm is stronger for it, and I daresay House Lannister has found itself in a most advantageous position.”

Tyland could feel the weight of the unspoken words hanging in the air. Advantageous position. Yes, Otto expected gratitude. And not just the kind exchanged over pleasantries at a feast.

“As we move forward,” Otto continued, his voice lowering slightly, “I trust you’ll remember those who’ve helped place you where you are, Lord Tyland.”

Tyland’s smile faltered slightly as he nodded, already feeling the strings that Otto was undoubtedly weaving around him. “Of course, Lord Otto,” he replied, his voice carefully measured. “Your assistance has not gone unnoticed.”

“Good,” Otto said, his smile never faltering, though it held the slightest edge of expectation. “Very good.”

And just like that, Otto moved on, leaving Tyland to reflect on the many ways that conversation could come back to haunt him in the future. But before he could dwell too long on it, another voice interrupted his thoughts, and this one he knew all too well.

“Well, well, well, look at you!” Jason Lannister strode forward, his usual swagger on full display, followed by several other members of their family, who were all beaming as if this were a victory for House Lannister rather than a wedding. Jason’s grin was wide, bordering on smug, and Tyland braced himself for the inevitable teasing. “You’ve managed it, little brother! A princess! You’ve done the family proud.”

Tyland fought the urge to roll his eyes. “Jason,” he greeted, trying to keep his tone civil. “I appreciate the sentiment.”

Jason clapped a hand on his shoulder, far too pleased with himself. “Oh, don’t be modest! A Targaryen bride! I didn’t think you had it in you, truly.”

From the corner of his eye, Tyland saw you hide a smile behind your goblet, clearly amused by the exchange, and something about that small gesture made him feel just a bit lighter. At least someone found Jason’s antics amusing.

“And what a bride you’ve got,” Jason continued, his grin never faltering. “Lady Y/N, you’re far too good for my brother, but I suppose he’s luckier than he deserves.”

You blushed slightly, though you managed to smile at Jason. “Thank you, Lord Jason,” you said politely, clearly trying not to laugh at his exaggerated praise.

Tyland groaned inwardly, already anticipating the endless teasing that would follow in the weeks to come. But despite Jason’s smugness, there was a genuine warmth to his congratulations. Tyland couldn’t help but feel that, in his own ridiculous way, Jason was proud of him.

The rest of the Lannisters offered their congratulations, each one with varying degrees of sincerity, but Tyland couldn’t help but feel more hopeful as the night wore on. There was something comforting about being surrounded by his family, as chaotic as they were, and sharing this moment with you by his side.

As the music swelled and the feast continued, Tyland glanced over at you once more. You were laughing softly at something one of your ladies had said, your face lit up by the glow of the nearby candles. For the first time, he realized just how lucky he truly was. What had started as a mix-up, a political maneuver he had been dragged into, was starting to feel like something much more.

Maybe, just maybe, this marriage would be more than a strategic alliance. Maybe it would turn into something he hadn’t dared hope for—something real.

As the feast began to wind down, Tyland Lannister found himself seated with a goblet of wine in hand, but not really tasting it. His mind was spinning, already working out how he might navigate the dreaded bedding ceremony. Maybe he could politely refuse—after all, he was a Lannister, and surely that carried some weight. Or perhaps he could find a way to subtly remove himself from the hall before anyone had the chance to call for the old, humiliating tradition. Yes, he could—

But before Tyland could formulate an escape plan, he noticed Daemon rise from his seat, a mischievous glint in his eyes. A sense of impending doom washed over Tyland, and he immediately stiffened. Nothing good ever followed that look in Daemon’s eyes.

Daemon raised his goblet, drawing the attention of the entire hall. “My lords, my ladies,” he called out, his voice carrying effortlessly over the murmurs of the crowd. “Now, as is tradition, we celebrate the union of my dear niece and her new husband.” His grin widened, and Tyland’s heart sank. Here it comes, he thought, mentally preparing for the worst.

“But,” Daemon continued, his voice dripping with mock solemnity, “we are a house of dragons, not sheep. So, I say we leave behind the old customs of the bedding ceremony, and instead…” He paused, clearly relishing the moment as all eyes turned to him. “Instead, it’s time for the bride to saddle her husband upon the back of her dragon.”

