#its a public thread 💔

[hannibal-is-my-comfort-show]

Will posting shit like this when Hannibal goes on work trips purposely to piss him off:

[hansolen-archive]

beneath the light of a neon moon

꩜ pairing ⇾ beast!dazai x reader

꩜ word count ⇾ 3.5k

꩜ summary ⇾ this is basically just dazai being a wet cat and unable to understand yet overanalyzing his attachment towards you through all the world’s that exist in the book. he’s just a lil weird about it.

꩜ author’s note ⇾ i missed him. there’s no other explanation. beast dazai needs more love 💔 i think dazai having beef with himself through all the worlds is very real and very true. this is nothing but the outcome of the visions that plagued me.

꩜ cw ⇾ slight yandere vibes i won’t lie.. but c’mon it’s dazai so that’s to be expected. some possesive behaviour might come up. slight spoilers for beast if you haven’t finished the ln/manga/movie, though nothing too major. if anything else needs to be tagged lmk!

ability description — the reader’s ability stays active 24/7 and it does take a toll on her. while i haven’t gone into too much detail of what it really does (maybe more in the future, since i have a lot of ideas for it lol) but the ability holds a similarity to that of arahabaki — it too is an entity. not really a god but something more sinister. reader is basically a concious host of that entity which lays dormant.

If Nakahara Chuuya — one of the top most executives of the Port Mafia, is called the left hand of the boss; then it goes without saying that you are the right hand. Just as scary, sometimes even worse. 

If Chuuya is the hurricane that destroys towns after towns with its howling whirlwinds, then you are the tsunami that envelopes everyone entirely. Once and for all — like an oppressive silence. And yet it’s commonly accepted that destruction is prevalent regardless of which hand the boss chooses to use. 

Everyone knows that the hands of the devil reach far and wide. Must be nice having two vessels of otherworldly entities on the tips of his fingers, they all murmur. And yet no one seems to mention how hard it is to actually maintain them, Dazai can’t help but think to himself.

Everyone in Yokohama can see the large and daunting building from wherever they stand, yet no one glances at it twice as they go through their day. A wise choice, by most. It’s sleek and definitely suspicious, neither the civilians nor the government officials ever directly mention it — in public, that is. Hushed whispers can only be so silent.

The boss of the Port Mafia resides at the top most floor of the main building. Anyone who has ever had the (dis)pleasure of being called up, for whatever reason it may be, knows for a fact that the silence on that floor is deafening. Except for when a certain red haired executive comes around, then one can hear bickering reach far and wide. But that wasn’t always the case, much like today.  

The only sound that could be heard along the entire floor was that of your heals clicking against the cold marble tiles. After two knocks against the large doors, you enter Dazai’s office. You hand him the papers — strict and professional, like you ought to be. You’re a sub-executive afterall. By your own choice, of course. You had been offered the executive position far too many times, and yet you always declined. Harshly too, much to Chuuya’s disdain. 

He was unable to comprehend it the first few times, and he even tried to knock some sense into you. He wanted you to understand that you were far too deep into this side of the world to continue thinking that you couldn’t cross a ‘certain’ line. You shouldn’t keep trying to balance your way as you continue to stride on the thin thread that separates the civilian world from the mafia one. You’re in too deep, and have done too much to continue acting as though you have a way out. 

But your only response was a soft hum, which frustrated him even further. Perhaps more at himself than at you. You both were well aware that neither of you ever had a choice, no matter what the circumstances may be. No matter which road you chose, the destination always ended up here.

Although if Dazai willed it, you would be given the executive title in a minute. Whether you wanted it or not. Instead, he allows you to relish in the feeling of being able to make a choice. Some part of him, deep inside his fucked up sense of self — tainted by the shades of blood and things far darker — he almost feels like he owes this to you, at the very least. Even if it’s just for the sake of maintaining what remains of your moral integrity — your sanity, even.

Not that it changes much, you already perform all the executive duties as far as protocol is considered. Including being present in the meetings, guiding troops and having your own faction within the Port Mafia. It’s generally accepted by the entire organisation that you are equal to the executives, if not something more — to the boss, that is. 

Dazai allows you to have a feeling of distance from the work that you do, the lives that you take, the sins that he makes you commit. Letting you wallow in the false sense of security that you could choose to step away any time. Somehow it leaves you a little sane and gives him a little more room to play with. Afterall, no one would enjoy a completely broken doll. 

He enjoys humouring you from time to time. As if this whole play wasn’t written by him. As though he hadn’t willed every single interaction on this path into motion. As if he wasn’t the devil’s advocate, whispering the sins you were to commit with his hypnotising voice. 

He needed you with him on this path. It was all for the plan he had threaded together, he tried to convince himself.

The plan, yes. But Dazai is well aware that isn’t entirely true. And sometimes, a paranoid part of him thinks that you do too. Know for a fact that more than any of the plans — he did this for himself. He brought you and caged you into this world carved out of sin just for his own selfish reasons.

Not for Oda, not for the book, not for the sustenance of the world or any of those idealistic reasons — but for himself. Afterall, he was never an idealistic man to begin with. He was just a boy when it all started. A boy who had given up far too much and for once, wanted something for himself. He wanted you.

And so he did. He kept you. Weaved you into his spiderweb of grand plans. He often thinks back to how he knew everything there was to know about you, before he even got the chance to meet you for the first time. There you stood under the cold harsh lighting of that deserted old lab. He remembers how the flashes of his other lives played all at once. It almost felt as though he was reliving the memories through the sparks of light.

It was making him sick. Being able to witness in such excruciating detail of how he got to hold you so tenderly, in those worlds from the book. It made him feel intense emotions that he couldn’t even begin to describe. All he could do was just glance at those memories that were undoubtedly his own — and yet felt like he was watching them dance through the other side of a glass door. They’re all so painfully clear and yet there is a huge barrier in between.

Dazai has always been well aware that he never should have brought you into this. He knows that he shouldn’t have tried to find some sort of replica of the emotions he felt, as he replayed all his other lives. But he just couldn’t help it. He has to keep you alongside him. Hadn’t he sacrificed enough in this life? You’ve been so good to all the other versions of him, can’t you treat him the same in this one? You’ll forgive him, right? You love him, right?

You have to. There’s no other way out.

𓇚

Dazai’s mind undoubtedly wanders back to the first time you fainted from his touch. He knew it was going to happen — saw it as a staple part of you both meeting in all those worlds from the book. 

He knew what was to come if he were to let his rough bandaged palm even slightly graze your warm one. You’d faint. Like you had in all the other worlds, of which he carried the heavy weight. Those memories all helped him create acute plans for this world. Yet, the ones that he cherished the most, the memories that weren’t a heavy burden to carry but instead some sort of salvation — the ones he replayed over and over again like a broken record in hopes to reach some sort of comfort — were the memories he shared with you. 

In every world, your first meeting was something special, he kept those memories safely. Back when he was younger and the light in his eyes had not yet been entirely consumed — he used to find himself wondering how you both would meet in this world. How differently would it play out? It helped him distract himself from his surroundings and the heavy responsibilities. Those memories often flooded his mind as he gazed into nothing. In all of them, you always fainted when he first touched you. And after that too. 

But, in all his other lives, it lessened over time, and eventually the fainting stopped. “It feels rather relaxing,” you had once said to him — in the original world. To the original version of him.

“It feels as though The Presence subdues for a bit, as if it were never there. Continue holding me like this, won't you?” you spoke to him so gently as you both layed on top of each other with his trenchcoat covering the both of you. It held so much comfort and warmth, like it was just you both in this world, rest all be damned. Dazai wished that adoration was directed to him and not the man of origin.

His heart aches at the thought. What could he do for you to talk to him the same in this world too? What would it take? 

In all the other worlds — with time, you ended up building some sort of immunity, or rather you got used to his touch and even craved it. In every single world. Every world of the book, but this one.

You never seemed to have gotten used to his touch in this world. You still fainted. Every. Single. Time. 

𓇚

Dazai hates it. He’s well aware of the fact that this world is special — after all it’s the only one where Oda ends up living. It’s a world that has been handcrafted by him alone. Each and every thread has been woven with a purpose in mind. Each action has a motive behind it. Which is exactly why he needs to sustain it. Yet he can’t help it — the jealousy that fumes within him. Jealous of himself? Such a stupid reason. He knows that and yet—

“Boss, here’s the report of on the foreign mercenary group that recently surged up, as you requested. I have sent my men to look through their abandoned hideout, although I’m sure you can already imagine the outcome.” you say as you hand him the files.

Dazai doesn’t quite understand why you continue to put up the professional facade when it’s just the two of you here. Yet, he decides to humour you.

He glances at files with mild disinterest, and then at your hand. A thought occurs in his head — among many others. It’s indulgent. Entirely so. You will not enjoy it one bit. And yet he’s also well aware of his track record of never really listening to what you want. He knows this will hamper a few upcoming tasks and meetings. But when has he ever given a damn about those? And so he decides to indulge himself. He takes the report from your hands in a smooth motion and accidentally brushes the tips of his fingers against yours.

It’s a brief touch, and it all happens in the flash of a second. You noticed it, he realises. You saw his intent building up and yet you still offered to hand him the files rather than just placing them on his desk. 

His ability is always active, as is yours. You lose consciousness in seconds.

And you fall.

Right into his arms, like he planned you would. He glances at your face, there’s a serene glow emanating from you. Something about you is always pulling him in. He’s well aware of how you both are so intervened in each other’s lives that perhaps it was fated. Maybe he’s not entirely to blame for everything, or maybe that’s just wishful thinking on his part.

You look so relaxed like this, he thinks as he adjusts the both of you so that you can lay down in a more comfortable position. It’s often underestimated how tiring it must be to have the ability active at all times, especially one that is as draining as yours.

Perhaps, this could be an escape for you as well. Laying with him as both of your breathing falls into sync with one another. Or maybe he’s just cheating and controlling his heartbeat as he tries to come up with some valid excuse as to why he gave into his impulse. All while he continues to trace your face with his thumb. It’s a gentle motion, making sure to not disturb your slumber, though he doubts you’ll wake up from it. Your track record shows that you’ll usually be knocked out for the better half of the day.

The expression on your face is something he wishes to dissect. You look as though you’re in some dream far away from here. He wonders where you go when you lose consciousness. Will you ever take him with you? Doesn’t matter. He will follow you just the same. 

Dazai can’t help but wonder what you would do if you found out about other worlds. Worlds where you weren’t led to such a life. Where he didn’t turn you into a weapon for his own motives. Would you hate him for it? When you are made to face all the other versions of you — the much happier, and brighter versions. Where in the light from your eyes hasn’t been entirely extinguished yet. 

Dazai fears that you already know. Can’t help it when you both hold eye contact during brief meetings. At times he catches a glimpse of the space — somewhere in there — that he cannot reach. They often say that the devil’s arms reach far and wide, and yet he can’t help but feel there’s a large distance that he alone can’t cover, in his quest to reach you. (Dazai also knows that he is no devil. It has alwaye just been a title that was handed to him. He wonders if you know that, too.)

Afterall, you, too, have the look of someone who is hiding something. He understands the expression well enough — he has to meets those eyes every day in the mirror.

𓇚

That’s one of the many reasons he prefers you like this. With your eyes closed and breathing steady. You don’t give him the all knowing gaze, that you usually carry. He gets to hold you close, without it eating him up from the inside. Some sick part of him likes having this power over you. Being able to hold it above your head any time he likes. He would never use it against you though. Not really.

Your breathing is rhythmic. A constant motion. He has memorised your breathing pattern over the years. To the point where it’s almost comforting to listen to it. Almost.

His hand hovers from your cheeks to sliding right at the base of your neck. Something swells inside of him. Something sinister. He can’t help but feel a little drunk. Drunk over the control he has over you right now — your life. He can continue to feel as guilty as he likes, but it’s no secret what exactly he’s guilty of.

Dazai gently steadies your head and moves it so that it’s resting on his chest. He then tries to bring his focus back to the papers that continue to lay on his desk, and then glances at the ones that fell on the floor. Lord knows how much that slug would nag him if he didn’t finish reading these by now. So annoying.

He tries to push his focus on reading them, but the comfort of having you so close against him is really distracting. It’s contrasting, really, how your body spreads such warmth against his cold one. Like a single candlelight that continues to glow in the cold stark night.

You both should do this more often, he thinks. Though you might end up hating him for it. But that won’t be an issue in the near future, considering what’s to come — the plans written in the book.

What will be an issue is Chuuya barging through the black doors and seeing you both in such a precarious position — then he might proceed to quite literally kill Dazai. No matter if he’s the boss of the Port Mafia or not.

Afterall, Chuuya is probably the closest companion you have in this world. You both make sure to look out for one another as much as you can. It’s almost as if you both have this air of understanding, that Dazai often feels disconnected from. 

Is it because you both are vessels? Or because he uses you both similarly and keeps you both on leashes? Or is it some form of familial bonding that his emotional nerve receptors are far too fused out to understand? 

Dazai doesn’t know. He doesn’t know that you don’t necessarily hate him. That you never did. He doesn’t know that you let him do as he wills. He doesn’t know that no matter how much he thinks of himself as the ‘mastermind’ it’s you who handed him the reins. The one that held the other end of the leash that was hung on your neck and placed it right into the palm of his hands.

𓇚

“Men will be men,” The lady in the white lab coat had once said to you. 

“They shall always believe that they were the ones who invented the wheel. They shall always come close to calling themselves ‘creators’ of it all. They do not understand.”

Neither did you, back then. All you could really remember were the sparks she sent flying towards you — no mercy.

To those people in the lab coats that stood behind the glass — observing you like you were some lab rat and noted down the reactions your body gave out cynically — you weren’t some kid. Not some seven year old that probably should’ve been playing in park with kids her age or discussing the latest episode of some show that always aired at six in the evening.

No, you were just a vessel. A means to an end. That’s all you were as they watched you writhing through the glass, taking in the after effects of the electricity coursing through your veins. Sometimes, you still feel the sparks travelling through your body and the night repeats. This time — it’s in your head. Yet it hurts all the same.

But what that lady didn’t understand was that Dazai was no man. He never felt like one, at the very least. No matter how many masks he puts on to fill in the gaps of self — that one hollow part of him never fills up. He’s afraid it never will.

He never felt connected to those around him — to humanity. The best he could have had was Oda, and he didn’t exactly get to experience that in this world. So, as a self preserving tactic, he tries to form some scrappy sense of comfort with what's left for him and take it from you instead. Some part of him felt like you know this too, and let it happen.

In some wild way it’s fitting, he thinks. It makes sense that this world was meant to be special. It’s the only one where Oda will be able to continue living and eventually write that novel. It’s the only one where Dazai will finally fulfill his long running wish. It only makes sense that there are innumerable amount of exceptions.

Not only are the shin-soukoku switched and roles have been exceptionally reversed, new anomalies continue to rise up as days go by. That’s part of the reason why he decided to make you part of the Port Mafia. To deal with those anomalies efficiently, since your ability was perfect to cut through them all. 

𓇚

If anyone were to barge in right now, they would be greeted with an extremely bizzare sight. The boss of Port Mafia, one of — if not the most feared man in Yokohama — gazing gently at you as his dark figure envelopes you completely. In some humourous way it almost looks like a black cat holding it’s prey close, making sure it doesn’t get snatched.

He likes it, he supposes. The way you look so serene in the low lighting of his office. How your head rests right next to his bandaged heart. He adores the way you your lips settle into a soft pout in your sleep. You seem much more honest with your expressions when you’re asleep than when you’re awake. You look so inviting, he just can’t help himself.

He’s in too deep — you’ve had to have put him under a spell of sorts. There’s no other logical explanation to the way you’ve made him do such illogical things. How could you have reduced him of all people — the demon prodigy and Mori’s successor into such a state? Since he was a child logic has been drilled into his very bones. Every strategy and it’s counter. The side of him that was built to be made a mafiaso has always been rational.

What he failed to take into account is that to you he’s just — Dazai. There’s no other valid explanation to how you’ve enamoured and caged his heart in the tender embrace of your palms, in every single world of the book.

So he gives in, he lets himself fall. He leans down to place a soft kiss onto your lips. With as much gentleness as he can muster up — given his disposition. It was supposed to be nothing more than a soft peck. What he didn’t see coming was how as your eyes began to flutter open and how you kissed him back.

© hansolen do not translate or repost anywhere else. reblogs n comments appreciated 💌

[syrupsyche]

Students hunting down the social media of their teachers in the Les Mis Teachers!AU, and finding:

Combeferre's public Instagram, where he posts and IDs all the insects and animals he sees. Sometimes he uploads links to YouTube videos and news articles for his students who are following him to read. He also has a TikTok where he uploads science experiments with Joly.

Courfeyrac’s private Instagram, where he only accepts students if they've long graduated. His IG stories are loud clips of him in the club, so blurry you can't see what's going on. His IG posts are of him with his friends, as well as screenshots of himself roasting stupid people on r/politics.

Feuilly's public Instagram and Twitter, all of which repost or retweet journal publications and news articles written by his friends in the field. Once in a while he posts a piece of woodwork he's made, and Enjolras is always the first to like and comment a 👍.

Enjolras' public Instagram, which has no profile picture, no description, and only the occasional post of current news affairs with a loooong caption sharing his thoughts. One day a student finds his Twitter, which is entirely in Korean, where it's also 90% of him sharing about news that may have gone under the radar (esp. things happening in Korea/Asia in general) and then 10% of him asking the void for dating advice. No one replies to those 💔.

Bahorel's public TikTok, where he has 3 workout videos and 48 duets of him arguing with people on bad history takes. Sometimes he goes on TikTok lives with Grantaire and they talk about bullshit for 3 hours straight.

Jehan's Tumblr, which is solely dedicated to Romantic literature. They invite students to send them asks and they answer them pretty often, usually about book/show recommendations, further readings, and opinions on poets and playwrights. Every so often an anon will send a scathing ask roasting Jehan's taste, and every time it's Bahorel.

Bossuet's private Instagram, where he only allows students who've graduated to follow. Except the app keeps glitching and his students keep getting in, so every day he has to softblock them again. His profile is pretty simple though, just pictures of him and his friends, his food, yearly graduation photos with his students etc. Alas, all of them have EXTREMELY horrendous IG filters on them. He likes it, okay?!

Joly's Twitter, where he retweets mostly cute/funny animal tweets, interspersed with the occasional Twitter thread where he goes on long tangents debunking myths about historical illnesses like the black plague, the cholera epidemic etc. He's currently curating one about COVID in his drafts. It's 80 tweets long.

Grantaire's public Instagram, which has about 1,320 posts because he posts about EVERYTHING. His breakfast, a nice cloud, a store having a clearance sale (in which he will tag his friends and caption "Shall we go?") etc. He treats IG like a group chat with all his 289 followers. A lot of pictures of his friends too. Whenever his students win an award or competition he posts about them as well, just with a huge censor bar to conceal their identity. He uses up all 10 slots for the IG carousel post, with the 10th picture always being a sneaky photo taken of Enjolras that day.

Bonus:

Marius' Twitter, except it took forever to confirm it was Marius because his tweets are in four entirely different languages. The students only figured it out once they saw a Twitter thread where Enjolras and Marius were debating with each other in Korean.

Éponine's TikTok, where it only has one video thus far, and its her sending off Gavroche on his first day of school. She uses her account to roast Combeferre’s and Joly’s science experiments, as well as bully Bahorel and Grantaire on their TikTok lives.

Cosette's public Instagram, which is a pretty popular bullet journaling account. Very aesthetic; students follow her to get some decor inspo and study tips. Her IG stories are pictures with Valjean and Fantine captioned "brunch with my favourite people!! 💫💗" or blurry pictures of Enjolras coming out of his bedroom at 2pm on Saturday captioned "Bigfoot sighting #39"

[dnpanimationstudioclone]

Meet Velvette📱🧶

Meet my take on Velvette! I had LOT OF FUN with this one! She’s reviewing Pentabucks newest drink!(being its top influencer can get you it for free!)

My Velvette’s more involved with social media/advertising/trends rather than owning all of Hell’s fashion indurstry. She’s basically a social marketer/influencer who uses her influence to support and advertise a lot of the overlords and high influence peoples businesses, products and services. She’s def still into fashion, I imagine she has something like a Bergdorf Goodmans, luxury end store and probably collabed with other fashion brands). I also see her own some fo the trendiest resteraunts, clubs, beauty salons, etc. def sewn herself into big brands!

I’ve heard she was suppose to be a doll because her pilot look mouth alluded a bit to stitching and wore frilly clothes.

so I ended up making her a rag doll! Doll’s are very popular to sell, especially to sell additional objects such as fashion, accessories, etc. Basically she sells herself out to the public eye 👁️. There’s also a bit of sewing terms that fits with social media such as “Pinned”, “Threads”, etc.🪡📍

And rag dolls are known for their adaptability(perfect for trend setting Vel)! I styled her outfit as a kinda tweaked modern outfit of Raggedy Anne/Andy’s outfit. The jumper and black booties. Restyled into a more flashy romp jumper and heeled boots 👢 Even made it to her name, VELVET!

Ngl many friends of mine have said she gives off Monster High vibes(I feel like 2000’s cartoons def inspired me). As well as Lalaloopsy!!!!!!! I was also a bit inspired by OG Millie’s outfit(love the double straps).

Put her in two shades of brown for a patchwork vibe! Another thing I’m going for with the rag doll theme is to allude to insecurity. I imagine she came from less glamorous origins. Didn’t have porcelain dolls like Charlie or plastic Barbies like all the other popular and rich girls, but simple rag dolls and stuffies. No matter how hard she tries to be like perfect porcelain or pretty plastic…she’s cursed to be seen as just some raggedy rag doll💔. I also imagine her death had something related to becoming…torn up(I imagine it wasn’t a pretty end)…

For this look, went with bubble braids made from balls of yarn 🧶 She has all kinds of hairstyles, from yarn, cotton, stitch on wigs and even real hair(from scalps of those who got on her nasty side, @a-sterling-rose suggested this). There’s even a type of hairstyle called “yarn braids”.

Wears fake nails 💅. Gel, acrylic, she’s made of cloth so she can adapt to any kind.

Gave her actual ears 👂 (added them on herself).

Clout Glasses 😎.

For her color scheme, @the-burd-lord suggested I'd go with RGB theme, colors on display screen(Vox is the leader and a screen) Ngl I was conflicted what colors to go with for the vees(Primary, Red blue purple etc). But then I realized when u mix those colors u get those other colors and then I decided to give the Vees two main color themes for each. One for show, the other their true colors! Velvette likes to use green, magenta and purple, for a visually pleasing vibe, light green and magenta for sweetness with purple/gold for luxury, but truth she’s a vain, envious clout seeker who has and will do less than ethic things for the likes. The two colors r also a mix of Val and Vox’s colors(uses them, advertises them to advertise herself!)

Played around with a assymetry color vibe for the envy vibe, thats she’s two faced 🎭. Having a deceptive social media personality like Miss Heed(less lovey dovey).

@lovesart23 video on Velvette really helped me consider what to do with her, like her beign Envy theme(she’s a clout chaser afterall). I LOVE her use of purples and greens for her! I also really dig the eye theme which mine in a sense does too. In this case, button eyes.

Added more weight on her a bit, to give off a more rag doll type body(especially with the limbs 🦾🦵)

Gave her black purple eyes with pink and mint button irises. Got Pin eyelashes 🪡📍

Her her a needle/selfie stick. Good for selfies, fashion emergency and stabbing people!

What do u think? I’d love to know💖

I’ve also done the Hazbin Gang, Mimzy, and even her associate, Vox 📺.

[feketeribizli]

the public is wrong his ass is omega not beta. we've gone over the dog good boy talk. that man is nawwwtttt normal

ANON YOU GET MEEEE literally what i was thinking... down to a t

yapping and some pathetic marc doodles under the cut 😁 also shoutout to the tumblr scholars discoursing omegaverse with me

so how i think itd go: marci presents late of course he does. generally hes a chill guy so assuming hes a beta isnt that far of a stretch and like he doesnt like his own smell (something like milk and honey and herbal tea. kind of weird) so he takes blockers or whatever. anyway people think hes a beta hes registered as a beta with the fia yadda yadda yadda the usual

itd be after the first head of a very emotionally taxing double header where he maybe dnfs or whatever it doesnt matter but people are yelling and being mad at him and fernando tells him off; its hard to be around the team. marci is angry at himself and feels more stressed than ever but instead of sleeping it off like usual he feels weirder in the morning like the world is off balance. and his skin is tighter and the temperatures are hotter and the smells are stronger but its spring after all so he doesnt pay too much mind to it. life could be better but its good nonetheless

anyway on wednesday berta decides to be the one taking him out for dinner and not the other way around for once and lets him choose a place and its nice and everything but marci is beyond jittery and he looks like shit all red in the face skin hot to the touch when berta leans over the table to put a hand on his forehead so they leave rather early... he promises her its nothing and hes good to race on sunday he just needs a good old nights sleep. and it seems to work as media day goes by without a hitch and marci looks much better and he feels better and then its friday fp1 and then saturday fp2 and quali and hes on fire again. bertas calm voice on the radio helps him keep his head clear but theres sweat clinging to his eyelashes and he near crashes out in a hairpin and when he gets out in q2 but ahead of fernando, the man glares at marci in the garages and thats when the thread snaps

he gets out of the car, wobbles a little in the knees when a mechanic pats him on the back, shreds his helmet and gloves and then they dont see him until sunday

marci in his drivers room absolutely penis delirious and hes egging himself on even more when he realizes whats going on like nooooo that cant be... that cant happen to ME... i cant be a racecar driver AND an omega... in HEAT on a race SUNDAY of all days... KILLING myself... (internalized omegaphobia 💔 if thats even a thing)

anyway with the limited shit he has in his drivers room he tries nesting and its awful and he feels awful with a hand down in his fireproofs... somehow he makes it through the night etc etc. people notice his absence and that something weird is going on and im bestowing berta the honor of looking for him when its closing in on the drivers parade and they havent heard from marci yet. berta clocks his smell in the garage and the closer she gets to his drivers room the clearer the situation is in her mind and in front of his door she has one hand on the handle and another dialling whoever the fuck you call in formula one omegaverse emergencies

she calls out for marci before entering, even asks for permission and for the first time in his endless hours of delirium his head seems to clear a bit to the familiar sound of her voice and hes in there making his usual jittery sounds but much needier... begs for berta to come in and she hesitates, makes her phone call, hesitates a bit more but gets in the room and locks the door

and berta is like hey. hey chiquito im not the one you need here right now. and marc is like noooo tia pleassseee... hes humping the couch/bed wrapped in a thin blanket and berta sits down next to him and puts a hand on his shoulder and hes shaking shivering whimpering. the usual

ANYWAY berta would get him off like three times in a row before marci dozes off leaning into her. they take it to his hotel room after (no race for him obviously. get lance back in the car idk) and berta fucks him for real this time. insists on not being the one marci needs but hes looking at her with his stupid big green eyes filled with tears, shaking hands clinging to her side (very respectful even in his delirium, only touching when hes asked to and where its appropriate) and berta is like damn it. i cannot not take care of him. and so she does :-)

art donaldson dot jpeg... shaking shivering whimpering on it

[nsingcat]

WHO IS IT? D. RICCIARDO!

summary ✶ after a few months of soft launching your boyfriend, your fans try to guess who he is but this sets daniel off !

parings ✶ daniel ricciardo x celebrity makeup artist!fem!reader!

faceclaim ✶ stenss on instagram!

type of fic ✶ smau!

notes ✶ you’re a celebrity make up artist, its not mentioned a lot but i just thought that was important 😭 brief appearances of timothee chalamet, logan lerman, jeremy allen white, austin butler, jacob elordi & nicholas galitzine! daniel being down bad, & swearing!

#INSTAGRAM: YOURUSERNAME !

liked by sabrinacarpenter, user, tchalamet and 652,139 others!

yourusername the best passenger princess 😽💫

view comments

user when are we gonna see this man yn

➥ yourusername SOON SOON I PROMISE i just wanna edge yall a little longer <3

user shes so gorgeous omfg

user its been 6 months.. we ain’t never gon see mystery man 😒

user tutorial for this look NOWW

user guys what if her boyfriend is like really famous

➥ user wow kid genius who would’ve thought 😐

➥ user OOUH that sounded really bratty

user hey guys that’s actually me in the last photo!

user THE MAKEUPPP >>>

user the way its been like 6 months and we still don’t know who this man this

user am i the only one who thinks its charles ?? or at least max ?

➥ user well yes!

user does anyone have theories on who her boyfriend could be ??

➥ user theres a whole thread on twitter !! its by @/username 😭😭

nicholasgalitzine i know something you all don’t know 🥸

➥ user MF WHAT DOES THIS ENTAIL??

➥ user i hate yall

➥ yourusername NICHOLAS SHUT UP

user whoever she is with, sleep with one eye open. 😾

sabrinacarpenter yall are cute or whatever..

➥ yourusername not as cute as u 😛

➥ sabrinacarpenter omg r we gonna kiss rn

➥ yourusername MWAH 😽

#TWITTER: THE THREAD !

#TEXT MESSAGES: DANIEL x YOU !

#INSTAGRAM: YOURUSERNAME !

liked by danielricciardo, tchalamet, user and 932,638 others!

yourusername thank you to everyone on the internet who decided to give my wonderful boyfriend a literal heart attack by shipping me with other men 💔💔 ＠danielricciardo here’s your hard launch pookie <33

view comments

danielricciardo WOW NO SAPPY CAPTION? 😾

➥ yourusername yk i could just say this is a lie and let them ship me with charles still.

➥ danielricciardo DONT YOU DARE.

➥ charles_leclerc love you yn but please don’t !!

➥ yourusername i like alex more anyway 😽

danielricciardo CAN I POST MINE NOW BABY

➥ yourusername HELL YEAH OFC YOU CAN AREGGH

user oh my god

user I WAS NOT EXPECTING DANIEL???

user WAITTT THEYRE SO CUTTEEE

maxverstappen1 finally 🙏🏻 i was tired of him acting as if he was gonna die without being able to date you in public. also im tired of everyone shipping us 🤢🤢

➥ yourusername PEOPLE WERE SHIPPING US TOO?? EURRHGHHH

➥ maxverstappen1 okay you’re doing TOO much.

user max knew too?!! how tf did he keep it quiet for so long 😭😭

user THE KISS MARKS ON HIS FACE 😵‍💫

user ME AND WHO?? 🙁🙁

user girl date me instead 🧎‍♀️

➥ danielricciardo get up tf 🧎‍♀️🔫

➥ user OH??

landonorris congratulations you two 🎉 (daniel you owe me 20,000 pounds)

➥ yourusername FOR WHAT ???

➥ danielricciardo me and lando had a bet on who would spill our secret first 🙁

landonorris YEAAAH IM RICH 👯‍♀️💷💷

#INSTAGRAM: DANIELRICCIARDO !

liked by yourusername, nicholasgalitzine, user, and 864,124 others!

danielricciardo YES SHES MY GIRLFRIEND (SOON TO BE WIFE). NOT ANY OF THOSE OTHER WHITE BOYS 🚫🫵🏼!!! STOP SHIPPING HER WITH THEM 😾!! i love you gorgeous @/yourusername

view comments

user SHES SO GORGEOUS WTFF

➥ danielricciardo I KNOW RIGHTT 😫😫

user pink is so her color omgg

user THE MICHAEL MYERS PIC?? daniel pls tell me you were michael.

➥ danielricciardo 🤭

user AHHHHH

user her hairr i need a 360 rn

tchalamet heartbroken to know that i’m referred to as just “any of those other white boys” 💔

➥ jeremyallenwhite yeaah me too! i haven’t done anything 😂

➥ jacobelordi me three 😞 yn i thought we were friends

➥ austinbutler i thought so as well ! daniel me & you seemed to get along very well!

➥ loganlerman idk where i fit into all of this but i too am offended ! 🤨

➥ danielricciardo well WOMP WOMP 🫵🏼 also austin me and you do get along very well. STAY AWAY FROM MY GIRLFRIEND.

➥ yourusername DANIEL DONT EMBARRASS ME LIKE THIS WHAT OMG

➥ danielricciardo sorry baby, gotta assert my dominance over these men 😮‍💨

user hang on im trying to spell gorjus 🙏🏼

user THE SUSPECTS COMMENTING IJBOLL

charles_leclerc cheers to the happy couple 🎉 (and to me for being free from the yn x charles rumors 🙏🏼🙏🏼)

yourusername im sorry charles 🙁 say hi to alex for me tho 😽

user oh she’s already my favorite wag

➥ user HER PADDOCK OUTFITS & MAKEUP ARE GONNA EATTT

user the hand placement in the yacht pic omfg???

user my parents fr

user if yall break up im gonna do something VERY bad.

nicholasgalitzine im so glad you guys are finally bringing this to the public.. it was getting exhausting to try and keep my mouth shut 💔

➥ yourusername we appreciate you very much nicholas 🫶🏼😛

yourusername i love you so much baby 🥹

➥ danielricciardo I LOVE YOU MORE BABY 🥺🥺😽😽😽🫶🏼🫶🏼❤️❤️

nymphia talks ! this is my first fic & i hope you all enjoy it ☺️🫶🏼! there’s not much i wanna add tbh so erm yeah! <3

[persephonerinyes]

That was absolutely devastating! I can only imagine towards the beginning how humiliating and heartbreaking it must have been to have everyone staring at you and then be told out in public something so awful 😭

Larys!!! He knew exactly what he was doing. He wanted to see her breakdown and he was being a petty bitch getting back at Daenera, and Aemond, in this way.

“Now, let’s regain our composure and find you a suitable dress. We’ll go to the sept, light a candle for your brother, and pray that his remains are recovered for a proper burial. Even someone like him deserves that much.”

Mertha's days are numbered.

“If only he had aimed lower,” Daenera hissed back. “If only he had slit your throat.”

He did not let the blade dig deeper into her throat–and in that moment, she realized that he, too, was bound by the same invisible tethers that had stayed her own hand, that he, too, was captive to the same twisted sort of love she harbored. 

It was not merely desire or fleeting affection; it was love in its rawest and most devastating form. The weight of it was both awful and horrifying, a torment that threatened to consume her entirely. Deep down, she had always known the truth, even from the moment they had marked their palms and exchanged bloody vows, sealing their fates together. Love had silently woven its thread around their lives. 

I had kept it contained reading until this point but that passage actually drew tears

The way she turned the knife on herself because she couldn't bring herself to kill him and she knew that it would hurt him the deepest and that's what prompted his love confession 😭😭😭😭💔💔💔

A Vow of Blood - 81

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 81: The Fool That Loved You

AO3 - Masterlist

TW: Self-harming tendencies/suicidal ideation. -12K words

Daenera jolted awake, her heart racing in a frantic rhythm as the remnants of fear and dread clung to her with the dark shadows of the receding nightmare. Thunder still seemed to rumble in the recesses of her mind, accompanied by the menacing gleam of sharp, cruel teeth. Blinking against the dimness that enveloped her room, she sat abruptly in bed. With trembling hands, she wiped the tears that had escaped during her unsettling dream, attempting to steady her breathing. 

The night had been a restless ordeal for Daenera, her eyes fluttering open frequently as she tossed and turned, trying in vain to dispel the intrusive thoughts that nipped at her heels and clawed at her consciousness for attention. She dwelled on Aemond’s deliberate avoidance, his refusal to even acknowledge her presence–wondering what could have transpired at Storm’s End to provoke such behavior. 

The most unsettling possibility she could conceive of was that Lord Borros had demanded more that Aemond was willing to concede–perhaps her head or that he marry one of his daughters. These troubling thoughts twisted her stomach as she had attempted to fall asleep. 

She had briefly entertained the idea of persuading the guard outside her door to take her for a walk through the Keep, to let her wander the halls like a restless ghost–hoping to come upon Aemond on one of his nocturnal wanderings. It had seemed like a possibility, as she had found him wandering before. Yet, despite these thoughts, she remained in bed, her resolve faltering before she could even reach the threshold of her chamber. 

As Daenera lay gazing at the intricately carved dragons and birds entwined in flight on the canopy of her bed, a persistent dread clung to her like an unwelcome chill. Her mind spiraled with unanswered questions about what might have unfolded at Storm’s End, each thought fueling the knot of unease in her stomach. 

Frustrated, she rubbed her eyes wearily and let her head fall back against the pillow. Rolling onto her side, she stared into the dimming embers of the hearth, her eyelids heavy, teetering on the brink of sleep when, abruptly, the curtains were yanked open, flooding the room with the bright morning light.

“It is time to rise!” Mertha announced, her voice sharp yet oddly cheerful. “A long day awaits you.”

Daenera groaned, her frustration seeping into her voice as she buried her face deeper into the pillow, her words muffled but laced with thinly veiled insults. 

“What was that?” Mertha chided, briskly pulling away the blanket to usher her out of bed. 

A shiver ran through her as the morning's chilled air hit her skin, dragging her fully from the remnants of sleep. She sat up in bed, her hair cascading down her shoulders in a wild tangle as she leveled a glare at Mertha. The older woman bustled around the room, briskly drawing back the curtains to flood the chamber with morning light. Meanwhile, Edelin entered quietly, bearing a tray with a steaming cup of tea and a modest breakfast, which she set down on the nearby table with a soft smile directed at Daenera. 