Tyland’s goblet slipped from his hand, clattering onto the table. He was too stunned to speak, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Saddle? Her husband? On a dragon? His mind struggled to process the words, but Daemon’s smirk left no doubt—this was very much real.

Around the hall, murmurs of confusion and amusement rippled through the guests. Tyland’s gaze shot to you, but before he could say anything, his worst fear was confirmed when King Viserys—his father-in-law—joined in, clapping his hands together and laughing heartily.

“Now, that is a fine tradition!” Viserys exclaimed, clearly pleased. “No need for the old ways, not with dragons in the family!” He looked positively delighted with the idea. “I agree with my brother. Let my daughter’s husband show his bravery by riding Silverwing!”

Tyland felt the blood drain from his face. He had never felt further from his Lannister pride than in that moment. This had to be some cruel jest, a nightmare, perhaps. But no, it was all too real. He glanced at Daemon again, who was leaning casually on the table, watching Tyland’s horror unfold with gleeful satisfaction.

Across from him, Rhaenyra looked positively delighted, her lips curling into a smirk as she exchanged a glance with you. Tyland had no doubt she was enjoying this far too much. Her amusement was only compounded by Daemon’s outlandish proposal, which had, of course, been accepted by none other than the king himself.

Tyland’s mind raced. Saddle her husband? On a dragon? He wasn’t sure whether to faint or flee. He wasn’t even sure which option was worse—public humiliation in a bedding ceremony or being strapped to the back of Silverwing like a sack of potatoes.

You, seated beside him, must have sensed his panic, for you reached out and gently touched his arm. “Tyland,” you said softly, your voice calm despite the absurdity unfolding around you. “It’s all in good fun. No one expects you to actually ride Silverwing.”

“Don’t they?” Tyland croaked, his voice barely a whisper. His eyes darted to Daemon again, whose smirk seemed to widen with every passing second.

You gave him a reassuring smile, though your own amusement was evident. “Daemon enjoys making people uncomfortable, but he doesn’t expect you to ride a dragon. It’s just a joke.”

Tyland blinked, trying to absorb your words, but it was hard to find comfort when Daemon’s eyes were still fixed on him like a cat playing with a particularly entertaining mouse.

“I assure you,” you continued, “Silverwing isn’t saddling anyone tonight.”

Tyland exhaled in relief, though his heart was still racing. “I hope you’re right,” he muttered, glancing warily at the dragonlords at the head table. “Because I’m not exactly fond of being... airborne.”

At that, you couldn’t help but chuckle softly. “I’ll make sure no one forces you into the air,” you promised, your eyes sparkling with amusement.

But before Tyland could fully process your reassurance, Daemon raised his goblet again. “Well, Lord Tyland,” he said, grinning from ear to ear, “are you ready to embrace your Targaryen heritage and take to the skies?”

Tyland swallowed hard, feeling the eyes of the entire hall on him. He opened his mouth, searching for a polite way to decline without looking like a coward, when Viserys, still chuckling, waved a hand.

“Leave the man be, Daemon!” the king said, clearly enjoying himself. “Let him have his peace. There’ll be plenty of time for dragonriding later.”

The hall erupted into laughter, and Tyland felt his face flush with both relief and embarrassment. He shot a grateful glance at Viserys, who seemed more than satisfied with how the evening had turned out.

Daemon, still smirking, raised his goblet in Tyland’s direction. “Another time, then, Lord Tyland. But remember, it’s only a matter of time before you’re one of us.”

Tyland forced a smile, nodding stiffly. “Of course,” he managed, though he hoped that time was very, very far away.

As the laughter died down and the feast continued, you leaned in slightly, your voice low enough for only him to hear. “You handled that well,” you said with a teasing smile.

Tyland shook his head, still feeling a little shaken by the ordeal. “I’m not sure well is the word I’d use,” he muttered, though your soft laughter brought a smile to his face despite himself.

He took another deep breath, relaxing a little as the mood in the hall returned to its earlier festive atmosphere. It hadn’t been the disaster he feared—though it had been close. And perhaps, as he glanced at you beside him, smiling and clearly amused by the absurdity of it all, this union wasn’t going to be as terrifying as he had once thought.

As long as Daemon didn’t try to strap him to a dragon again.

[perlelune]

no body, no crime | Coriolanus Snow | xii. {END}

Your childhood friend returns from his exile in district 12, but he's not the sweet, quiet boy you once knew anymore.