Swinging her legs out of bed, Daenera’s feet met the chilly embrace of the stone floor. She quickly slipped into her soft slippers, their soles whispering against the stone as she padded across the room. Approaching the small table, she plucked a grape from the plate and propped it into her mouth. Then, settling into the chair, she wrapped her hands around the warm mug of tea, letting the heat seep into her fingers, offering a small comfort against the morning air. 

“You seem quite worn,” Edelin observed in a low, soothing tone as she picked up a hairbrush and began to gently work through the knots in Daenera’s hair, her strokes methodical and comforting. 

Taking a tentative sip of the tea, the mint’s freshness did little to ease her stomach. “Mertha’s snoring could wake the dead.”

Mertha paused her bustling about, her hands smoothing the bedspread as she retorted sharply, “I do not snore.”

Daenera took a sip of her tea, suppressing a smirk. “She sounds like a congested boar.”

The comment coaxed a suppressed giggle from Edelin, her eyes widening in amusement, cheeks flushing slightly. 

“I most certainly do not!” Mertha insisted, her back a little straighter as she fussed over the pillows with more vigor than necessary, continuing to bustle through the room.

“Have you heard anything from Aemond?” Daenera inquired in a subdued tone as she picked at her breakfast, surprisingly hungrier than she had anticipated despite the persistent knot of unease in her stomach. She started with the freshly baked bread, slathering it with salty butter, and quickly moved on to the grapes, deciding to save the sweet apple and cinnamon tart for last.

Edelin paused her brushing, meeting Daenera’s gaze in the mirror with a soft, apologetic look. “No, Princess. But I’m sure he will come see you when he can.”

Perhaps if she set fire to the curtains…

Mertha, bustling about the room, seemed willfully oblivious to the tension, and placed one of Daenera’s undergowns on the bed, smoothing it out, as she interjected sharply, “Did you hear what I said?”

Responding with a subtle frown and a voice tinged with mild irritation, Daenera swallowed the bite of sausage and answered, “I’ve developed quite the talent for ignoring your voice.”

“You are utterly incorrigible!” Mertha chided, planting her hands firmly on her hips as she approached Daenera. “The Queen Mother has arranged for the finest tailor in all the realm to attend you today. They will be arriving shortly to take your measurements and–what is this? Cake for breakfast?”

Her eyes, sharp as daggers, darted accusingly towards the plate on the table and then to Edelin. “Cake, for breakfast? If you keep spoiling her with such indulgences, she’ll never fit into her wedding gown!”

“I thought today was only for measurements,” Daenera remarked dryly, sipping the tea. 

“And much good that will do,” Mertha snapped back, “if you outgrow those measurements by continuing to eat so heartily!”

Daenera lifted the tart to her lips, her gaze fixed on Mertha through the reflection in the mirror. As she savored the sweet, crumbly crust, she defiantly flicked away stray crumbs from her lips and murmured with a hint of spie, “Make it two tarts tomorrow, Edelin.”

Her mischievous statement held a twinge of hope that perhaps not fitting into her wedding dress might delay the proceedings. She knew, however, that they would find a way to proceed regardless. 

Mertha, catching the rebellious tone, clucked her tongue in disapproval. “I suppose I’ll just have to instruct them to allow a bit more room in your measurements.”

Daenera glared at Mertha through the mirror as the older woman abruptly took the hairbrush from Edelin, dismissing her with a brusque, “Go see if the tailor has arrived yet.” 

Exchanging a sympathetic glance with Edelin, Daenera watched the younger girl nod and leave the room. Once alone with Mertha, her scowl deepened as the older woman's rough hands began yanking at her hair, brushing through it far less gently than Edelin had. Wincing from the sting, she almost spilled her tea during a particularly harsh tug. One day, she’ll rip her right out of the chair, she thought. 

Seeking distraction and information, Daenera ventured a question, her tone cool but pointed. “Do you know what the stance of Storm’s End is now?”

Mertha’s lips tightened into a thin line, her response clipped and dismissive. “Such matters are of none of your concern, girl. Focus on your fitting and leave the politics to the men.”

Daenera’s voice was low but sharp, tinged with frustration as she muttered, “If you had your way, that would be all I could think about.”

Mertha, undeterred, snorted dismissively as she continued to brush Daenera’s hair a bit too harshly. “And rightly so. Matters of politics and war are of no concern for women. A woman, especially one soon to be wed, should concern herself with her household, her husband’s well-being, and the rearing of children–not the squabbles of politics. Look at what happens when women do not fulfill their roles! War and chaos, all because some choose to step outside the boundaries set by the gods. No, you should focus on your duties as a wife and leave the matters of war to the council.”

Daenera’s expression soured as she set down her empty teacup. “So you think women are incapable of balancing power and duty?”

Mertha straightened up, her hands pausing in their work. “It’s not about capability. It’s about priority. A woman’s first commitment should be to her family.”

As the bedchamber door creaked open, Edelin’s arrival marked by the sound of hurried footsteps, she stood at the threshold, her expression fraught with concern–the usually fair skin of her face was tinged with a pink flush, eyes rimmed red as if she’d been holding back tears, her hands twisting nervously as her eyes flicked from Mertha to Daenera and back again. 

“Lady Mertha… I need to speak with you…”

Mertha, who had been vigorously handling Daenera’s hair, paused to scowl in the direction of the disturbance, setting the brush aside. As she marched over to Edelin, her expression shifting from irritation to attentiveness as she approached the visibly distressed girl, she barked, “What is it, girl?”

Turning in her chair to observe the interaction, Daenera noted the rapid change in Mertha’s expression as Edelin whispered urgently. Initially shocked, Mertha’s features quickly settled into a mask of worry and then settled into a grim resignation. The older woman responded in a low tone, her back to Daenera, blocking any chance of reading their lips. 

The seriousness of their exchange piqued Daenera’s interest, her earlier irritation giving way to the growing knot of apprehension in her stomach.

“What’s happened?” She pressed, her voice tight, the sense of forgotten urgency scratching at her consciousness like a shadow just out of reach–she felt it claw at the back of her mind, insistent in its presence, yet elusive. 

Edelin briefly met Daenera’s gaze, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears before she turned and departed, leaving Daenera once again in sole company with the tight faced Mertha. 

Mertha avoided her gaze, busying herself with the preparations for the day, her movements deliberate as she answered, “Nothing you need to worry about.”

As their eyes met, a flicker of pity crossed Mertha’s gaze, deepening Daenera’s sense of apprehension. Had Storm’s End declared for her mother? 

“They’ve arrived to take your measurements,” Mertha finally continued, her voice regaining some of its usual brisk efficiency as she gathered Daenera’s hair to pin it up. The touch felt overtly gentle, noticeably different to her usual brutality, causing Daenera’s heart to sink further. 

Her fingers tightened around the edge of the dressing table, her unease sharpening into pointed concern, her tone laced with skepticism as her eyes met Mertha’s through the mirror. “And that’s all?”

“It’s merely a delay with the fabrics and embellishments, nothing that concerns you directly,” Mertha replied, her voice unnaturally steady as she secured Daenera’s curls with a silver pin. The dismissive flick of her hand as she spoke did little to dispel the tension that had settled between them. 

“A delay?” Daenera pressed, swiveling in her seat to fix her gaze directly on Mertha, who busied herself with adjusting the dress that lay spread out over the bed. “What kind of delay?”

“The kind that makes it difficult acquiring Myrish lace and silk.”

Daenera’s brow furrowed as she contemplated it. “Are you implying there’s a blockade preventing the import of goods?”

Mertha let out an exasperated huff, “Yes, there’s a blockade. Your mother has seen it fit to stop ships from passing through the Narrow Sea.”

Daenera’s mind raced as she pieced together the strategic implications of a blockade. Her heart beat faster with both anticipation and dread. The Velaryon fleet controlling the Narrow sea indicated that they had not only declared for her mother, but were actively strategizing to strengthen her position. The prospect of sealing off the Gullet was even more significant. Such an action would choke off all sea trade routes, a critical blow to the city’s merchants–and thereby the Greens. 

If her mother and Daemon could also secure land routes, King’s Landing would be besieged completely. The city, starved of resources, might have no choice but to capitulate. 

Daenera’s thoughts were still racing with strategy when the tailor and his assistants entered her chambers. Before she could fully realize it, she was standing on a dias surrounded by mirrors, her arms extended as the assistants bustled around her, taking meticulous measurements–the length and girth of her arms, the dimensions of her torso, waist, and hips, even the circumference of her neck and how far from her fingertips to the floor.

As they worked, various fabrics were draped across her shoulders and then whisked away, each evaluated for how well it complemented her complexion, eye color, and the dark waves of her hair. 

As Mertha and the tailor engaged in lively conversation, Daenera stood mostly silent on the dias, feeling little more than a doll in her own wedding preparations. Her opinions on the dress seemed unnecessary to them; after all, it was her wedding dress, yet her choice was conspicuously absent. She understood, albeit grudgingly, their reluctance to let her have a say–fearing perhaps that she might make a bold statement with the dress. 

If it were up to her, she mused darkly, she might have chosen black–black for her mother, black for mourning. Or perhaps, an audacious red. 

The attendants, diligently taking measurements, avoided making eye contact with her, their interactions limited to necessary communication. They adjusted her posture, occasionally called out a number, and swiftly manipulated the fabric. 

As the morning progressed, the sun rising higher in the sky, the effects of restless nights weighed heavily upon her. Her muscles throbbed with fatigue, and her feet ached from standing so long. The monotony of the fitting session gnawed at her, exacerbating the ever-present unease that simmered just beneath her skin. 

Every time the door creaked open, Daenera’s gaze snapped towards the sound, her heart lifting momentarily with hope that Aemond might stride through. Yet, each time, that brief spark of hope turned into disappointment as someone else entered. 

Suddenly, a sharp sting broke through her reverie as an attendant accidentally pricked her skin with a needle. Daenera couldn’t contain her yelp of surprise and irritation. 

“Enough,” she declared firmly, her patience worn thin by the discomfort. “You have your mock-up. There’s no need to keep me standing here any longer–help me out of this contraption.” 

Daenera descended from the dias, weaving through the crowd of the kneeling attendants as she futilely attempted to unfasted the back of the dress herself, her fingers just brushing the fastenings she couldn’t quite reach.

Mertha approached with a reproachful expression etched on her face and a stern whisper on her lips, “You’re being very impolite.”

“And I’ll be downright intolerable if you don’t help me out of this at once,” Daenera retorted sharply.

With a cluck of her tongue, Mertha reluctantly assisted Daenera out of the dress, muttering apologies to the tailor who was busy packing his things. Freed from the mock-up, Daenera retreated to her bedchamber, gesturing for Edelin to follow and assist her into something more comfortable and less constricting. 

As the morning sun cast a warm glow through the window, Daenera observed the weather with a hopeful tone while Edelin began fastening the dress around her. “It’s a beautiful day. We should go to the gardens–”

“No,” came Mertha’s sharp reply as she entered the room. 

“No?” Daenera echoed, brow furrowing. “And why is that?”

“You visited the gardens yesterday.”

“And that means I cannot visit them today?”

Mertha’s stance was resolute, her voice firm. “You’ve been quite irritable today–it’s best if you stay inside. Perhaps working on your needlepoint–”

“I will grow more irritable if confined to this room all day!” Daenera countered sharply. “And if you force me to do more needlepoint I will stab you in your fucking eye with the needle.”

Mertha glared at Daenera, her eyes wide with indignation. Her hands clenched together tightly, as if she were restraining herself from reaching out and delivering a stinging slap across Daenera’s face. “You are not to leave–”

“Why?” Daenera demanded. 

Offering no response, Mertha’s silence hung heavy in the air as Edelin hurriedly finished buttoning Daenera’s dress, then averted her gaze. Daenera’s frown deepened, her mind whirring with suspicions. “Am I to be a prisoner now?”

“No,” Mertha quickly replied, yet her tone suggested otherwise. 

“Then I am free to take a walk, am I not?” Daenera persisted, her voice rising slightly. “It’s a beautiful day, the sun is shining, and it’s warm outside. If I remain hidden within these walls, won’t people start to suspect that I am more a prisoner than a mere hostage?”

Mertha’s jaw clenched tightly, but she managed to say through gritted teeth, “Very well, you wish to go outside? Let us visit the Sept, perhaps a moment in prayer will instill some patience in you.”

“Very well,” Daenera conceded reluctantly, accepting Mertha’s condition. She knew that pressing the matter further would only result in a tedious day spent confined to needlework, all while enduring the relentless droning of the old hag reciting from the Book of the Seven. At least a visit to the sept would offer her a brief escape outdoors, however limited it might be. 

The familiar corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast stretched out before them, the stone passageways draped with the golden hues of daylight streaming through the high windows, alongside the softer flicker of torchlight. The rustle of their skirts echoed off the walls, harmonizing with the distant clamor of the Holdfast’s daily bustle. Servants darted with purpose, weaving through clusters of courtiers who engaged in hushed, earnest discussions. 

Descending the grand staircase, Daenera couldn’t help but notice the weight of many eyes upon her. The familiarity of being watched was not new to her, yet today, it felt different. There was a distinct note of sympathy in the way the courtiers looked at her–a subtle shift in their expressions that did not escape her notice. 

As they reached the landing between the levels of stairs, they passed by a group of ladies. They sank into curtsies, their heads bowed low in a display of respect. Yet, their eyes momentarily flicked upward, casting quick, curious glances at Daenera as if she were a spectacle to behold. No sooner had she passed than the ladies turned to one another, their heads coming closer together in whispered conference, like birds softly twittering over a scattering of seeds. 

The murmurs of their voices, though indistinct, carried a palpable energy of speculation and rumor that hung unsettlingly in the air around Daenera, making her feel as if she were the subject of court gossip, dissected and discussed just out of earshot. 

Although she had grown accustomed to the intense scrutiny of court life–being the focus of whispered conjectures and pointed stares–today’s attention felt markedly different. It was unlike the way they had regarded her during and after coronation, or the whispers that had followed her as she stood vigil over the bodies of her men.

Now, the gazes that slid over her felt heavier, tinged with an unspoken solemnity that seemed to tug at the very fabric of her being–it prickled against her skin, tinkled at the back of her neck and crept down her spine like a cold draft.

Daenera assumed that the shift in their demeanor was due the rising tensions of the blockade being put in place and the realm teetering ever closer to outright war. The wings of words and ravens spread across the kingdom, carrying tidings that drew lines of allegiances and dissent in equal measure. 

As they descended the final steps and entered the inner courtyard, the openness of the space welcomed them with the warmth of the sun. High walls enclosed the area, but above them, the sky stretched out in a vast expanse of clear blue. 

Daenera paused for a moment, tilting her face upward to bask in the sun’s comforting rays. The warmth kissed her skin, offering a brief respite from the undercurrent of tension that seemed to thread through the morning air. 

It was a simple pleasure, yet in that moment, it felt like a rare sanctuary from a gathering storm. 

As Daenera absorbed the warmth of the sun, her brief respite was interrupted by the distinct tap of a cane against stone. The sound drew nearer until Lord Larys Strong came into view, his presence marked by the steady cadence of his approach. His face bore a look of sympathy, meticulously crafted, as his hair neatly combed back behind his ears to frame his soft features. His cold gray eyes fixed on Daenera–all too discerning and curious.

“Such a lovely day for such sad news,” he remarked, his voice tinged with a calculated softness that did little to mask the keen observation behind his words. 

Daenera turned her gaze from the brilliance of the sky to meet Lord Larys’s watchful eyes, a faint smile playing at the corners of her lips, the sun casting her face in a defiant glow.

“Sad news for you, perhaps,” she responded smoothly, “But for me, there’s a certain… pleasure in hearing of the blockade. I do hope it doesn’t squeeze you too tight.”

Larys’s soft smile held a disquieting sharpness, more cutting than any true display of tenderness. He tilted his head, studying Daenera with an unnerving precision. “I refer not to the blockade, Princess. I presumed you’d be more visibly shaken, given the nature of true loss. It’s seldom easy to lose a brother.”

A chill spread through Daenera, her heart plummeting, her stomach knotting with sudden dread. Confusion and a creeping despair furrowed her brow as she faced him, her voice strangely even, “What do you mean?”

His expression softened, cruelly indulgent, as if savoring the impact of his next words. “He hasn’t told you, then?”

Mertha moved protectively in front of Daenera, her tone both reproachful and urgent, “This is neither the time nor the place for such discussions, my lord.”

“He hasn’t told me what?” Daenera pressed, her words almost bit out as irritation simmered beneath her crackling exterior–and fear beneath that. 

“Princess, please–”

Ignoring Mertha’s attempt to intervene, Daenera’s voice rose, edged with desperation, “Hasn’t told me what, Lord Larys?”

“Forgive me, Princess, I assumed he would have informed you himself,” Larys said, clasping his hand neatly in front of him, both placed on the head of his cane, adopting the grave posture of a man tasked with delivering dire news. “Your mother sent your brother as an envoy to Storm’s End…”

“Which brother?” Daenera managed, her voice strained as she swallowed against the bitter knot in her throat–feeling as though she already knew the answer, felt it claw at the back of her mind. 

“Lucerys,” Larys answered, the name dropping like a stone into the silence between them. 

At the utterance of her brother’s name, an icy cold tore through Daenera. Her surroundings blurred into obscurity as her heart hammered violently against her ribs, each beat more painful than the other. She felt an oppressive heaviness way her down, a numbing cold gnawing at her limbs. The world contracted to the agonizing rhythm of her heart and the surge of blood that roared in her ears–like waves crashing upon the shore.

All that filled her mind was his name–it echoed hauntingly within her, reverberating through the caverns of her thoughts. The image of him seemed to slip through her grasp like smoke, elusive and intangible, fading away before she could hold on to any semblance of his presence.

Tears stung in her eyes and constricted her throat as she swallowed hard, struggling to maintain her composure. She fought against the overwhelming urge to break down, striving to keep herself intact despite the pain that threatened to shatter her resolve. 

“There was a confrontation which led to a battle above Shipbreaker Bay,” Larys continued, slowly revealing the information that had been kept from her. His cold gaze did not falter as he watched the impact of his words settle upon her. 

Daenera’s head shook in sharp, involuntary denial, her brows knitting together as she struggled to reconcile the information. 