Warnings: NON-CON, Plinth!Reader, Gaslighting, Drugging, Murder, Forced Marriage, Forced Pregnancy, Loss of Virginity, Somnophilia

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

Your nerves stir as William considers you in silence. It’s all he’s done for the last few agonizing minutes, stare at you without uttering a single word. Perhaps you’ve shared too much? Overestimated how much he could take? You’ve told him everything, not skipping over any detail as he asked. How Coriolanus lured you into his web. Weaved a myriad of honeyed lies you naively fell for. Coaxed you into staying with him. Planted a seed that will soon grow into a permanent reminder of all he did to you. 

The whole, plain horrible truth.

Much as it ached to tell the story, and relive it in a way, you were thorough and concise. Your voice may have wavered a little, your eyes evaded William’s at times, but now he has the full story. 

And he’s free to do as he pleases with that knowledge.

“William?” you inquire again. 

This time he swallows a deep breath. Fearful expectancy knots your gut. He clenches his fists and bolts to his feet. 

“I’m going to kill him.”

You wedge yourself between him and the door as he takes long, determined strides toward the exit.

“Wait!” you urge, panic trembling through your voice.

William scoff, a frown marring his brow.

“What? You want to protect him? After everything he’s done to you?”

Your lips tighten. A surge of tears fights its way past your lids but you suppress them. Too much is at stake for you to crumble right now. You straighten your spine and lift your chin.

“It’s not that. Of course I don’t care what happens to him but…” You place your hands on his forearms. He seems to relax at your touch and a sliver of relief leaks inside your chest. Perhaps there is still hope for you and William. “He’s dangerous, William. Cunning, slippery. Like a snake.”

His jaw clenches. “We’ll see about that when I have my fist in his throat.”

He tries to move forward but you keep firmly blocking his path. Once again, you try to reason with him. “No, he really is…deranged.” No other word arises in your mind. You shudder as you recall the glint of madness in his blue eyes. “He has my parents under his spell. I really don’t think he’ll stop at anything to get his way.” Your mouth quivers. “He’ll hurt you.”

“Let him try,” William grumbles, clenching his fists. 

Rage oozes off him, coating the air. You feel its intensity in your very bones. When he said he wanted to kill Coriolanus, it wasn’t a metaphor. It’s how furious your fiancé is after hearing your story.

“William, no…For me. Let it go.” You grab his hands, bringing them to your face. They slowly loosen, his gaze softening as it rests on you. “Let’s just leave. I know I’m asking for a lot. Asking you to raise another man’s child-”

He cradles your face. “It doesn’t matter. It’ll be our child. They won’t even have to know his name.” 

You drape your hands over his, emotion making your voice waver.

“You really mean that?”

His thumbs sweep over your cheek.

“Of course. I made a promise to you.” He smiles. “And I never stopped loving you.”

You suck in a sharp breath. “Even after everything?”

A glimpse of sadness crosses his features.

“It hurt. Of course, it hurt. But there’s no other girl than you for me, and there never will be.” Overwhelmed, you stare at him a long time, basking in his bottomless devotion. How did you end up so lucky? Even after all the misfortune you suffered, amidst your woe, you still found William. A love as rare and pure as a pearl lost in the ocean.

You get on your tiptoes to press your lips over his. At first, it’s tentative. You’re wondering if perhaps it’s too soon, if he’s truly forgiven you. But your doubts evaporate as he eagerly returns the kiss. Your heart swells. He cups your cheeks and you melt against him, soaking his scent and the familiar taste of his skin. You could cry. You missed him so much. For the first time in weeks, air finds a home in your lungs again.

When your lips part, he leans his forehead against yours. For a while, you just revel in each other’s presence, warm breaths mingling in the cool air.

“So what’s the plan?” he asks, his knuckles skimming down your neck. “You…do have a plan, right?”

Taking a deep breath, you stand up straight.

“I’m thinking we hitch a late night train to District 2. There’s a weapons shipment tonight.” You grimace. “My dad, h-he sends them to the Peacekeepers garrisons there.” Every time you remember the part your father plays in keeping people in the Districts cowered and afraid of the Capitol’s wrath, you feel sick. This is who the man who raised you has become. Someone who turns a blind eye to his own people’s suffering. It makes you wonder if maybe he and Coriolanus are cut from the same cloth after all. Both of them opportunists. Both of them eager to step over everything and everyone to further their goals. Your father gives the Capitol the ammunition it needs to terrorize. And Coriolanus fuels them with ideas to keep that terror alive.