“No, Lucerys is just a boy, no more than four and ten,” she uttered, her voice breaking under the strain of her emotions. She inhaled sharply, each breath a dagger in her chest. “He isn’t a warrior, he wouldn’t have gone into battle–he was an envoy… he wouldn’t have fought–”

Her voice cracked, betraying her struggle, as a chilling realization traced an icy claw through her mind. It was not yet fully formed but hovered ominously at the periphery of her awareness–something sinister and haunting that threatened to destroy her. 

Larys gave a solemn nod, his head tilting slightly as he studied her face, absorbing her disbelief with a cold intensity. 

“My deepest condolences, Princess,” he said, his voice carrying a somber weight. “But it’s the bitter truth. The death of your brother was witnessed, and Lord Baratheon’s men are currently combing the beaches and cliffs, searching for any remains that might have washed ashore.”

Remains. Washed ashore. Remains. Remains. Remains… 

Daenera’s breath caught sharply, a vice-like grip of dread tightening around her heart. Tears burned at the back of her eyes, threatening to spill, as the realization of a nightmare she hadn’t yet dreamt began to take hold. Her hands clenched together painfully tight, knuckles whitening, nails digging into her own flesh as she braced against the rising tide of anguish.

A hand clamped around her arm just above the elbow, fingers pressing into her flesh as Mertha pulled her aside. She hissed quietly into her ear, “Do not cause a scene.”

She managed to swallow her emotions, lifting her eyes, “I thank you, Lord Larys, for the courtesy of informing me… If you’ll excuse me, I need to lie down.”

She turned and strode through the courtyard, each breath catching in her chest as she suppressed the swell of emotions threatening to break free. Biting back the tears welling in her eyes, she swallowed the cries that yearned to escape her throat. The murmur of footsteps behind her faded against the internal roar of her distress echoing in her ears–howling wind and relentless waves crashing upon the shore. She passed the whispering ladies with a rigid grace, her posture as straight and sharp as a drawn blade, offered no comfort as she made her way back to her chambers. 

Once inside, the doors closing behind her with a soft click, her controlled breath finally faltered, a wheeze escaping her as she stood in the middle of her room, a hand on her stomach, overwhelmed by the suffocating weight of grief. 

“I don’t–” Daenera’s voice faltered, her throat constricting as she gasped for air. The loose dress she wore suddenly seemed suffocating, its fabric scraping uncomfortably against her skin. She tugged frantically at the material, desperate to rid herself of its oppressive embrace. “Get this off me!”

“You need to calm yourself,” Mertha responded sharply, her tone firm yet not entirely unkind. Edelin hurried to undo the buttons of the dress, her movements quick but careful, her eyes filled with concern as she watched Daenera struggle. 

“I’m sorry, Princess, we should’ve–”

“You knew,” she accused, her voice a harsh whisper. “You all knew and none of you told me.”

Mertha met her gaze with a severe, almost sanctimonious expression. “It’s not our place to tell you such matters. You were to be informed in due time.”

The ringing in her ears seemed to echo the rapid pounding of her heart as it throbbed against her ribs. Restlessly, she tugged at the fabric of the dress, her movements agitated as Edelin fumbled with the buttons. It prickled uncomfortably against her, like a swarm of insects crawling over her skin. She began to frantically tug at the dress, buttons straining and popping off as stitches burst, the fabric tearing as she clawed it from her body. The garment fell away, pooling around her feet like a mound of rotten leaves. 

Suddenly, hands–bony and insistent–clamped onto her arms, their pointed fingers digging painfully into her flesh as she was violently shaken. “Compose yourself, stupid girl. You are not some wild animal.”

“Get out!” Daenera snarled, wrenching herself free from Mertha’s bruising grip. 

“We are not to leave you unattended, as you well know,” Mertha asserted firmly, clasping her hands before her. “I understand you are grieving, but that doesn’t justify such behavior.” Her reproachful gaze lingered on Daenera, her voice tinged with barely concealed irritation. “Now, let’s regain our composure and find you a suitable dress. We’ll go to the sept, light a candle for your brother, and pray that his remains are recovered for a proper burial. Even someone like him deserves that much.”

Daenera stared at Mertha.

“Edelin, fetch the princess a dress,”Mertha commanded, turning away dismissively as if the depth of Daenera’s grief was merely another inconvenience in her day. As Edelin hurried off, Mertha’s voice dropped to a murmur laden with cold judgment. “The boy should have known better than to face the Prince and his dragon.”

The remark hung in the air, a stinging indictment of Luke, suggesting his death was merely a consequence of poor judgment–a viewpoint that sliced anew into Daenera’s already aching heart. 

Mertha reached out and placed her hand on Daenera’s arm with a patronizing gentleness, as if she were a wayward child to be ushered away. 

The slap she delivered to Mertha was swift and fierce, the sound a sharp report that left her palm stinging and Mertha clutching her reddening cheek, her eyes wide with shock. 

“I said get out!” Daenera hissed, her voice thick with fury, her words slicing through the air like shards of ice. 

When Mertha hesitated, still stunned and holding her cheek, Daenera seized her by the arms, her grip as tight as Mertha’s always was, and shoved her forcefully towards the door, pushing her and pushing her until her back hit the wood and she stood pinned to it. “Get out, or I swear I will tear you apart with my bare fucking hands!”

Daenera gripped the doorknob tightly, her actions deliberate as she flung the door open and forced Mertha out, sending her staggering backwards. The older woman tripped over her feet and collapsed onto the cold floor of the hallway, with the guard hurriedly crouching down at her side, his eyes wide. Edelin, with a frightened glance back at Daenera, hurriedly slipped through the doorway before it was slammed shut with a resounding thud. 

For a long, suffocating moment, Daenera stood frozen, her entire body trembling as the full force of her grief surged within her, clawing ferociously up her throat. The cruel realization that her brother was gone seared through her mind. Dead. Lost to the depth of a merciless sea.

The cold touch of sorrow seemed unending, a consuming void that beckoned her to succumb. Yet, she resisted, grasping desperately at that fiery rage that still burned within her. As this fury swelled, it seemed to burn everything in its path, the flames burning at her fingertips as her hands clenched into fists in the skirts of her chemise.

He had gone to Storm’s End. 

They were searching for remains.

He had gone to Storm’s End. 

There had been a battle–and they were searching for remains.

Luke had gone to Storm’s End.

Aemond had gone to Storm’s End. 

And he had returned. Cold and distant. 

He had returned.

He had…

Her mind reeled, each thought shattering further into fragments of dread and disbelief, swirling around the devastating truth of loss–and betrayal. Her heart ached devastatingly, as if it were being torn to shreds. The agonizing realizations cascaded through her–one after another. The realizations of his actions, of his betrayal, cut deeply–of what he had done. 

And that her brother was gone. Dead.

A scream erupted from deep within her, raw and filled with all the rage and frustration she had kept locked away–filled with the torment of loss. 

Rage was simpler than grief; it required less of her heart, less of her mind, sparing her from the sharp, icy coldness that grief wrought. 

Daenera unleashed another primal scream, her body collapsing inward as the sound tore through her throat and seared her lungs. She continued to scream, each outcry more raw and heart-wrenching than the last, until her voice grew hoarse and her breath came in desperate gasps. Yet, her rage remained unquenched, burning fiercely within her chest and igniting a destructive fury at her fingertips. She felt an overwhelming need for destruction, a need to unleash the ruin that had befallen her. 

In a fit of anger, she snatched a vase from a shelf and hurled it to the ground, watching the clay shatter against the cold stone floor. It wasn’t enough. Gripping the shelves with trembling hands, Daenera threw them down, the wood landing with a resounding crack upon the stone, its contents spilling and breaking. 

She rampaged through the room like a tempest, tossing everything within reach. She swept objects from tables and shelves with reckless abandon, indifferent to the melody of clattering and breaking that filled the air. Her fingers clawed at one of the tapestries, ripping it from the wall. The fabric split under her force as she tore the iron rod free, wielding it to break havoc on everything else around her. 

Daenera swung the iron rod with violent force, smashing it into one of the decorative vases perched on a side table–the hyacinth flowers scattering through the room as the vase exploded into a thousand pieces. 

Breathless from her exertions, she stumbled and inadvertently caught a glimpse of herself in the corner of her eye. She found reflection repeated in a semi-circle of mirrors, capturing her heaving form from three angles. Her eyes, red and wide with madness, met her own gaze as tears cleaved paths down her cheeks. Her hair, previously restrained, now hung loose around her shoulders, the pin that had secured it lost in the chaos. Her complexion was ghostly pale, mottled with red blotches that stood out starkly against her skin. 

Daenera locked gazes with her own reflection, her blue eyes staring back at her with piercing intensity. In them, she saw only the naivety of the girl she once was–a girl who believed she could dance with flames and escape unscathed. She saw a child who had been seduced by her own illusions, now confronting the harsh truth of her own folly.

Lifting the iron rod, she swung it violently at the mirror. The glass shattered upon impact, sending shards flying that nicked her skin, drawing blood. The reflected image of her face distorted and splintered along with the mirror. Each strike sent reverberations up her arms, pain shooting through her as she relentlessly hammered the iron rod into the mirror–once, twice. Then, turning to the second mirror, she attacked it with the same ferocity–once, twice, thrice. Her breath held tight in her chest, a sneer curled her lips as she unleashed her rage, shattering the third mirror with a single, decisive blow before it crashed to the floor in a heap of glittering fragments. 

Breathless, the iron rod slipped from Daenera’s grasp, clattering loudly as it hit the stone floor. Her hands trembled as she gazed into the fragments of the shattered mirrors, confronting the grim visage of despair that reflected back at her. 

In a moment of anguished impulse, she snatched a jagged piece of glass, its sharp edge biting into her skin as she staggered through the room. Driven by a blind fury, she thrust the shard into the pillows, viciously tearing through the fabric. Feathers burst forth, floating around the room as she hurled the gutted pillow aside and then lunged for another. 

With each tear, she imagined rendering through anything and everything, her rage unfretted and wild. She ripped through fabric as if it were flesh, barely registering the glass slicing into her palm or the warm blood that began to stain her skin. Her actions were relentless, each movement fueled by a tempest of unchecked emotion. 

Amid the destruction she had wrought, Daenera had found refuge in the blinding simplicity of rage. But even the fiercest fire of anger must eventually flicker and die when there is nothing left for it to consume. Standing amidst the disarray she had caused, she felt the flames of her fury dimming, receding to reveal the deep, gnawing hollowness that had expanded beneath. Her wrath had shielded her, but now, as it ebbed away, the cruel emptiness began to suffocate her, a silent, relentless tide. 

She staggered toward the hearth, the hollow pit of despair gnawing at her insides. Gasping in gulps of breath, she stood there, releasing the bloodied fragment of the mirror from her grip. Its tip had broken off in one of the pillows she had viciously torn apart, leaving the shard sticky with her own blood. 

A choked sob snagged in Daenera’s throat as the pain in her heart surged anew. She clutched at her underdress, using the fabric to dry her hands before she swept her hair back from her face, smearing her tears and the blood from the superficial wound on her palm, across her skin.  

Drawing in a deep, shuddering breath, Daenera’s chest heaved under the heavy mantle of her sorrow. Then, with a raw surge of emotion, she unleashed another scream–this one agonizingly shrill, a piercing cry that tore through her throat and echoed terrifyingly against the cold stone. It was a harrowing sound that filled every crevice of the room, a sound that seemed to carve into her very bones, infusing her with the same haunting hollowness that threatened to consume her entirely. This chilling echo reverberated around her–raw with the desolation that gripped her soul. 

Her voice cracked under the strain, and with it, so did her resolve. Daenera collapsed onto the cold, hard floor, her body curling inward as though seeking some semblance of comfort in the stone below. Despite the warmth emanating from the hearth, an icy chill enveloped her, penetrating deep into her bones. Around her, the world seemed to unravel, leaving her adrift in a sea of chaos and despair–alone and slowly, ever so slowly drowning. 

The stranger stripped her of everything with the ruthless indifference of an early winter–taking relentlessly, leaving behind nothing but barrenness in his wake, a desolate emptiness where once there was abundance. 

In a whisper barely audible, born from the depths of her despair, Daenera’s pleas threaded the silent air around her. With fervent desperation, she called out to any gods that might listen–to the old gods and the new, to those long-forgotten gods relegated to mere whispers in annals of history, and even to the obscure, nameless ones whose names she had never before spoken. Her voice trembled with the weight of her plea; “Please…Let him live–let it not be true… Please, let it not have been Aemond…”

Then, the devastating truth she had fiercely denied, the truth she had buried deep within herself, revealed itself–it was a truth she had touched every day, a truth she carried on the palm of her hand, a truth she had dreaded to confront. Now, surrounded by the ruins of her rage, Daenera sat among it’s fragments, burying her face into her knees as tears flowed unrestrained. 

With a trembling whisper, her voice broke through the sobs, “Please… let it not be true. Let it not be by his hand…”

But if there was one thing the gods cherished, it was tragedy. And what greater tragedy was there than to love someone–someone whose hands were stained with the blood of her brother? Their love had been doomed from the beginning, destined for tragedy. Such was the cruel jest of fate. All for the amusement of the gods. 

Daenera’s eyes shifted from her knees to the dancing flames before her. As the tears on her cheeks dried, the fiery path they had taken stung as the fire blazed on, unaffected by her sorrow. It cast a warm glow, sending waves of heat in her direction, striving to penetrate the chill that had settled deep within her. Yet, despite the fire’s fervent efforts, the ice that had settled in her heart refused to melt. The cold inside of her lingered like something terrible. 

Amidst the enveloping stillness that wrapped around her, she caught the faint sound of a voice–a whisper borne on a sigh, tender and fraught with an unspoken ache. It spoke her name as if it were something delicate, uttering it softly, as though afraid that a louder tone might break her entirely. 

And all she could do was listen, her muscles tightening as if to brace against his presence. Her heart pleaded silently, reaching out to the gods in her torment. I can’t bear this. Please… I can’t face him…

But the gods remained silent, deaf to her pleas. Thus, Daenera sought solace in something more primal, something fiercer–the flames. She gazed into the fire, imploring it to ignite something within her, to let its fierce heat sear through her veins and grant her the strength she desperately needed to look him in the eye.

Aemond knelt beside her, his hair like strands of moonlight spilling over his shoulders. His presence nudged her from the depths of her numbing despair. She exhaled sharply, her breath rasping against her dry lips as she forced her gaze away from the dance of the flames–forcing them to his all to reverent gaze. A strand of hair was brushed out of her face and behind her ear, his touch grazing her skin and leaving a trail of heat in its wake. And she felt the awful need to lean into his touch, to seek the familiar comfort it offered, as if it wouldn’t stain her soul with his deeds. 

His gentleness was cruel.

And the way he looked at her was crueler still–his gaze was tender, treating her as something fragile and precious, filled with a desperate reverence that bordered on love.

“Tell me,” Daenera whispered hoarsely, her voice roughened from screaming, a trace of bitterness lining her words as her lips trembled on the verge of tears. Her eyes began to burn anew, tears gathering with a stinging insistence, poised to breach the fragile dams of her composure.“Tell me it isn’t true.”

Aemond’s face seemed almost cruel in its sharpness, the flickering orange light from the hearth accentuating his features, making them seem more severe–sharpening them to a cutting point on which she could cut herself open. 

She searched his face for the answers he had been so reluctant to give. Even now, there was a reluctance, his expression a mask so seamlessly worn, she could no longer discern its edge–could no longer see where it ended and he began; all that was left was a chilling coldness. And though his gaze held tenderness, there was a coldness to him, a cruelty that twisted in her heart as she beheld him. It seemed to swirl within the depths of the sapphire, and seemed to mock her with its icy shimmer. 

She had convinced herself that she had managed to look beyond the facade he presented to the world–beyond his cruelty and resentment, beyond the rage that simmered beneath the surface–that she had truly seen him. Perhaps, she had whispered such assurances to her own heart, comforting herself with the belief that there was more to him. But now, surrounded by the ruins of her shattered illusions, doubt crept in like a cold, insidious fog. She wondered if she had ever truly seen the man beneath his mask or if she had merely deceived herself, conjuring up someone who never existed–someone she had fallen in love with. 

“Tell me it isn’t true,” she repeated weakly, her voice barely a whisper as tears clawed at the back of her throat. Desperation seeped into her tone, raw and palpable–begging for a lie to be the truth. “Tell me that what they said isn’t true–that you didn’t do it.”

His eye were full of terrible confessions.

Her voice cracked under the weight of her plea, the tightness in her chest becoming unbearable. As she looked at him, the truth was written all over the cold mask he wore; the deeds he had committed was clear, and the blood on his hands–hands that now reached out to her, touched her, threatened to stain her very being as they meant to wipe away her tears. 

“It’s true,” Aemond confessed, his voice soft. 

Daenera felt as if her heart was being cut open by the honesty of his words, and a choked sob tore its way through her throat as she turned her face away from him, as if to shield him from the torment that ravaged her. Her brother was truly gone–struck from this world by her lover. He had murdered her brother, her younger brother–the one she had seen into this world, the one she cherished deeply. He was good and brave and sensitive. The brother who had defended them, the brother who had come to her in the night, when he had needed comfort. The brother she had promised to return to so they could soar together on his dragon. How could this be? How could he be gone? 

She turned her gaze back to him, her eyes burning with accusation, “What happened?”

As the question spilled from her lips, a dreadful sensation twisted inside of her–a familiar surge of rage ignited in her chest, clashing violently with the numbing ice that had settled in her heart. Her features twisted into a fierce sneer as she fixed him with a gaze full of fury, seeking answers that would never soothe her pain. “How could you do this?! Why would you do this?!”

Daenera clutched at him with a desperate grasp, her nails digging into the fabric of his shirt as though holding him closer could somehow anchor his presence and replace her pain with comfort. Torn between rage and sorrow, her expression twisted into a sneer marred by the tears streaming down her cheeks. Her voice, caught in a liminal space, was too soft for yelling yet too intense to simply express sadness. 

“Why would you do this?” She asked, her voice raw with disbelief and betrayal. “How could you do this?” Her voice hardened with accusation. “You killed him.”

She watched him swallow, his head turning away from her for a moment, before returning. He looked at her with a tenderness that stung against her skin–his gentleness incongruous, coming from someone who caused her such pain. The inner corner of his eyebrow lifted subtly, his lips parting as he readied himself to speak.

He regarded her with a dreadful softness, his gaze laden with such lovely deference that it cruelly twisted her heart within her chest. This unexpected tenderness sparked an involuntary prickle at her fingertips, stirring a conflicting desire to reach out, to gently cup his face and stroke his cheek.

She despised this sensation, loathed the throbbing of her heart, the tingling in her fingertips, the feel of his collarbone beneath the shirt she clutched so tightly. Torn between the desire to push him away or pull him closer in a clash of conflicting emotions, her hands remained fisted, holding him in place. Yet, when she realized just how close he was, when she saw the look of such deep repentance in his eye that it bordered on mockery, she pushed him away, no longer able to endure his proximity. It felt like the only way to shield herself from the pain he was inflicting, as if the distance could somehow save her. 

The force of her shove knocked him off balance, sending him tumbling backward to land awkwardly on his behind. His hands slapped against the floor to catch himself as he righted his posture, one leg stretched out and the other bent, palms pressed flat against the ground. If it weren’t for the burning shame of it, she might have found him attractive in that moment—if her heart weren’t throbbing with such painful intensity…

“I presented your brother with a choice,” he said, his words cutting sharply through the tense air. His voice was even and soft, the kind a lover might used to whisper sweet nothings. It was all too soft for the words he brought her. “I demanded he put out his eye as payment for mine–that he repay the debt he owed.”

Air rushed out of Daenera’s lungs as she absorbed his words, her heart plummeting to the pit of her stomach. His words descended upon her like a cold blanket of snow, suffocating her with a chilling dread that twisted inside her, threatening to rise up with the bitter bile of utter despair. 

“He refused–”

“He was a child,” Daenera spat out, her head shaking in disbelief, voice trembling. “He was only a child.”

“So was I,” Aemond replied, his voice was firm but lacked its usual sharpness–the underlying rage that Daenera knew simmered just beneath the surface, the same resentment she had encountered before, and the very thing that had undoubtedly gripped him when he had demanded her brother’s eye. This time, however, his tone was eerily calm, unnervingly devoid of the anger she knew was there. “Everyone seems to forget that I, too, was a child when he gouged out my eye.”

The sound that escaped Daenera was something more incredulous and twisted than a mere scoff. “You are a child no longer.”

“Your brother permanently disfigured me. And for years, he has faced no consequences for his actions–years during which the injustice has remained unpunished,” Aemond declared, his voice carrying that note of resentment–a sting that spread across Daenera’s skin like the lick of a flame. “For years, I’ve endured insults and humiliation, years of enduring pain and torment because of what he did… You may think he only took my eye, but he took so much more than that. I wanted him to understand the full extent of what he did to me, and so I demanded his eye in return.”

There was a chilling coldness to Aemond’s tone, as soft as the edge of a blade that had not yet bitten into skin, and yet the softness was vicious in itself as it made his words cut deeper. This subtle ferocity in his voice drove the blade of his words further into Daenera’s heart, each syllable like a whispering slice that left a lasting sting. 

“And that justifies you taking his life?!” Daenera snapped, her voice shrill with disbelief. “He was defending his brother–protecting him from you when you went to cave Jace’s head in with a fucking rock!”

Tears welled up in her eyes, spilling over as her voice quivered with both rage and sorrow, “Did you know he’d sneak into my bed at night, tormented by guilt for cutting out your eye? Even when it was in the defense of his brother?”

Aemond’s face was a mask of impassivity as he absorbed her words, enduring her fury as steadfastly as cliffs withstand the relentless sea. And she thought how much simpler it would be if he were just cruel, if he would sneer at her and pierce her with his biting words as he had done in the past. But he did neither; he offered no sneers, no biting retorts, no cruelty but the gentleness. 

If he wouldn’t be cruel, she would be.

“If only he had aimed lower,” Daenera hissed back. “If only he had slit your throat.”

Her words landed with the force she intended, and she watched as he subtly recoiled, the impact striking his face like a slap, his eye narrowing–the cruelty and bitterness twisting within the cold gleam of the sapphire.

Aemond absorbed her scorn with chilling stoicism–Daenera could see the claws of her words slipping beneath his armor, tearing at his flesh, yet his expression remained cruelly impassive, like a mask carved from porcelain, a mask forged from cold steel. His expression was almost unbearable; she would have preferred him to rage at her, to have his barbed words bite into her skin, to see him unleash the beast she knew lurked within rather than this disconcerting softness that persisted even as her words cut him open.

“I never meant to kill him,” he whispered with such gentleness, the words barely more than a breath, as if spoken in the sacred hush of a sept. Yet they were not in the sept, nor were these words offered to the gods. They were spoken directly to her, with no deity present to bestow mercy, no higher power to appeal to for absolution. It was an admission, a haunting revelation of the truth. 

Daenera stared at him, her eyes ablaze with tears while her heart wrenched painfully inside her chest. Grief gripped her heart with a cruel hand, its claws sinking deep into the soft, pliant tissue, as though he himself was tearing at it, threatening to rip it out completely. She stared at him in utter desolation and disbelief, struggling to fully comprehend his words as his confession reverberated within the hollow chamber of her mind. 

In that moment, he appeared more child than man. His shirt was ruffled, hanging loosely around him–almost falling off one shoulder–to reveal the smooth flesh of his neck and the sharp curve of his collarbone. The expression on his face was open, reflecting more the visage of a broken boy than the monster she imagined him to be. His sapphire eye, no longer cruel but sad, shimmered like the night sky–held the same solemnity of a solitary figure lying bleeding out on a distant battlefield, far from home and utterly alone. 

“I only meant to scare him,” Aemond continued, his voice soft as silk, yet it seemed to encircle Daenera’s neck like a noose. “I wanted him to feel the same fear that I felt when you all ambushed me. I wanted him to feel as scared and powerless as I did when he cut out my eye…”

Hot, scathing tears streamed down her cheeks, spilling over as she contemplated the terror her brother must have felt in his final moments–the very fear Aemond had intended for him. A choked breath escaped her as the pain intensified, feeling as though a blade had been slipped between her ribs. 

He swallowed thickly, his gaze locked on hers, “So, I chased after him. I just wanted him to experience that fear and powerlessness… I never set out to kill him. I didn’t intend to…”

“You… You never meant to kill him…” Daenera echoed, the words struggling to form, as though they fought against being fully realized. She choked on them, choked on the truth–or whatever semblance of truth they held. She choked on his words as if they were poison. She couldn’t decide what was worse–that he had killed her brother, or that he never meant to. That it might have been an accident. 

It was far easier for her to despite the monster of vengeance than it was to accept the notion that it all might have been an accident. How could it truly be an accident when, in some dark corner of intent, the outcome was desired? Was it an unintended consequence, or merely a lie he told himself, a lie he now extended towards her?

“I lost control–Arrax attacked Vhagar–” He began, but her eyes darted toward him, aflame with anger, reflecting a storm of emotions that his words stirred within her. 

“You chased after him,” she spat out, unable to suppress the sneer curling her lips, even if she wanted to, “You pursued him with your dragon. You. What did you think was going to happen?” Her voice trembled with a mix of rage and the grief that threatened to engulf her. “Don’t you dare blame Arrax for trying to protect his rider. He would have sensed his fear…”

Her nails clawed into the fabric of her chemise and the flesh of her thighs as she glared at him fiercely. “I know dragons. I’ve witnessed the bonds they forge with their riders. It was your anger, your resentment that Vhagar reacted to. She would have felt your hatred, and she acted upon it–acted upon your desire for revenge. You didn’t lose control, Aemond, you wanted to kill him. The moment you chose to chase after him, you made your decision.”

Her voice rose as she shoved him, shifting her position, her knees bruising on the cold, unforgiving stone as she let her nails dig into his skin. “You killed him! You did. You wanted him dead. You wanted revenge. And now you’re too much of a coward to admit it–” Her accusations flew like arrows, each word laden with conviction and scorn. 

“Yes!” Aemond erupted with a venom that was all too familiar–that bitter resentment she had seen so many times before. The cruelty in his voice was palpable, each word striking her, burning across her skin as if lashed by a whip. “I wanted him dead–I wanted revenge for what he did to me. I wanted to kill him for it… and I did. I killed him. I am not sorry he is dead–”

If she had allowed it, the sheer heartbreak of his confession would have shattered her so completely that she doubted she could ever piece herself back together. Instead, she allowed the flames of her rage to consume her, feeling it swell within her like a terrible tide. Daenera surged forward, her hand trembling as she gripped the hilt of his dagger. Her knuckles turned white from the strain as she drew the blade from its sheath, the steel hissing in a quiet lamentation. She pressed the cold metal against his throat, its sharp edge lightly teasing his skin, as if eager to taste his blood.

She had wanted his cruelty, desired the sharpness of his claws; she had wanted him to tear into her heart, to rip it apart and reduce everything to ashes, ensuring that nothing could ever grow from its ruin–a complete destruction of the roots he had grown within her, of the blood they had shared. And she had gotten her wish; he had torn her apart, shredded her heart upon his cruelty. 

Her breaths burned in her lungs as she fought against whatever held her back. Her eyes, flickering from his–wide and gentle gaze, almost painfully expectant–to the gleam of the sapphire, a stretch of stars gleaming upon the night sky–the by she was always meant to love… Her had shook as she tried to press the blade deeper into his throat, that savage and cruel part of her awakening–the vengeful darkness that had always lurked within her, thirsting for his blood. 

Her gaze bore into his, laden with the immense weight of grief and loss that felt like a blade stabbing between her ribs, the twisted sensation of love cruelly sharpening the edge as if spilling his blood might spill her own. The blade pressed into his skin, drawing a thin trickle of blood that ran down the pale column of his neck. Daenera struggled against the bonds that restrained her, her fingers trembling as she tried to drive the dagger into his throat–to end everything, to free herself from him, to avenge the brother he killed. 

If she spilled his blood, would it cleanse her of her own sins–the sin of having loved him? The sin of her heart still not realizing what he’s done? 

“You’re a monster,” Daenera hissed at him–as much an insult as it was a reminder for herself. Her free hand clamped down on his shoulder, her nails digging into his flesh as she held him with a fierce, desperate grip as though fearing he’d slip through her fingers. “You’re a fucking kinslayer.”

“I am,” Aemond admitted. He did not resist her; he barely flinched as the accusation hurled at him cut through the air–instead, he sat back, observing her with that dreadful softness. He remained utterly motionless, his head tilted upward so that he could fully face her snarling expression.

Then, she felt it–the soft touch of his hand on her hip, his thumb gently caressing her. How could he be so gentle and yet so utterly heartless? 

The contrast between his tenderness and the monstrous deeds he confessed to twisted inside her, deeping the storm of emotions raging through Daenera. 

“I should fucking cut your throat and be done with you,” Daenera hissed, her voice dripping with venom. “You deserve it. You fucking deserve it.”

“Do it,” he challenged her, his voice a strange blend of daring and resignation. He leaned into the blade as if it offered nothing more than a gentle caress. “Kill me, make a kinslayer of the both of us.”

His words hit Daenera with the force of a slap, jolting her to her core. She bared her teeth at him, struggling against the invisible restraints that kept her from exacting her vengeance–she would slit his throat, she imagined tearing open his chest and ripping out his heart with her bare hands, she would… But then, a terrible, horrifying realization struck her. It crashed upon her like a wave, overwhelming and inescapable, and she recoiled from him. Her scream, raw with agony, pierced the air, clawing its way free from the deepest depths of her grief-stricken heart. This heart, ripped open to reveal the dreadful truth she had long refused to acknowledge, unleashed its pain into the world with a scream as vicious as a blade’s cut and as fierce as a flame. 

How merciless the gods, to unveil such cruel truths at such a time–revealing her heart to belong to a man destined to be her brother’s executioner. Indeed, the gods reveled in their tragedies. 

She wished she possessed the resolve to kill him, to avenge her brother, to rip her own heart out and liberate herself from all that restrained her. Her gaze dropped to the dagger in her hand, the steel catching the flickering light from the flames, and a dark, terrible resolve took root within her. 

With trembling fingers, she clutched the blade tightly and raised it to her own throat, pressing its cold edge against the tender skin he had once kissed. The blade bit into her flesh–then his hand abruptly closed around hers, his grip like a vice of iron, forcibly preventing her from completing the desperate act. 

His expression was one of breathless panic, marred by utter devastation and confusion, shocked that she would even contemplate such action. His brows furrowed incredulously, head shaking in disbelief, seemingly angry at her willingness to spill her own blood.

Daenera seized his wrist, her actions deliberate as she pressed the dagger into his hand, closing his fingers around the hilt. With a resolute push, she guided his hand, forcing the blade against her throat once more, compelling him to hold it there. The blade made contact with her skin, cold and unforgiving; a trickle of blood began its slow descent down her neck.

With the blade pressed against her, a cold murmur crept up her throat, “Murder me like you murdered my brother.”

Aemond stared at her with an expression that was unfamiliar, yet hovered close to fear–the visceral fear one experiences at the thought of losing a loved one, the dread of watching her slip into a realm beyond his reach, accompanied by a devastation that verged on turning into a plea. 

“Go on,” Daenera said flatly, daring him to take action, her voice cold as ice, “murder me like you murdered my brother…”

His head shook slightly, as did his hand, his eye darting between the blade pressed against her skin and her unyielding gaze. 

Her voice rose, “Kill me. You wanted to kill bastards. Slay me as you did my brother, Kinslayer.” Her voice became a desperate yell, shrill like steel against stone. “Murder me like you murdered my brother!”

“I can’t!” Aemond hissed, his voice rising towards a scream as his face contorted with an unbearable anguish–a semblance of something torn from his soul. “I can’t! Don’t you see?” His voice fractured, breaking under the strain as his expression twisted in agony. His voice fell to a murmur, a tortured whisper carrying the weight of his confession: “I love you.”

The impact of Aemond’s confession struck Daenera with the same devastating force as she had used to shatter the mirrors. She felt her heart fragment and splinter tino something unrecognizable. Staring at him, her breath caught in her throat; her head shook subtly, disbelief etching her furrowed brows. How could he say those words to her? How could he tear her apart, destroy her very soul, and then claim love? How could he take her brother’s life and still speak of love? These questions echoed in her mind, each one a piercing howl of betrayal and confusion. How? How could he?

“Daenera,” he uttered her name with a desperate plea, “Please, let go of the blade…”

A trickle of blood seared a path down her neck, igniting something cruel within the remnants of her heart. This sensation grew into a cold, devastating fire that blazed through her chest, curling up her throat and manifesting as a sneer on her lips, words as biting as the blade at her neck, “Kill me now, Aemond. Or I swear to you, I will take from you that which you have taken from me.”

Her eyes burned as she locked gazes with Aemond, searching his face intently. She thought she caught a flicker of contemplation across his features, his grip on the blade appearing to tighten, a tremor traveling up the steel as it grazed her skin–a touch almost cruel in its caress. His eye widened, burned like a funeral pyre, something vicious stirring within him, and for a moment, she believed he might actually do it–might slit her throat and free himself from whatever she meant to him, from the threat she was. 

Yet, he remained motionless, caught in a terrible stillness as though the world had dropped away into nothing. He did not let the blade dig deeper into her throat–and in that moment, she realized that he, too, was bound by the same invisible tethers that had stayed her own hand, that he, too, was captive to the same twisted sort of love she harbored. 

He loved her, she realized with a piercing clarity that was as devastating as it was true. Even as he had confessed it, the sheer impact of understanding his feelings hit her anew. How could he possibly love her when his heart was no heart at all, but a rotten, monstrous thing, festering with hatred? It was cruel, his declaration, like slipping a blade between her ribs and twisting it, all while professing his love. 

Once, such admission might have sparked joy in her; she might have kissed him on his terribly sharp lips, tasted the bitter stain of love on them, and lost herself in the moment, forgetting the lethal threat his love posed to her heart in exchange for the softness of his caress.

He loved her, and the realization was profoundly terrible.

The gods were mocking her, she thought bitterly, to be loved by the very man who had murdered her brother. How viciously cruel fate seemed. 

A surge of spite twisted within the ruins that were her heart, burning and writhing like a living thing. He loved her. He desired her. And yet, how utterly cruel would it be for him to have her blood on his hands as well? Her grip on his hand tightened, pressing the blade closer, letting its sharp edge bite deeper into her skin. She would haunt him, she thought. She would become an inescapable ghost in the back of his mind. 

With a cold intensity she said, “It would be a mercy, wouldn’t it? What’s a little more blood on your hands?”

But he had always been merciless and terribly selfish. 

With a sneer curling his lips, Aemond wrenched himself away from her, forcefully pulling the blade from her. As he did, the blade grazed her skin further, leaving a searing trail of pain along her neck. She felt the heart of it as it trickled down the column of her neck, soaking into the fabric of her chemise. 

The blade clattered harshly against the cold stone, forcefully pinned down by Aemond’s hand as he leaned back, holding himself upright. His expression, a complex mixture of intense fury and profound dejection, was tightly drawn as he stared at her, his breaths short and rapid. 

Daenera let out a humorless, biting scoff, a surge of betrayal piercing her heart. He couldn’t even extend the simple, solemn kindness of mercy. 

“I will make you regret this,” Daenera declared coldly, her voice cutting through the silence. Her words were more than a promise; they were a grim vow, each word laced with venom and a finality that left no room for doubt. She had once spoken similar words to him, but now, they resonated with a steely resolve born from the depths of her pain. “I will make you regret letting me live. I will take from you that which you’ve taken from me.”

Her gaze bore into him, seeking a crack in the facade he presented, something to tell her that her words had struck true. 

His response came chillingly simple, a single phrase that echoed through the room with the weight of inevitability. “I know.”

The words hung in the air, reverberating off the cold stone walls, and for a moment, it felt as if the very castle held its breath. Aemond’s face remained inscrutable–a cold fury settled upon his features–his eye unwavering as he met her gaze with an almost calmness that belied whatever storm that ravaged within him. 

There was no plea for forgiveness, no attempt at justification–just a stark acknowledgement of the dark path that lay ahead for both of them. 

As the flames in the hearth cracked and sputtered with a feverish intensity, Daenera’s heart pounded within her chest with a relentless, punishing rhythm. The cold despair she had kept at bay with her rage now crept upon her with an icy embrace, threatening to engulf her entirely. She turned her gaze to the fire, feeling the heat radiate upon her, warming her cold skin and battling against the ice that threatened to seep into her veins. The bitter sting of betrayal prickled at her heart, a blade driven between her ribs, each beat driving the blade deeper, more devastatingly into the tender muscle–alive with self-destruction. 

It wasn’t merely his betrayal that wounded her; it was the betrayal of her own heart. 

She cursed herself for the weakness that stayed her hand, the hesitation that prevented her from delivering justice in the form of a dagger to his throat. If it had been anyone else, she would have carried out the act without remorse–without a moment’s hesitation, without that awful, cloying feeling of her heart being torn from her chest. But it was not just anyone; it was Aemond, the man she had once believed she knew–the boy with the stars in his eyes, the flame to her own, and the man who had killed her brother in an act of vengeance. 

Unable to bear the sight of him any longer, Daenera turned away, her gaze averted from the face that once held familiarity. The mask he now wore was a chilling reminder of who he was and what he was capable of, as cold and unforgiving as the bite of the blade had been.