“We could head South, start a new life there,” William suggests.

You blink in surprise. This is a drastic decision, one you never expected to hear leave his lips.

“You mean, leave Panem?”

“Why not? There is nothing for us here. I don’t think there ever was.”

“You’d be leaving your family and friends behind William. A-Are you sure?”

He sends you a warm smile, rubbing your arms.

“You’re my family. You’re all I need.”

Your heart flutters, a fresh breeze of hope passing through you. 

“William…”

“This is my choice. I’m choosing you,” he interrupts, his inflection firmer than before. “In sickness and in health, until death do us part, right?”

You search his eyes and are shocked to realize William means this. He wants to elope with you, follow you into uncertainty and escape the Capitol’s vicious rule.

“I’m sorry…about everything.”

His tender lips graze your forehead.

“There is nothing to forgive. None of this was your fault.”

His soothing words cast a balm over your wounded heart. You spent so long blaming yourself, tortured by your own thoughts and lamenting every choice you made. It’s refreshing to hear that maybe, not all the responsibility falls upon your shoulders.

You wipe the budding tears in your eyes.

“We have to be quick,” you say, your voice more confident than before. “Coriolanus, he…we need to be long gone before he notices I left.”

William squeezes your shoulder.

“You don’t have to be scared of him anymore. I won’t let him get anywhere near you. If he wants to breathe the same air as you, he’ll have to do it over my dead body.”

He wraps his arms around you and, for the first time in several weeks, you feel safe.

You help William pack his most essential belongings before the two of you sneak into the night. Despite what he said, you don’t miss the brief way his green eyes mist as he shoves a picture of his parents and little sister into a leather bag. Guilt floods your insides. You’re the one in trouble, not him. Several times, you grapple with the urge to tell him to stay, that you can do this on your own. But there is no going back now. It’s too late. Besides, a selfish part of you doesn’t want to. It’s scary enough, leaving everything behind. The Capitol. Your childhood home. Your parents. Having William at your side is the only way you won’t fall apart out here. You don’t see yourself surviving beyond the borders without him. As much as you complained about your life here, you’re aware of how sheltered you’ve been. You always had food on the table. You were never cold. You always had a warm bed to sleep in.

Now, those things will not be guaranteed. 

You and William try to act natural around every peacekeeper you brush past, pretending you’re just two lovers meeting for a late night tryst. Still, your heart leaps each time you get a glimpse of the blue uniforms. You haven’t forgotten the time Coriolanus spent in district 12, paranoia prowling the edge of your mind. It’s not like he has any affiliation with them now, does he?

Sensing your unease, William squeezes your hand in reassurance. You smile at him.

Still, you don’t relax until the two of you have hailed a cab and are on your way to the train station on the outskirts of the city. 

Even when the two of you successfully make it onto the back of a cargo train unnoticed, you’re still on alert. Even the whistle of the train as it rumbles to life and leaves the station doesn’t grant you peace. William wraps his arm around your shoulders. The two of you are sitting on the floor behind a gigantic crate of machine guns.

He drops a kiss atop your head.

“Hey, everything will be fine. I promise. Nothing will happen to you.”

You tuck yourself against him. You wish you could let go of your fear but dread’s had you in its clutches since you left the station. Would Coriolanus’ plans for you be thwarted so easily? You find it hard to believe, remembering his unflinching desire to make you fall in line.

Still, you give a weak smile.

“You’re right. I’m being silly.”

As soon as you utter the words however, the train hisses and makes an abrupt stop on the tracks.

William frowns.

“What’s happening? I’ll go ch-”

Before your fiancé can finish his sentence, the doors of the wagon open. A gust of frosty wind whisks inside the train. William’s eyes widen but there’s no time to process his shock as he’s kicked in the gut by a peacekeeper.

Another man appears and the two of them yank him out of the train. 

“William!” you shout, jumping out of the wagon. 

Your fiancé coughs out blood as he’s dragged away by the two blue-clad men. He tries to fight them but they kick him in the jaw. He crashes into the grass. 

Your chest seizes. You begin racing towards him. However as the two men shift, revealing someone else behind them, someone whose haunting blue stare is forever engraved into your memories, you freeze. 