The room felt oppressive, the air thick with the weight of her motions. Each crackle and pop of the flames seemed to mock her pain, illuminating the truth that had shattered her world. She could feel Aemond’s gaze on her, a heavy presence she refused to acknowledge. 

The bitter taste of disillusion clung to her tongue, a profound sense of loss settling over her like a shroud. An overwhelming emptiness loomed, threatening to consume her entirely as it gnawed at the fringes of her mind. Hugging her knees tightly to her chest, she sought some semblance of comfort as her eyes remained fixated on the flames before her, the fire’s warmth unable to penetrate the desolation that enveloped her. 

“I loved you too,” Daenera admitted, her voice raw and strained, laden with anguish that seemed to echo off the cold stone walls around her. “I loved you. How terrible is that?” She swallowed hard, fighting back the tears that threatened to drown her. “I hate myself for loving you. I wish I didn’t…”

Her vision blurred, the flames before her a distorted dance beneath a watery veil. “You made me love you, and you killed my brother… And still, there’s some terrible part of it that loves you, as if it’s yet to understand what you’ve done…” 

Tears spilled over, searing tracks down her cheeks, and she fought the urge to claw her eyes out just to make it stop, as though it would save her from the misery of heartache. 

“What does that make me? To still love the man who murdered my brother? Does that make me a monster too, or just a fool–a stupid, naive fool?” She asked with a near scoff, her tone teetering on the edge of something broken and hysterical. “You are a kinslayer… And I…”

They had been doomed from the start. Daenera knew it, but she had been too much of a fool to heed her own judgment. It would always have ended like this, she thought bitterly. How terrible it was, to foresee the end and still walk the path leading to it. Had it ever truly been her choice, or had it been destined from the beginning–destined all those years ago when she paid the witch with her blood? He was the boy with the stars in his eyes, the one she was meant to love–and how terrible that love was. 

Her heart strained within her chest, its rhythm irregular and erratic, sending painful jolts throughout her body. Each pang of agony only emphasized the depth of her love for him. It seemed to pierce her very soul, and she realized that in the attempt to wound him with her words, she had only cut herself more open on their sharp edges.

It was not merely desire or fleeting affection; it was love in its rawest and most devastating form. The weight of it was both awful and horrifying, a torment that threatened to consume her entirely. Deep down, she had always known the truth, even from the moment they had marked their palms and exchanged bloody vows, sealing their fates together. Love had silently woven its thread around their lives. 

“You didn’t even have the courage to tell me yourself–to face me as you ripped my heart to pieces with your vengeance,” Daenera muttered, her voice a broken accusation. The bitterness in her tone was palpable, each word a dagger aimed at the empty space where his heart should have been. 

“I meant to grant you one more night with your brother still alive,” Aemond responded, his voice raw yet strangely composed. As Daenera looked up at him, she saw that he had assumed that cold and collected mask–made of cold, unyielding steel. Was there ever a man beneath that mask or had he always been a monster?

“What you meant doesn’t mean anything,” Daenera said coolly, dragging her eyes back to the flames. “It doesn’t matter now. The only thing that matters is what you’ve done… You are a coward… And I, the fool that loved you.”

Drawing in a sharp breath, she tightened her arms around her knees. Her fragile form huddled as if to shield herself from the pain threatening to unravel her. Like a flower folding in on itself at night, she buried her face in her knees, closing herself off from the world.

The room felt even colder, the silence heavy and oppressive. Each breath she took was a struggle, her chest tightening with the weight of her sorrow and despair. She wished she could disappear into herself, vanish from the agony that consumed her. Her mind was a whirlwind of memories and emotions, each one cutting deeper than the last. The image of his face, the sound of his voice, the warmth of his touch–each recollection was a torment, a reminder of what she had lost in his betrayal. And worse yet, were the memories of her brother, his wide grin and dark curls, the way he sought her out when he needed comfort, how excited he had been to fly with her.

Daenera felt as if she were dissolving into her grief, her sense of self slipping away. The love that had once filled her heart now felt like a curse, a cruel twist of fate that had left her broken and hollow. 

“Let the maester tend to your wounds,” Aemond murmured, his voice gentle and even, yet each word tugged painfully at her heart. She listened to the sound of his footfalls fading as he exited the room, each step echoing the growing distance between them. 

And she remained before the heart, lost to sorrow and despair, her heart a shattered vessel incapable of holding anything but the remnants of a love that had destroyed her and the memories of a brother that was lost to her.

**hyacinth - Grief and Sorrow I must admit, I struggled a lot with this scene. The original scene is vastly different from this one--Aemond was very, very cruel in that one, leaning into the whole monster thing and just taking out all his rage on her, and I couldn't see a way back from it if I had stuck with that scene, so instead you get this. Aemond might be a bit passive in this, but he's fighting to hold it all together and face the way she looks at him, and he's trying to be honest and gentle as he breaks her heart. And Daenera is just lashing out--rightfully so. How awful it took this sort of devastation for her heart to truly reveal itself--to finally realize and admit that what they had was love now that they stand amongst the ruins of it. And how she still feels love for him, because her heart hasn't fully caught up with her mind yet. And the reason she admits it, is just to further drive the knife into HIS heart, because she knows he's longed to hear it, and she wants him to feel its touch before taking it from him, ya know?

[melis-writes]

Eyes like Stars [Bobby Axel x Reader Multi-chapter, 18+ Smut] Chapter 16 - Only if it's With You.

Read on AO3 / Read Chapter 15 [AO3] / [Tumblr] / Chapter Masterlist. / Fic Playlist.

18+, explicit smut, multi-chapter read.

"You’re my relief, you know that?" / "Maybe Lindsey’s only jealous because Bobby has a new girl, eh?"

The root of Bobby's pain, anger and numbness comes from his childhood as he reveals to you his past, growing up unloved at home with Hank, getting mixed up in the streets and becoming who Bobby is today. Bobby's out of your reach to fix, but he's all you have and want to know. Talk about leaving Needle Park and getting clean remains just that–"talk" and nothing more. Reverting to your old ways with Bobby without hesitation is like second nature to the both of you and the lust doesn't stop there. Bobby knows how to put on a show even in front of everyone else, and with his ex-girlfriend's jealous eyes looming over the both of you, the two of you fuck in front of your own friends and completely lose sense of everything else.

[SUGGESTIONS]: Bobby becomes possessive over Emily from Hank's behavior.

[WARNINGS]: Mentions & depictions of: child neglect / verbal abuse + domestic disputes / prostitution / marijuana use and selling / impoverished upbringing / Heroin preparation & use / Depictions & themes of highs and withdrawals / Semi-public sex / Rough sex.

[AUTHOR'S NOTE]: Chapter 16 is finally here!! 😩 I've been meaning to update this fic sooner (since we haven't had an update since early August 😭) but everything's gotten so busy both in life and with the release of my other new fics! Bobby baby is back and he's here. 🥺❤ This chapter heavily focuses on Bobby's childhood and how he grew up. It's not canon of course as the film only gives away very little about Bobby's homelife/childhood and the major AU notice is that Bobby somewhat mentions his mother is more overprotective/clingy in the film and well...you'll find it to be the opposite in this fic. 💔 Other than that, what's the harm in having your new pastime be fucking your girlfriend in your friend's kitchen because the both of you couldn't wait until you got home? 🥵🥵

Bobby’s release from prison marks the end of his and Helen’s relationship and you find yourself spending more time with Bobby and taking care of him after everything he’s been through. Working and living in Manhattan as a college drop-out, you distance yourself from Helen who Bobby and you take solace with one another in hopes to get out of the toxic lifestyle of drug use—promising each other to start a new life with one another and get clean. Falling in love with Bobby, you experience a mutual, passionate and loving relationship with its own highs and lows that promises to bloom into something more serious but also can threaten to collapse. As Bobby’s new girlfriend, your relationship hangs on a thread with old skeletons coming back into Bobby’s life, relapses, and a new panic on the horizon that threatens to undo it all.

Snuggled up within Bobby’s embrace you feel his firm arms keeping you safe and close to him—the warmth and comfort of your boyfriend’s body; the afterglow of making love giving way to an intimate silence that speaks more than any words could say.

Raising your head up from Bobby’s chest, you gaze up at your half-awake boyfriend; his messy, bird nest-like hair, his pouty full lips still glistening from the wet kiss you two shared moments ago and his hooded eyes lazily keeping eye contact with you—expecting your next words.

“I love you,” you murmur up to Bobby, lacing your free hand with him on the bed. “You know that?”

“I love you too,” Bobby doesn’t take a moment longer to answer, but his eyes begin to fill with a sadness he wishes to push away almost immediately. “But I know where you’re going with this, baby.”

“No,” you frown at him, “Bobby, please… You know there’s nothing wrong; not with you, not with us.”

“Stop,” Bobby mutters under his breath, “you know I’m a fuckup, Em. You can’t justify that.”

“You can call yourself that as much as you want,” you squeeze Bobby’s hand tightly, “it’s not going to make it true. There’s nothing about you I see as a flaw or don’t want, but—”

“But?” Bobby raises his brows at you. “But what then?”

“But I want to know where we went wrong so fast, so I can fix it.” You breathe, “I just want to fix it.”

Bobby stares into your eyes for a moment as if he’s choosing to believe you and pondering his next words at the same time but denial sinks into his expression. “There’s nothing you can do anymore.”

“Why?” You’re almost shocked to hear Bobby’s nonchalant answer.

“Everything’s been wrong for as long as I can remember.” Bobby takes his eyes off of you for just a moment to look at your hand held in his. “But that never had anything to do with you. You’re my relief, you know that? It’s not like this out on the streets.”

You blush at Bobby’s words, kissing over his knuckles. “You know the streets better than anyone else, but for all the wrong reasons.”

“You have no idea, baby.” Bobby lets out a deep exhale, nodding at you. “For the longest time, the streets were my home.” 

Still seeing the lasting frown over your lips, Bobby caresses your cheek with the side of his hand gingerly, murmuring in a soft voice, “s’okay baby, it’s okay. Y’know all of this happened much too long ago to bother mentionin’. Don’t worry about it, angel.”

Twenty-seven years old now, Bobby was born on January 30th, 1944 in Manhattan. His mother worked as a waitress at a local burger joint—the last of her on and off retail and fast food jobs since she dropped out of high school and Bobby’s father had been a janitor his whole life.

Bobby’s parents were born and raised in Manhattan too but moved around several times when Bobby was just a toddler as his father found a variety of better-paying cleaning jobs in various parts of Manhattan until Bobby’s family finally settled for their last, small apartment when he was ten years old.

Due to moving around so much throughout his childhood, Bobby didn’t know any of the neighborhoods he lived in very well but nobody had the money or right to complain about it either.

Bobby’s family went wherever the money went and Bobby admired his father’s work ethic and insistence to put food on the table, even if it meant hours of mindless apartment searching through newspapers.

Moving around all over Manhattan also meant Bobby didn’t have any steady or long-term friends except for his brother Hank who was fourteen at the time right up until both boys settled in the last neighborhood they’d spend years to come in.

Bobby remembered even back then when he looked out the window to see a moving truck parking up in front of the apartment and when Hank came up to him, patted Bobby’s shoulder, and told him, “this is gonna be home for a long time, kid.” Bobby believed Hank.

Once Bobby and his family were fully moved in and settled, the first thing Bobby decided to do was get used to the neighborhood and begin to memorize the block. 

Bobby explored around as much as he could in his free time—before and after school. He found shortcuts to and from home, long ways to get around different places, and it wasn’t long until Hank stopped walking Bobby to school every morning once Bobby learned the route, meaning he would be left alone.

It wasn’t hard for the kids who lived in Bobby’s neighborhood to gain interest in Bobby. Bobby was able to easily make friends due to his sense of humor and vibrant, charismatic personality—things Bobby carried onto his adulthood one way or another.

Bobby could make a kid cry his eyes out burst into laughter for minutes on end, and it was because of who Bobby was and the friendship he offered to the kids in his neighborhood that many looked up to him on the street.

Bobby already knew these kids he was hanging out with and becoming friends with didn’t have much of a home life like him; many had parents who were barely around, single parents, surrounded by chronic illness, drug addiction within the family, prostitutes, and pimp parents—the list of tragic lifestyles went on and on.

The environment Bobby and these kids grew up in was far from healthy and safe, but it was all they had. 

Bobby still had a home to go to, an older brother, and friends he could always rely on. He didn’t want anything else as a kid.

Bobby’s relationship with his older brother Hank was as good as it could get between brothers. Hank was not only Bobby’s older brother but acted the part both responsibly.

Bobby and Hank’s parents could care less if Hank was making his younger brother’s life a living hell or creating power dynamics in the house, but Hank loved his little brother to death and it would only take a stray tear coming out of Bobby’s eye for Hank to beat dozens more out of whoever caused his brother pain.

At the same time though, Hank had his own interesting set of values and morals so if Bobby had provoked a fight or something first without good reason or cause, then Hank wouldn’t mind sitting there and watching his brother get beat to a pulp. 

That was the kind of brotherly love Bobby and Hank had for one another, but there wasn’t exactly anything admirable about Hank, to begin with, so Bobby didn’t look up to his older brother at all.

Both of Bobby’s parents made minimum wage at their jobs. Bobby’s mother purposefully used her sex appeal to earn more tips from customers at work and then split the tips she earned in half to give as an allowance to Bobby and Hank; the two never saw any other kind of money.

Bobby’s family barely had any money to spare after paying rent, bills, and groceries, so any money that Bobby’s parents didn’t have left over was set aside for emergency funds.

This was just the way of life that Bobby and Hank came to understand at a young age; Bobby’s father warned his boys time and time again that if one bad thing came to topple them over and they didn’t have the funds for it, the family could be out on the street in no time.

Bobby generally lived an unstable life with his family, but it was the life everyone else in that neighborhood lived too.

The allowance Bobby received was no different from Hank’s which didn’t fail to piss Hank off at the very beginning, despite being four years older than Bobby.

Bobby and Hank had enough allowance every two weeks to go to the store, buy one ice cream cone, a small bag of candy, and a pack of gum—nothing more. 

They could save their allowance to buy tastier and better candies, but as kids, they were far too excited to spend their allowance the moment they got it to save it for something else instead.

Bobby learned practically everything he knew through observing; he was always a visual learner. 

The first thing he learned was whatever his parents did in front of him and in the house. Bobby observed how his parents both hated their jobs and working in general, but forced themselves to do it for the sake of feeding the family.

In a way, Bobby was practically taught to be very appreciative of all his parents were doing, but at the same time, it seemed to both Bobby and Hank that their parents resented them when it came to doing the bare minimum, like buying them new clothing or shoes because Bobby and Hank wore the same outfits and pairs until there were holes in them or they fell apart and couldn’t be sewn together to be worn again.

Bobby also learned there was no love between his parents; no kisses, no hugs, zero affection, and only small talk. 

Bobby’s mother and father sat apart on couches and on the edge of their bed. Not once did Bobby even see them lovingly gaze at one another. Instead, his parents spoke to one another like coworkers instead of husband and wife, and their lack of affection for one another also meant the same to their children.

Bobby and Hank weren’t hugged or kissed as children, let alone tucked in or put to bed even when they fell asleep on the couch as toddlers. 

If Bobby and Hank woke up late for school or not at all, there was a very high chance their parents wouldn’t care about that either.

The only kind of affection Bobby received was friendly hugs from the kids he played without on the streets and as a result, Bobby learned that friends gave you love and affection but your parents didn’t do that.

It was then and there at such a young age that Bobby didn’t and couldn’t know what healthy love was because he didn’t know anything about love at all.

This would result in a deep, depressing yearning inside of Bobby to haunt him throughout his adulthood to feel wanted, loved, and adored. If Bobby found such love in the future, without a doubt he would be emotionally attached to it especially due to the lack of any healthy, proper role model or figure in his life.

Bobby could remember what he called “the bad days” and why; it had nothing to do with him or Hank, but that Bobby’s mother wouldn’t make as many tips as she anticipated or a customer dined and dashed which sometimes meant her tips and pay would be docked.

“Bad days” for Bobby’s father meant that the client he was cleaning for wouldn’t like the work he’d done and make him stay overtime with his pay cut or no pay.

Any kind of these “bad days” resulted in Bobby’s parents arguing and fighting with no regard for who was around or heard. 

If Bobby or Hank ever spoke up or tried to interrupt, their parents would only yell at them in return.

The worst of the arguments and fights would cause screaming and shouting at one another to echo through the walls of Bobby and Hank’s bedroom.

As a heavy sleeper, Hank would always get through nights like that but Bobby would be too scared to even close his eyes; Bobby feared his parents might hit and hurt each other.

Bobby’s parents never did get physical with each other but were adamant about verbally abusing one another, hence why Bobby learned many colorful curse words when he was just a child as well as how he could use those words to hurt others or to be hurt by them.

Whenever Bobby’s parents fought, Bobby’s initial instinct was to avoid being in the room the argument or fight was going on at all costs.

Bobby would distract himself with just about anything—even go outside so he wouldn’t hear the bickering if he had to, but otherwise, whatever Bobby did, he’d still hear all of the fighting and arguing.

Something new was said or argued about almost every single time so Bobby couldn’t drown it out as Hank could, offering advice like; “relax and ignore them” and “they’ll never change, you don’t have to listen to their shit”.

Throughout Bobby’s childhood, he was never bullied. The kids he grew up with were too scrawny, too depressed, experiencing the burden of all the consequences their parents’ poor actions led to, to get on some ego streak and make some other kid’s life more miserable than it already was.

Bobby may have purposefully leered and intimidated kids visiting from other neighborhoods to fuck off so they’d avoid coming to their park and hangout spots because Bobby felt he owned his neighborhood with all of his friends by his side.

As Bobby grew into his teenage years, the way he and the kids in the neighborhood coped was no longer the same; hanging out at the park, joking about their frustrations, and avoiding home. 

There was a new way to cope and a local perverted dealer who moved in on the block sold stolen cigarettes at ridiculously cheap prices to kids just so he could get a good look at them.

The kids who bought the cheap cigarettes used some and sold them to others for a little more to make some profit and at the age of fifteen, Bobby was regularly smoking any cigarettes he could get his hands on.

Everyone who “fit in” in Bobby’s neighborhood smoked and anyone else who didn’t have anything to do with those types anymore. 

Bobby was quick to take over the second-hand cigarette selling business like he was running an operation. 

At the same time, nothing changed in Bobby and Hank’s life at home and their parents didn’t know any of this was ongoing either, but then again they didn’t know anything about their sons.