He scrutinizes you before shaking his head.

“You disappoint me, princess,” Coriolanus sighs, folding his arms. “I thought you were finally coming to your senses.”

The two men force William on his knees, one of them pointing his gun at his head to keep him docile. Your eyes water. Helplessness tugs at your chest. He took no time to find you. Did you ever stand a chance?

“Coriolanus, just let us go. This is…all of this is going too far,” you plead. 

He arches his brow, disdain lacing his tone as he says, “You really think I’d let my child grow up in a district?”

“You bastard,” William spits, hate flaring in his green eyes. 

Malice sways in Coriolanus’ orbs as he takes in your fiancé. His taunting voice echoes through the field.

“Oh, does it sting, knowing I’ve had her before you in every possible way?”

He tries to lunge himself at the blond. Your breath catches as you watch the peacekeepers beat him into submission. He keels over in the grass, coughing up more blood.

Coriolanus turns to you.

“I’m going to give you a choice, princess. Come back home to the Capitol with me, willingly. I’ll forgive you, set the entire matter aside and we can focus on our guest list, cake tasting and finding you the perfect dress for our wedding.” He tilts his head, his smile vanishing. “Or don’t. And I really can’t say what I’ll do next.” He chuckles darkly. “I just know you won’t like it.”

You look at him, disbelief and sadness surging through you. You wonder where your friend disappeared to, the one who dried your tears and whispered soft words of reassurance whenever your mood dipped, the one who showered you with gifts and attentions. The one who was kind. 

Who is this stranger standing before you?

Coriolanus laughs. 

“You know Sejanus looked at me the exact same way…like he expected me to be someone I’m not, someone I never was.” His eyes lock with yours. “Right to the bitter end.”

Your stomach sinks, an awful realization digging its way through your mind. You don’t know how you know. Perhaps it’s that smug smile on his lips. Perhaps that glow in his eyes. Or that subtle inflection to his words. Either way, you just know.

You know what Coriolanus did and your entire world falls apart.

Sejanus too never stood a chance, you bet.

You nod. “I’ll come with you.”

A subtle smile blooms on Coriolanus’ lips.

“What?” William stares at the interaction in shock.

Coriolanus offers you his hand as you approach.

“It’s over, William,” you mumble, too ashamed to meet his gaze. You focus on taking Coriolanus’ hand instead. His touch is deceptively soft. “Just go back home, forget about this. Forget about me.”

Your spirits sink lower and lower with every word that leaves your mouth. You are willingly walking to your grave.

William shakes his head.

“No way…”

Everything that follows happens in a blur. So quickly you barely register what’s going on. First, William throws himself at the blond. You gasp as you watch them wrestle, Coriolanus having a clear advantage. Next, one of the peacekeepers hands him a gun. 

He points it at his temple.

Ribbons of blood fly from William’s skull, painting Coriolanus’ shirt crimson.

Time stops for you as your eyes grow wide with horror.

The blond dusts himself off, shoving William’s limp frame off him as he rises.

He sighs at his stained shirt.

“This was brand new,” he laments.

You rush to William and fall to your knees near his unmoving body. It takes all your strength to even shift him a little. 

“William? William, please?” you whimper. His lifeless green eyes rise to the moon in the sky, his soft mouth parted in a scream that never will be. 

Your heart shatters into a million pieces, the shards piercing through your being and trailing scars in their wake. It will never stitch itself back together.

In the background, Coriolanus orders one of the peacekeepers.

“Get rid of the bodies. Make sure nothing is left. And I’ll put in a good word for your sister at the Citadel,” he promises.

The other peacekeeper pipes up, “The bodies? But there’s only one-”

A gunshot erupts. A few feet away, you watch one of the peacekeepers, the one who spoke up, crash into the ground. The other one shot him. Smoke still rises from his gun as Coriolanus nods at the man in approval.

“Like we agreed, I’ll also write to Commander Hoff on your behalf. You’ll start officer training next month.”

More words are exchanged between the two men but they fade amidst the buzz rising inside your head. You lie atop William’s corpse, numb as you faintly hope to find a heartbeat.

After a while, you’re hauled off your feet by a pair of strong arms. You struggle but it’s for naught. You’re taken away, William’s unmoving form dwindling in your vision.

“No, I can’t leave him…”

Coriolanus carries you bridal style to a vehicle. He places you in the passenger seat and ties your seatbelt. 