The meager allowance Bobby and Hank were given wasn’t nearly ever enough to make up for the lack of affection and healthy parenting they never received growing up; cheap ice cream from the convenience store wouldn’t help Bobby ignore his parents' fighting, and it was only the buzz from Bobby’s nicotine addiction that fought the sleepless nights he had for so many years. 

In truth, Bobby was no longer worried about what would happen to him and Hank or his parents. If Bobby’s parents were going to tear themselves apart, then by all means it would be fine on Bobby’s behalf—he’d say they had it coming for years.

Bobby and Hank always expected their parents to divorce but they also came to the quick realization that if they just didn’t get involved in their parents’ fighting that other than hearing the heinous things they were saying to one another, it wouldn’t really affect Bobby or Hank in any other way.

If it was one thing Bobby learned about his parents arguing and fighting was: “how the fuck can someone argue about the same shit for years on end?” Not him, that was for sure.

Something Bobby didn’t realize that was an impact of his poor home life was the fact he continued to lose more and more of his appetite as the years went on, growing skinnier and he already had a lanky disposition, to begin with; he was beginning to resemble the other kids on the block more and more—helpless to the change.

As the years went on and Bobby and Hank matured into teenagers, the fighting with their parents escalated to almost physical heights but was mended by a decision by Bobby’s parents that they needed to be apart one way or another to avoid physically abusing one another.

During that time of turmoil, Hank got a part-time job at a local mechanic shop and came home after eight PM once he graduated high school.

The reality was that Hank’s work ended much earlier but he preferred to spend the rest of his day out on the street with his friends, smoking weed and half-assing whatever other responsibilities he had to do at home when he got there, then slept his high off.

Bobby came home after school straight away because unlike Hank, he didn’t have any friends or worthwhile things to do there. 

Bobby and Hank attended different schools growing up and Bobby was just surrounded by rich, preppy kids he couldn’t relate to so he never bothered to reach out and make friends with those who would never understand him.

There was nothing else for Bobby to do in high school besides attending class and disappointing his teachers, and his parents didn’t care whether Bobby did his homework or got decent grades at all.

Bobby’s only influence—and not at all positive or healthy—was his older brother Hank, and it wasn’t long until Bobby got into the habit of smoking weed because of Hank.

What Bobby didn’t realize at the time was that his own brother was his very first bad influence; Bobby’s parents were too absent and emotionally unavailable to be an influence of any kind to him in the first place.

After six months of continuously smoking cigarettes and marijuana, Bobby was already seeing kids lining up on the block to get a joint or buy a cheap pack—even financing it with their allowance just to get a taste and when some kids wouldn’t pay up their share, Bobby and Hank would either scare the rest of the money out of them or beat it out of them. The latter was Hank’s idea, of course.

It was only because fists were flying that Bobby and Hank’s parents finally began to catch wind of what was really going on.

As a result of discovering their sons had not only been addicted to nicotine and marijuana but that they were also selling it around the neighborhood, Bobby’s parents not only stopped giving him and Hank an allowance, but also kicked Hank out of the house entirely.

Bobby remembered that point in his life may have just been the first time his parents directly intervened in the destructive lifestyle he and Hank called home, but their reaction was too late and also overkill kicking Hank out of the house; at the end of the day, it was too late for Bobby and Hank’s parents to ever come close to salvaging what they did to their kids with years of neglect and letting them witness abuse.

After Hank was kicked out of the house, the fighting between Bobby’s parents doubled and Bobby had always assumed Hank’s absence may have been a reason why—after all, a few fights had stemmed directly because of it before.

Bobby caught on quickly that it was mostly his mother’s idea to kick Hank out, but she also regretted her decision deeply and Bobby saw her crying and smoking on the balcony over it.

Hank being kicked out and never even bothering to write, call or visit had left a special kind of pain in Bobby’s family, but even that didn’t last long. Bobby’s parents would always find something new to argue about for the rest of their lives.

To Bobby, it no longer mattered when, how, and why his parents fought. It made no difference to him to see his parents fighting. The only difference was Bobby’s age, and when he was a little kid, Bobby had more love and hope inside of him that the fighting would stop.

As a child, Bobby made crayon drawings of his family smiling, holding hands, and being happy then hung them up on his bedroom wall. He would stare at the drawings when his parents fought until he fell asleep, sometimes crying while doing so.

For the majority of Bobby’s childhood, he either abused cigarettes or slept to get ignore the world around him. After all, nicotine would give him a nice buzz and relax Bobby’s nerves, and a nap even with obscure, random dreams was better than reality any day.

Even throughout Bobby’s teenage years, napping became somewhat of a coping method right up until Bobby slept through his own dad leaving too—two years after Hank was kicked out.

When Bobby woke, he realized his father had left for good—not just to cool off after a fight like he usually did. Bobby’s father never said goodbye to Bobby either, leaving Bobby alone with his mother at home.

It was true Bobby’s parents began to hate each other more once Hank was gone but Bobby’s father leaving the family without a look back over his shoulder or even divorce papers served meant Bobby’s mother would never emotionally recover from everything.

Instead of getting therapy, spending time with her friends, or doing anything to move on, Bobby’s mother decided to take all of her feelings and frustrations out on Bobby in any way she could whenever she felt like it.

Bobby knew he wasn’t to blame for everything his mother threw at him and it wasn’t like Bobby had more of a tolerance for his mother’s abusive patterns of behavior than Hank or his father did.

After Bobby’s father left, nobody could tell Bobby what to say or do anymore. Whenever Bobby came home from school, all he did was sleep before he spent his entire day elsewhere and outside.

Sometimes to even avoid seeing his mother and listening to her rants, Bobby would piss outside if he could; he was maturing as a young man and didn’t need anything from home, especially since he was getting a generous amount of attention from girls in the neighborhood.

Bobby had already made quite a name for himself when he was nine years old, stealing condoms from a convenience store for Hank which set up a real reputation for him out on the street.

Instead of Bobby’s parents finding out their nine-year-old son stole something, the owner of the convenience store decided the better and more fitting punishment was to beat Bobby with a belt in his very own store.

Once Bobby graduated high school (and just barely passed with his poor grades), Bobby’s mother would have liked to say she out of anger kicked Bobby out of the house too for being useless and barely present, but Bobby actually left home himself—just like his father.

Bobby weighed the pros and cons of being at home with his mother and there wasn’t a single advantage to be gained. Bobby had other places he could stay and sleep; other people and friends were always willing to let him stay with them because Bobby was a guy who could be trusted and he was well-liked.

More girls than Bobby could count wanted to be in his presence too so Bobb always had a warm, clean bed to sleep in; why should Bobby stay home and continue to get verbally abused by his mother after all? The streets provided more love and opportunity for Bobby than anything else had to him his whole life.

The streets of New York paid for everything and they also raised Bobby; taught him how to hustle and be selfish to keep his own ass alive. 

Bobby was already very much aware at a young age that he hated his mother and father because they never showed him love and after Hank and Bobby’s father left, Bobby’s mother expected Bobby to fill both Hank and his father’s shoes and provide for her when she had never done an inkling of such for him.

Bobby didn’t know his mother had a mental breakdown when he left, and Bobby didn’t care either. Even if someone showed him a photograph of his mother weeping and letting her emotions eat her alive, Bobby wouldn’t give a shit.

Bobby hated his mother but his anger was only hot like coals for the first year after he left home. Bobby forgot about his family life a year after and was relieved when the anger he kept bottled up inside of him as a kid faded over time too. 

It wasn’t long until the streets of Upper West Side Manhattan reunited Bobby and Hank together, so the two brothers linked up stayed in the same temporary homes and places, fucked the same girls, smoked the same weed, and so forth.

In truth, Bobby’s family was broken from the very beginning and only continued to splinter out, but the brotherly bond between Bobby and Hank was never damaged. 

Bobby’s descent into actual crime was another story altogether. Although Bobby did steal condoms at the age of nine, he also stole and sold cigarettes illegally.

Once Bobby got his hands on marijuana, he secretly grew it in other people’s gardens without them even knowing or the basements of places he got to stay in. Bobby knew practically everything he did to make a buck was illegal, but he didn’t give a shit.

In his young adulthood, Bobby wanted and needed a thicker wad of cash in his wallet. As a result, Bobby began selling weed and pills he found and stole for a high value but the street accepted it; Bobby was known for selling the “real dynamite stuff” or “the real goods” so every extra penny was worth it for an intense, longer high with less of the nasty withdrawals felt afterward.

Bobby himself continued to use marijuana and chip on pills now and then, but he made sure to stay clear of developing a full-blown addiction. After all, the people around him taking and buying the stuff from him were throwing it up and getting sick from their addictions.

Bobby was such a sweet talker when it came to his deals and making money that he could convince a billionaire to give him their entire net worth. Bobby never had trouble negotiating and making deals; he had the best shit in town you couldn’t find anywhere else.

Those were the days that the streets and everyone in it who knew Bobby was his family now. Everyone got paid, and everyone was happy, but heroin wasn’t involved back then.

Where Bobby lived with Hank, there weren’t any “real” junkies or narcos like Hotch to ruin the fun and force someone to rat somebody else out.

Bobby thought it would always be this way forever—always this easy, and that the life he lived in his early twenties was the best days of his life, but Bobby was simply far from it.

~

[ Present Day, Next Morning ]

Throughout the crowd in Upper West Side Manhattan, Bobby and you make your way down the block and to the grocery store just down the street—hand in hand as a couple, finally starting off your day.

Bobby wears his favorite black, bomber jacket with a long-sleeved navy shirt underneath, black flared jeans, scuffed sneakers, and his yellow patterned bandana tied over his messy, ruffled hair. 

You’re dressed in a pair of navy jeans, a light button-up blouse with a wool cardigan over top—all snug and cozy as you walk up to the front entrance of the grocery store with your boyfriend with the intention of picking up some fresh fruits and vegetables.

Just as you and Bobby approach a supermarket, confusion hits Bobby to see you leading him directly to it instead of down to the cheaper convenience stores just nearby like he believes you were both going to go to in the first place.

“Uh—” Bobby abruptly stops in his tracks, continuing to hold your hand and pointing up at the supermarket’s entrance with the other. “You wanna go in here?”

You blink at Bobby in momentary confusion, wondering if he’s forgotten why you two even stepped outside after breakfast in the first place. “Of course, baby. We’re going to pick up a few groceries, remember?”

“Yeah, I know that, but—” Bobby cuts himself off, pointing down to Bert’s grimy convenience store just around the corner. “Thought we were goin’ in there.”

“Eugh, please.” You fake gag, “no way—not unless Bert’s decided to run a fresh farmer’s market in there. Come on, the supermarket has what we need.”

“Are you sure?” Bobby stares at you for confirmation, having never been inside of a full-fledged grocery store in his entire life.

“Why would I be?” Your confusion doubles. 

“Uhhhh…” Bobby’s eyes curiously roam all over the front of the supermarket, barely being able to see inside but already overwhelmed by hundreds of fresh and what he considers very expensive products seemingly staring back at him through the windows. “It’s just expensive, baby.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” you giggle, amused by Bobby’s comment. “Not a fan of these big grocery store chains?”

Bobby shrugs sheepishly as you lead forward again; he follows you inside timidly. “I uhhh—I just never been in one of these places before, you know?”

‘He’s never been to a grocery store before?’ You grasp your hand over an empty grocery cart before turning to stare at Bobby in utter shock once again. 

“Actually?” You ask quietly, feeling a familiar sadness swelling in your heart again for Bobby.

Bobby nods, gesturing around the grocery store aimlessly. “Well, yeah, baby,” he chuckles, “parents never took me or Hank and I’ve never had the money to afford anythin’ in here, ya know?”

“Proves why you weren’t eating so good,” you pout, rubbing Bobby’s arm up and down gingerly while keeping your free hand on the handle of a shopping cart. “Eating all that processed junk out of cans and street sandwiches.”

“Because it’s cheap,” Bobby points out with a grin growing over his lips. “Very, very cheap.”

“Just like skipping breakfast and dinner?” You shake your head at Bobby, pushing the shopping cart in front of you. “No more of that, you can guarantee it.”

“S’okay now because my girl feeds me.” Bobby picks up his pace, skipping alongside the grocery cart. “Right?”

“Right,” you can’t help but crack a smile back at your boyfriend only to see how Bobby’s eyes light up at the shopping cart you steer. 

“Can I push it?” Bobby asks. “This is the first time I’ve seen one of these things intact—ya know, not thrown into a lake or smashed into two in some alleyway.”

“Be my guest,” you let out a soft laugh, pulling your hands off of the cart.

“Where to, ma’am?” Bobby places both hands over the cart’s handle, ready to steer and push it around.

“Hmm, how about we start off by getting some fresh vegetables first?” You suggest, looking up to see the aisle numbers. 

“Terrific.” More than ecstatic to join you on his very first shopping trip, Bobby happily drives the shopping cart behind you as you lead him to the fresh produce aisle to stock up for the week.

Just before you stop to pick up some fresh bell peppers, you glance back over your shoulder to see Bobby beaming back at you—just happy to be there, supporting you and pushing the cart even though Bobby doesn’t recognize half of the vegetables or names of the fruits there. 

~

About forty-five minutes worth of grocery shopping together later, you and Bobby return home directly afterward to stock up the fridge and unpack the groceries—making conversation with one another over all of the things you thought you’d never get a chance to speak about with someone; what you’d be cooking tonight for dinner for one another, how you’d spend the rest of the day together with Bobby and just how relaxing it all sounds to snuggle up with him on the couch watching some soap opera and sharing a cigarette.

“I’mma pick up another pack later tonight,” Bobby opens up a new pack of cigarettes, taking one out. “One for you and for me—see how fast we get through these things with nothin’—” 

Listening to Bobby speak to you, both of your attention diverts to the telephone mounted on the wall of the corridor—beginning to ring.

“Oh, could you get the phone for me real quick, baby?” You hold two packs of vegetables in your arms, trying to organize all your fresh produce on one side of the fridge.

“Sure, sure.” Bobby sets down his cigarette pack, walking out into the hallway, and takes the telephone off the wall before answering it and holding it up to his ear. “Yeah? Who is it?”

“Bobby, hey,” Marcie’s raspy voice comes out from the other end. “Is Em around?”

“Yes, I am,” you can hear what’s been spoken over the telephone from where you stand. “What’s up, Marcie?”

Bobby leans over, handing you the telephone and playfully rolling his eyes before he picks up his cigarette pack again—listening to your conversation with Marcie.

“What’s up?” Marcie repeats in disbelief, “more like what’s up with the both of you, huh? All MIA for the past few days. Sammy was tellin’ me he thought you guys went on a vacation or something.”

“More like we both need a vacation,” you sigh dramatically, shutting the refrigerator door. “Don’t worry about us, though. Bobby and I are doing good—just spending lots of time together at home, you know? Cozying up, enjoying whatever time off life we can get.”

“Is Bobby good himself, though?” Marcie asks, a little skeptical. “’Cause… Well, sorry I couldn’t be of more help when…ya know.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Bobby raises his voice for Marcie to hear, masking his sarcasm as best as he can—knowing Marcie doesn’t actually give a flying fuck about him. “You can’t even help yourself, man. I’ll always be good.”

You bite the corner of your lip, avoiding Bobby’s eyes as you hold out the telephone so both of you can hear Marcie.

“Whatever,” Marcie says back. “I just called you guys to see if you were both alive or somethin’. Why not come over and actually let us see your faces for once? Hotch fucked us over real good while the two of you were snuggling up so I got nothin’ and no company. You know how it is.”

“What happened?” Bobby furrows his brows. “Hotch got Sammy too?”

“Nah, Sammy’s out with Sonny doing God knows what. It’s Chico that Hotch arrested, right when he was about to head on over here with the goods.” Marcie answers.

Bobby stares at the telephone in your hand, suddenly feeling himself shift back into focusing on the craving he’s surprisingly been able to push aside all day.

“Wow,” you mutter out, “Hotch must have been following Chico the entire time then. Chico’s more careful than any dealer I’ve ever seen.”

“Oh honey, you haven’t seen anything just yet.” Marcie sighs deeply. “Not only that but you guys know Chico wouldn’t go down without a fight, and by that I mean he’s gonna negotiate with a narco if it means a much shorter sentence. He ratted on Helen for a three-month sentence.”

“What?” Bobby’s eyes grow wide with interest as a smirk begins to grow over his lips. “Are you serious? Helen was like Hotch’s favorite plaything all this time. No fuckin’ way.”

“I know,” Marcie holds back her own laughter, “I didn’t believe it either but yep—no more of that. I heard Helen got caught selling kids pills again.”

“Not surprised.” You lean against the kitchen counter. “I didn’t have any hope Helen would change back then and now look at her. Then again, all you guys did was pester me about why I didn’t speak to her anymore.”

“Ah, let her do whatever the fuck she wants.” Marcie says, “a nice stay in jail may help her. We all remember our first time, it was very cozy. At the very least she’s gonna learn her lesson, get off of Hotch’s dick and maybe get clean too.”

“Well deserved, huh?” Bobby appears pleasantly surprised. “Ratted out on me for her own bullshit and now look at her. That’s what you get for snitching to a fuckin’ narco in the first place. Terrific, just terrific.” 

You stare at Bobby in disbelief, taken back by his reaction at first.

“Wow, happy I see, huh?” Marcie laughs on the end of the phone, “finally got equal with her.”

“I don’t give a shit about Helen or Hotch or any of those fuckers.” Bobby rolls his eyes, “but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have some love for Hotch today because of what he did. He uses all of us more than we use anything, lemme tell you that.”

“Yeah, that’s a first.” Marcie agrees, “but does that mean you lovebirds are gonna come celebrate that over here or what? Come share the party with Hank and Lindsey.”

“Oh great,” you mutter under your breath, “the whole gang’s there, huh?”

“Who cares, baby?” Bobby smirks wryly at you, wrapping an arm around your waist. “Just two rats Marcie can’t get out of her apartment—why do we care? Besides, none of those two come empty-handed, if ya know what I mean. Hey Marcie—let ‘em know or something. I need to chip to keep me straight today at least. I know I’m fuckin’ coming down.”

Your expression instantly fills with sadness and disappointment at Bobby’s words and refusal to halt back his own addiction time and time again, but Bobby doesn’t notice. 

“Sure thing,” Marcie replies, “Lindsey’s got some real dynamite shit over here for all of us. Just bring some cash and get here quick, will ya? My anxiety’s through the roof.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bobby puts the telephone up to his ear, “we’ll be there. See ya.” 

~

“Someone’s happy about what happened,” you finally speak up once you and Bobby are more than halfway over to Marcie’s place—having it impossible to ignore the smug look on Bobby’s face since Marcie revealed the news of Helen’s arrest over the phone.