“Shh, it’s okay, princess,” he coos. “You need to calm down. This isn’t good for you and the baby.”

The baby. You have to admit that for a second, you considered trying to pry the gun out of Coriolanus’ hands and shooting it into your own head. End it all once and for all. Your life has already ended. So what difference would it make? But then you remembered. Your life isn’t just yours anymore. 

You look at the blond through tearful eyes, your hoarse voice swelling in the car. 

“Did you get my brother killed?”

Coriolanus puts on his own seatbelt and turns the key in the ignition. “What an awful assumption to make, princess.”

He grips the steering wheel as the engine roars to life. 

“However, it might be a good time to remember…that your father’s written me into his will.” Your breath stumbles. “Which means, though I prefer him alive to walk my beautiful bride down the aisle…” His blue eyes glimmer, his lips curving upward. “I also don’t need him to be.”

He shakes his head and sighs, running his fingers atop your thigh.

“Who knows how long he still has, with those heart issues of his. Anything could happen.”

“One day you will pay. For all of them,” you grit out, the sheer hate you feel for him overflowing in your tone. 

He fondles your cheek, his smile growing. 

“Perhaps… But not today.” He pauses, as if he just remembered something. He reaches inside the pocket of his coat. 

“Here,” he says as he pulls out a small velvet box.

You witness in horror as Coriolanus removes William’s ring from your finger and slips another one in its place. It’s ostentatious, the red rubies shimmering like blood in the darkness.

Once it’s on your finger, he admires it. He brings your hand to his lips, brushing a soft kiss over your knuckles. 

“Fits perfectly, just like I know it would,” he chimes. 

[llyfrenfys]

I'd like to preface this with that this is a screenshot of a post I saw a few days ago in the #welsh tag and that the OP has since deleted this post, but the sentiment is something I'd like to address since I see a lot of parallels with this kind of thinking in other contexts, such as in LGBTQIA+ rights conversations.

So, the most obvious elephant in the room is the idea that Welsh is super widely spoken in Wales now and that it isn't in as much danger as other Celtic languages. This idea is wishful thinking at best and erases the very real danger that Welsh is in and that it could be lost just as easily as Irish or Scottish Gaelic. Cornish (which is related to Welsh) actually did die out and has had to be revived. To make a metaphor out of this, we classify languages on a scale of non-threatened to endangered in a similar way to how we classify species.

Here are the statuses of Welsh and Irish as of 2010 (above) and the statuses of Lions and Tigers (below).

On paper tigers are more 'in danger' than lions. But that does not mean that lions are suddenly not in danger at all. The little bracket above CR, EN and VU labels all of these classifications as threatened. It isn't (and definitely shouldn't) be a competition of 'who is most in danger' because you do not want the thing you care about (whether it be a species or a language) to be in danger.

To come back to the original screenshot "they* [Welsh speakers] have always had the means and the ways because the English didn't beat or slaughter them for speaking it"- on the most basic of levels, this is just incorrect. The Welsh Not was a wooden token hung around schoolchildren's necks if they spoke Welsh in school. If someone else spoke Welsh the Not would be hung around their neck. At the end of the school day, whoever was wearing the Not would be beaten and caned by their teachers. I needn't go into much detail but there have been concerted efforts to beat Welsh out of schoolchildren. With the lions vs tigers metaphor, making the claim Welsh speakers have never been beaten for speaking Welsh because they always had the means and ways, while Irish speakers were beaten and never had the means or ways is like claiming poachers have never shot lions, only tigers. Bottom line is, lions and tigers are both victim to poaching and both species have suffered as a result. Similarly, Welsh and Irish have both suffered language loss and both need conservation efforts in order to survive.

(*sidenote- the consistent use of 'them' and 'they' in the original post is definitely indicative of a 'us vs them' sentiment which is a deeply unhelpful attitude to have when it comes to endangered languages and the Celtic languages in particular)

I see parallels with LGBTQIA+ rights in this situation. When equal marriage came in for gay and lesbian couples in the UK in 2014, many allies began to act like gay rights had now been achieved and that gay issues had been done, they're solved. Except, they really weren't (and aren't). Progress has been made in Wales and undeniably Welsh is doing the best out of the living Celtic languages. But that doesn't mean Welsh has been saved or that full equality for Welsh speakers has been achieved. It very much hasn't. The sentiment of the post in the screenshot is not conducive to helping Irish or Scottish Gaelic. Putting down Welsh speakers and erasing Welsh-language history will not save Irish or Scottish Gaelic. Pretending Welsh has had it easy in some kind of lap of luxury is a deeply harmful and bogus claim.

I'll address the tags under the cut as this post is getting long.

To address the tags, personal feelings ≠ an accurate reading of a situation. Nor is it praxis, for that matter. Why is pride in Welsh different/less good than pride in Irish? Is it the assumed proximity to England? If so, that's a terrible claim to make. Not only that, but Scotland is also next to England- does that make pride in Scottish Gaelic the same as pride in Welsh according to this metric? It's a ludicrous thing to say and deeply insensitive to the needs of Scottish Gaelic and Welsh speakers, who cannot help any current or former proximity to England.

Additionally, proximity to England ≠ worse. I know it's a popular internet joke to hate on England because of English attempts to eradicate the Celtic languages, but when the joke becomes praxis, it does not help. England ≠ a place devoid of Celtic languages either. Many English counties near the Welsh border actually have communities of Welsh speakers, such as Oswestry (Croesoswallt) in Shropshire. Cornwall is also home to many speakers of revived Cornish. It does a disservice to Celtic speakers in England to insinuate that proximity to England taints or corrupts them somehow. This is how ethnonationalism starts and we ain't about that.

And "#it feels a little.... blehhhhh you were seen as sophisticated and english enough and you assimilated however the Irish and the Scots? #brutish animals that need to be culled". So, this is arguably one of the worst things to say about a Celtic language- or any threatened language in general. First of all, the 'you were seen as' - 'you' is very telling. The switch from 'them', 'they' to 'you' indicates that this sentiment is aimed at Welsh speakers directly. This was likely a subconscious thing that OP wasn't thinking about when they wrote this. But it does indicate unhealthy feelings of jealousy and bitterness unfairly directed at Welsh speakers, who are also struggling. This righteous anger at the decline of Irish and Scottish Gaelic would be better directed at efforts to help promote those languages- some useful things to get involved with are LearnGaelic, similar to DysguCymraeg but for Scottish Gaelic or supporting channels such as Irish channel TG4 by watching their programmes.

The idea that Welsh speakers were or are 'sophisticated and english enough' is insulting and carries with it a lot of baggage of how any of these assumptions came about. Welsh speakers were definitely not seen as sophisticated. Where Welsh was 'tolerated', it was treated as a curiosity, a relic of a bygone age. Classic museification which all Celtic languages and cultures suffer from as well. Welsh was not tolerated in any legal sense since 1535- with English becoming the only valid administrative language and the language of Welsh courts after England annexed Wales into its Kingdom. Monolingual Welsh speakers suddenly had no access to any legal representation, unless they learned English. This is no voluntary assimilation- it is an act of survival for many speakers of minoritised languages to 'assimilate' into the dominant culture, or else risk losing access to legal security and other kinds of infrastructure. You need only ask any non-native English speaker living in an Anglophone country what that process is like. Welsh people did not see English incursion as an opportunity to become 'sophisticated and english enough', they had to assimilate in order to survive.

The "Irish and the Scots? #brutish animals that need to be culled" is also painfully misrepresenting a very complex social and political process that unfolded over the span of hundreds of years. The phrasing itself of 'brutish animals that need to be culled' speaks to righteous anger at the damage done to these languages and cultures, but it reinforces negative stereotypes about the Irish and Scots themselves. It also is more complicated than a simple English hatred of anything non-Anglo, since the English conception of particularly the Irish changed a lot over the centuries. It was (and still is) rarely consistent with itself. See: the enemy is both strong and weak. The very earliest Celticists were by and large, Anglos or French.

Ernest Renan (1823-1892) for example, was an early French Celticist who published La Poésie des races celtiques (Poetry of the Celtic Races- English translation) in which he says:

"... we must search for the explanation of the chief features of the Celtic character. It has all the failings, and all the good qualities, of the solitary man; at once proud and timid, strong in feeling and feeble in action, at home free and unreserved, to the outside world awkward and embarrassed. It distrusts the foreigner, because it sees in him a being more refined than itself, who abuses its simplicity. Indifferent to the admiration of others, it asks only one thing, that it should be left to itself. It is before all else a domestic race, fitted for family life and fireside joys. In no other race has the bond of blood been stronger, or has it created more duties, or attached man to his fellow with so much breadth and depth"

Yeah. This guy (unsurprisingly) was a white supremacist. Note that this sentiment is being applied to all people considered Celtic by Renan- Irish, Welsh, Breton, Scottish, Cornish, Manx etc. None unscathed by the celtophobia of the day. In this period, Celticity was romanticised (yet disparaged at the same time). It is less 'brutish animals' and more 'archaic, time-frozen peoples' in this period. Of course, 'brutish animals' attitudes towards Celticity did still exist, but it is disingenuous to act as if it was this attitude alone which drove English celtophobia. Like many things, it is always more complicated and never clear cut as it might seem.

I'll bring this to a close shortly, but returning to OP's suggestion that the Welsh assimilated and the Scots and Irish did not, is also incorrect in that some Scots did have to assimilate to survive as well. The Statutes of Iona (1609) required Scottish Gaelic speaking Highland chiefs to send their sons away to be educated in Scots and/or English in Protestant schools. Many did as the statutes required, which led to further language loss in the Highlands of Scottish Gaelic. These are acts of survival- and not ones always taken willingly.

This has been a long post but it's one which I felt I wanted to address. There's no need for infighting between speakers of Celtic languages over who has it worse. There isn't any answer to that question, nor is it a good use of time or energy. All in all, the Celtic languages have suffered greatly over the years and its only just now that some of them are turning a corner. If you care about these languages, put your energy into something good. Only through active work will these languages be saved for generations to come.

[thursdayinspace]

I started writing porn during my work breaks to torture my friends (as you do) and sometimes it turns into feelings, so whatever, I'll drop this here. Possibly part of a WIP now because isn't everything these days? (My poor WIP folder.)

They spent so much time apart, first because he was dead, then because he distanced himself from her after coming back, and then because he was in hiding. Now that they’re back together, they can’t stop kissing, they can’t stop touching. They’re always connected, holding hands, standing with their sides pressed together, small pecks hello or goodbye turning into long, hungry kisses, hands clawing at each other to get closer, closer, always closer.

At night they fall asleep with their legs tangled, her head on his chest, or him spooned up behind her; they fit together so perfectly. Words are still difficult. So much has happened. He feels endless guilt for leaving her alone, leaving her to deal with the fallout of their decisions all on her own. She feels guilt heavy in her heart for giving up their son, for depriving him of his chance to be a father, she feels like the destroyer of their little family.

Touch comes easier to them and they tell each other what they can’t say through letting their bodies speak for them. It’s hard and rough some nights, pure desperation, don’t ever leave me again because I’d die, mark me, make me yours, ruin me for anyone else. Most nights it’s unbearably slow and tender, laced with a melancholy sadness mixed with tentative hope growing in the shadows that hold both danger and promise. It’s apology and affirmation, I’m sorry, I love you, here’s my heart for you to keep, it’s always been yours and always will be.

She opens her legs for him and he pushes into her slowly, coming home, covering her with his body as she holds him close. He doesn’t move, just kisses her, and she kisses back. This is what they need, connection, physical metaphor for everything language can’t yet express. When he starts rolling his hips it’s slow and shallow; they’re full of need, burning with desire for release, but every time they fall over that edge it means it’s over. Until next time. And they never take next times for granted anymore. Not after everything they’ve lost.

His forehead rests against hers as they breathe each other’s air, as her hands roam his back and he fucks her so gently, with such soul-deep devotion it brings tears to her eyes as she clenches around him, holding onto him so tightly with every part of her being.

They’re still unpracticed, they’d only just started when he was taken from her, they didn’t have a chance after he returned. But they’re learning, learning each other, learning this new language. The sounds that mean they need more, or less, or that it’s perfect.

She comes first, and he knows what to do, how to move to make it good for her, to keep her coming and coming until her moans turn into whimpers through that final crest before her body goes soft under him, and only then does he let himself go, spilling into her with a broken sound escaping his throat. It’s an ending and an oath, a beginning, a confirmation of continuity: them against the world, forever. In this moment, they’re a part of each other, their combined pleasure stronger and more meaningful than any marriage vow could ever be.

He stays inside her as long as he can and they part reluctantly, only to come back together later, always. There are no guarantees, but there are promises, there’s love. They’ll make it work.