“Somethin’ like that,” Bobby replies casually, holding your hand as you both continue to walk down the street. “It’s terrific, baby. Helen got busted, at last, I mean c’mon. I never thought I’d see the day, not while she was suckin’ on Hotch’s dick. Nobody has it in with Hotch anymore, eh? What a lucky streak. Everyone gets one of those at least once in their lifetime livin’ here.”

“You had yours?” You ask jokingly, feeling rather indifferent about Helen’s situation.

“Oh yeah,” Bobby shrugs his shoulders carelessly, “but I can’t call it that right now—not anymore. It’s somethin’ else.”

“Which is?” Your curiosity grows as you both stop by the edge of the sidewalk to wait for the pedestrian sign to flash. 

“Gratitude,” Bobby answers, his eyes filled with warmth as he looks at you. “That’s no lucky streak, it’s somethin’ else. I have a girl like you who loves me and cares for me, I ain’t callin’ that luck. It has meaning for me.”

Pleasantly surprised by his answer, your cheeks flush red with blush as the two of you cross the street. “You know I love you very much.”

“And I love you more, baby.” Bobby gives your cheek a sloppy kiss before he pushes open the lobby door to Marcie’s apartment building.

As soon as the two of you step inside, the first thing you both come to notice is three prostitutes waiting amongst one another by three customers just by the elevators.

“Nothing new, nothing changed, eh?” Bobby comments quietly. 

“Isn’t it obvious?” You chuckle, knowing what kind of ‘transaction’ is going on over by the elevator.

“Sure,” Bobby says back as you two stand at a distance behind the prostitutes and their clients. “And very much illegal.”

“What feels good and makes a lot of money that is legal?” You grin back at Bobby. “I tried to figure that out in college and it didn’t end well for me.”

“Aw, baby,” Bobby jokingly pouts at you before laughing softly. “Trust me, I’ve heard that story by just about everyone I’ve ever met here in Needle Park.”

You and Bobby watch as the prostitutes go into the elevator one by one alongside their clients, leaving no further room for you or him to go in.

You both step closer to the elevator as the doors slide shut and the elevator begins to move upwards, waiting for the next one to arrive.

“Prostitution is illegal, yeah,” Bobby begins to speak in a normal tone, “but nobody advertises it here. You can tell when someone’s lookin’ for a client but you can’t arrest them for swaying their hips and wearing sexy clothing around someone with greedy eyes.” Bobby notices the curiosity growing in your expression, continuing, “so it’s like they have a kind of immunity as we all do here. If they get caught in the act, well, the cops can prove it depending on the place and whatever, but it all depends. Gettin’ any prostitute here in trouble for doing their job is real hard—all the guys and girls doin’ it is real smart. Guess Helen thought that immunity followed through with Hotch. Maybe he refused to fuck her.”

The elevator comes back down to the main floor with a ringing sound as you and Bobby both step in.

“That’s why Hotch is the so-called ‘good cop’, huh?” You hit the button for Marcie’s apartment floor, watching the elevator door slide shut.

“I’m thinkin’ a real good cop would arrest and make sure the criminal he caught or whatever is prosecuted to the letter of the law or somethin’.” Bobby snorts, “Hotch is a corrupt piece of fucking shit—a narco with a capital ‘N’. He throws us, junkies, in jail, and don’t care about the root of the problem. Ya know why half the people in Needle Park do what they do? Hook up, sell, steal? They got a habit to chase after, baby. That ain’t no fun,” Bobby points out, gesturing with his hands, “he’s an asshole who pretends to be a good cop.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice.” You bite down on your lip as the elevator comes to a halt on Marcie’s floor. “I don’t want any more run-ins with that guy. Fuck…”

“Baby, believe me when I say I’ll do anything, and I mean anything to make sure you don’t see that fucker again.” Bobby takes your hand once more, leading you out of the elevator once the door slides back open. “Ah fuck—you smell that?”

“Ugh,” you groan quietly, pinching the tip of your nose with your free hand as you follow Bobby out. “Don’t remind me.”

“Hey, Marcie!” Bobby hollers, picking up his pace to get to the apartment door as soon as possible. “Open up, will ya?” Bobby pounds on Marcie’s suite door, “it smells like shit out here!”

“Yeah, yeah!” You both hear Marcie hollering back as she begins to unlock the apartment door, pulling it open. “Wouldn’t want you to get used to it, Mr. I-Live-in-Luxury Now. Come in.”

“Hi to you too, Marcie.” You shake your head at Marcie’s comment, stepping inside her apartment with Bobby.

“Well hi,” Marcie says back to you, but her tone of voice remains heavily distracted as she looks back at Hank and Lindsey sitting next to each other on the edge of Marcie’s bed.

“Well, well,” Lindsey raises her head up to spot you and Bobby. “It’s a rare sight having both Axel brothers here.”

“Hank wouldn’t miss the possibility of a deal for the world,” Bobby replies sarcastically.

While ignoring you, Lindsey comments, “keep it humble, Bobby. I heard you overdosed.”

You awkwardly move alongside Bobby, taking a seat on Marcie’s worn-out, sunken couch with your boyfriend while keeping quiet.

“And you’re on your what—tenth dick of the day and this time it’s my brother?” Bobby’s quick to snap back, plopping down on the couch next to you.

“Aw man,” Hank chuckles—riding out the last of his soft high. “Nah, we ain’t doing anything like that. Lindsey’s carrying ‘dynamite’ this week, ya know.”

“Bobby’s head’s in the gutter now, especially because he’s got a girlfriend.” Lindsey grins, nudging Hank with her elbow. “He’s not even bothering to ask why either of us are here in the first place.”

“Yeah well, his girlfriend’s lucky.” Marcie makes sure to lock her apartment door tight, double-checking all the locks. “Emily doesn’t get her place raided as mine does on a goddamn weekly basis. You know that happened to me again, right?”

“Get over it,” Bobby mutters, propping his feet up on the coffee table in front of him.

“Ooh,” Hank and Lindsey chuckle quietly.

“Respectfully, Marcie,” you begin to speak up, “I think being ‘raided’ here is a part of your lease terms at this point.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Marcie mutters, walking back towards her dresser. “They got all the time of day to do it but Hotch sends his guys when I’m getting dressed or finishin’ up with a trick. I’m thinking now I gotta seduce the cops just so I can avoid gettin’ my ass in trouble.”

“You should try it then,” Hank pulls out a cigarette from his pack, “I hear they pay well, ya know.”

“They do.” Lindsey reaffirms as if she has personal experience sleeping with cops. 

‘Is she a prostitute too?’ The thought briefly crosses your mind but is ultimately clouded by the jealousy you still can’t shake off; Lindsey was Bobby’s girlfriend at one point, and it’s not as if she’s very friendly or welcoming to you in any way either, but also impossible to ignore.

“So,” Bobby snaps his finger, leaning his hand behind the couch as Hank passes him a cigarette. “Marcie calls us all over for a family reunion or somethin’? ‘Cause we’d be one dysfunctional family.”

“Glad you’re feeling better,” Marcie rolls her eyes, grabbing a half-empty can of beer off of her dresser before holding it up in the air to show you and Bobby. “See these? Chico stole ‘em before he got busted.”

“Nice,” Bobby smirks, looking at the beer can. “But that’s small-time work now.”

“True,” Lindsey agrees. “You work for Santo now though, huh? Anything else would be ‘small time’ work for you. I heard Santo hasn’t seen you in a while though.”

“He thinks I’m dead or in jail.” Bobby doesn’t even bother to look back at Lindsey, pulling his lighter out of the front pocket of his jeans before lighting up his cigarette. “I’ll get back to him because I’m neither.”

“Might wanna hurry, huh?” Hank smiles lazily. “Or Santo might just find another dealer.”

“He always does,” Bobby shrugs his shoulders, holding your hand again so as not to make you feel excluded in what feels like a one-sided conversation going on. “But he takes me back right away because I’m the best dealer Santo’s got.”

Continuing to remain silent, you glance over your shoulder to find Lindsey staring at you. 

She smirks at you before opening up her weathered-out messenger satchel, showing the various little baggies of heroin tucked in there. “Best dealer or not, today I got the best shit in town. I’m carrying.” As soon as Lindsey notices Bobby beginning to look over, she specifically tells him, “you pay first. I don’t run a goddamn charity here.” 

“You still accept dick as payment?” Bobby asks; you’ve never seen him act that snarky or vile towards anyone before.

Hank lets out a laugh, rubbing Lindsey’s shoulders. “Might as well, right?”

“That’s for select customers,” Lindsey rolls her eyes at Bobby. “Just hand me some cash. Does that pretty girlfriend of yours over there want something too?”

“You can just talk to me directly, you know.” You tell Lindsey, “like a normal person.”

Hank and Marcie exchange glances, hiding the amused look on both of their faces.

“We ain’t exactly normal here, sorry, Missy,” Lindsey says back to you in a mocking tone. “I just couldn’t help but notice you can’t relate to the bare minimum—you know, getting your damn apartment raided every few days. You probably couldn’t tell a cockroach and a rat apart from one another because you haven’t ever had to see ‘em or deal with them like us. They’re practically our roommates,” Lindsey points at your clothes, “and what you’re wearing looks nice, clean, and expensive, so no—you really don’t fit in here, do you?”

“Shut up, Lindsey,” Bobby scowls, pulling out his wallet. “Stop talking to Emily before you really make it apparent you’re jealous of her.”

“I’m not,” Lindsey scoffs. “I can buy myself pretty clothes just like that and look like her.”

“You’ve really got the wrong message here, don’t you?” Irritation and anger begin to build in you from Lindsey’s nasty, sarcastic remarks. “You don’t even know me. Have I offended you or something?”

“Nah,” Marcie answers for Lindsey, “she’s always like that—aren’t you, Lindsey?”

“If anything,” Hank speaks up, massaging Lindsey’s back, “maybe Lindsey’s only jealous because Bobby has a new girl, eh?”

“Ugh, no.” Lindsey rolls her eyes, pushing Hank’s hands off of her. “I’ve had all of Bobby ten times over for two lifetimes. There isn’t a thing he hasn’t done to me and vice versa—” Lindsey locks eyes with you, “he’s used goods, baby.”

You narrow your eyes at Lindsey, beginning to feel increasingly angered but realize she’s already looked away from you the moment she finished her sentence.

“Shut the fuck up, my God.” Bobby huffs loudly, tossing a ten-dollar bill at Lindsey before leaning over the couch and snatching a bag of heroin out of her satchel. “Talking about used goods when you said just a moment ago you might take dick for payment, huh? God, for once in your life can you stop being such a fucking annoying bitch?”

“Come on, Bobby.” Hank pushes Bobby back onto the couch. “Play nice man, we’re all here to hang out, not fight.”

“Then tell your little friend to stop talking.” You direct your words to Lindsey, and that’s when she returns the pissed look on her face.

“Bobby won’t share her pretty little thing, we get it,” Hank chuckles, gesturing to you. “I wouldn’t wanna get on his or her bad side, man.”

“You both have a point so I’m not taking sides.” Marcie chugs down the remainder of her beer. “But Lindsey—mm—didn’t you say you’d fuck Hotch if it meant he wouldn’t arrest you?”

“Maybe,” Lindsey snorts. “Who knows if he even fucks at all? That annoying, monotone voice of his is enough to get me dry.”

“Then I guess it wouldn’t bother any of you if I balled my girl right here and now,” Bobby suddenly suggests, causing your face to flush red from embarrassment.

This time you can clearly tell it’s not annoyance or irritation over Lindsey’s face, but pure jealousy as she watches Bobby place your hand over his lap.

“Go do it in the hallway or the kitchen or some shit if you have to.” Marcie waves off with her hand.

“Ahhhh, Bobby’s making us all jealous today.” Hank groans, laying back on Marcie’s bed with a loud sigh. “Do what you gotta do, man.”

Just as Lindsey insistently attempts to change the conversation at hand with Hank and Marcie, Bobby leans over you—the tip of his nose brushing against your cheek before he plants a sloppy kiss over it, surprising you.

“Bobby,” blushing furiously at his sexual suggestion in front of everyone, you’re unable to hide the spark of excitement you felt listening to Bobby’s idea in the first place—fucking in public.

Not that you don’t love the idea of kinky, wild sex getting better and better with Bobby anytime and anywhere, but you never thought you’d have a thing for public fucking. 

Still, there’s a hint of shyness lingering inside of you that you want to confirm with Bobby first before anything else.

“Yeah, baby? What is it?” Bobby breathes over your neck, wrapping one arm around your waist and bringing you close to snuggle his side.

You let your cheek rest against Bobby’s as he smokes his cigarette, beginning to rub up and down your body. “Shy, baby? You don’t have to be.”

“Maybe I’m not,” you watch as Bobby holds his cigarette between his plush, full lips; the very lips and mouth you’ve constantly found yourself daydreaming about lapping up your pussy juices, focusing that tongue over your clit with how heavenly Bobby’s lips would feel eating you out while his stubble scraps up against your clit.

‘Fuck.’ An instant surge of arousal hits you from just a little harmless daydream alone. 

“I’m comin’ down, baby,” Bobby murmurs to you, interrupting your thoughts as he rests his head over your shoulder. “I want you to distract me.”

“You or me?” You smile sheepishly, “neither of us is feeling our greatest, huh?”

“You should,” Bobby takes a small drag from his cigarette before handing it to you. “You deserve to feel good always. Nicotine helps, baby. Not my first-time tryna distract myself coming down with nicotine…or caffeine.” 

You take Bobby’s cigarette carefully, inhaling a deep drag before blowing out smoke beneath you and away from Bobby. “Mm…”

“Yeah, baby.” Bobby squeezes the sides of your hips, easily finding the fabric of your underwear through your skirt before pulling it teasingly. “You know they don’t give a shit what we do in here. Better we give ‘em a show to watch, huh?”

Every inch of your body feels hot with desire, begging “yes, yes, yes” all over as Bobby begins to slowly kiss you up your neck—his warm lips soft and purposefully teasing to get you in the mood.

With half-open eyes dazed with lust, you watch the cigarette between Bobby’s fingers continue to burn as you let out a whimper—enjoying every touch and kiss over your skin.

What you don’t realize is that Lindsey’s curious and jealous eyes are on the both of you, watching and simply unable to look away despite the conversation going on around her that should concern her instead.

Whether Lindsey wants to admit it or not, she desperately wants to be you right this moment. What Lindsey finds herself increasingly turned on towards now is that this is a new Bobby she’s seeing before her eyes; one much less focused on drugs and the high it provides Bobby but loving and affectionate.

Even Lindsey can tell now it’s not the drugs in Bobby’s system that encourage him to tease and please you or love this way—it’s genuine, and it never was like that with her. 

With Bobby’s attention completely on you, Bobby puts his cigarette out on the ashtray before him—pushing a curtain of your hair behind your ear.

You barely notice Bobby doing anything else until he kisses your lips softly, now beginning to rub up and down your sides.

One sweet kiss over your lips melts into a slow, passionate makeout session and Bobby could care less who's watching and who's thinking what.

Hank glances over momentarily just to see what’s going on between you two and whistles under his breath, but you’ve already become well aware this is how Bobby chooses to show you off in front of everyone.

‘Bobby’s mine…’ Loving and reveling in the affection and attention, you can practically feel Lindsey’s eyes all over you and Bobby; you’ve never wanted her to drown in her jealous misery so much in your life.

Bobby parts his lips away from yours slowly, breaking the kiss but still keeping his arms around you. “The rest of you can just feel free to listen and watch since you all have nothing better to do.”

You giggle, embracing your boyfriend before noticing the little baggie of heroin tucked into Bobby’s pocket that he begins to pull out.

Bobby smirks at you—his lips still wet from your kiss. “There’s enough in here for the both of us, baby, don’t you worry.” Bobby holds out the bag in the palm of his hand, rubbing his thumbs over the finely ground powder inside. 

“Coming down?” The idea of taking heroin again is indifferent to you this time, knowing you can handle your own dose, but you wonder if it’ll make any difference to Bobby; his convincing words are laced with honey and Bobby’s barely persuaded you do to anything yet.

“I hid it pretty well this time, huh?” Bobby nods, chuckling. “Yeah, I don’t know how it’s all gonna hit me if I don’t get a fix right after almost dyin’ on this shit.”

‘How ironic is it that we continue to do the same shit that we know will always have the possibility to kill us? Addicting…ironic…that’s all it’s ever been.’

“You might as well too, baby.” Bobby flicks the bag of heroin with the back of his fingernails to loosen and spread the powder inside evenly. “I don’t want you comin’ down when I’m up, okay?”

“Okay,” you decide, noticing a pleased grin forming on Bobby’s lips.

“Hey, Marcie!” Bobby looks up, raising his baggie in the air. “Get me somethin’ here, will ya? Smack isn’t gonna cook itself.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Marcie walks over to her dresser, grabbing everything all in one hand; a spoon, a large pair of tweezers, a used syringe, a bottle cap, and a lighter before tossing it over to Bobby, then placing a small glass of water on the coffee table in front of him. “You can use mine, I didn’t have anythin’ earlier.”

“You’re missin’ out,” Bobby comments back to Marcie as you rest your head upon his shoulder.

Like second nature to him, you watch as Bobby begins to prepare the heroin before you. Bobby adds just the right amount of water onto the bottle cap, mixing in the heroin. 

Bobby carefully picks up the bottlecap with the tweezers, holding it above the flame of his lighter as he begins to cook it—keeping a careful eye on everything.

“Be gentle to her and use a rubber band, huh?” You both hear Lindsey speak out, making yet another snarky comment toward you.

“Shut up,” Bobby replies, flickering off the lighter and setting the bottle cap back down on the coffee table.

“Just ignore her,” you mutter under your breath as you extend your arm out onto Bobby’s lap.

“Don’t need any rubber bands…” Bobby aims the tip of the syringe at one of your old injection spots upon your wrist. “Because I ain’t opening anything new on you, baby. Just going from the old here and…there.” Bobby aims the syringe down as accurately as he can.

You let out a deep breath, nodding in confirmation to Bobby who slowly begins to pump half of the heroin inside of you.

You watch as the mixture flows into your veins, instantly feeling a sense of relief and wonderous euphoria crashing into your mind and body all at once. 

There’s even a split-second belief in your mind that you’d be stupid to refuse and second guess something like this ever again. 

“Mm, that’s right, baby.” Stopping the injection, Bobby sees the relaxed look on your face and slowly pulls the syringe out of you.

You continue to lazily lean your head against Bobby’s shoulders, letting the high completely rush through you and take over you within a mere minute.

It’s in that moment as you begin to enjoy your high that Bobby shoots up the rest of the heroin in his own arm, but due to the change of dose and time past since he’s had another fix, it takes Bobby about two more minutes than usual to let the high settle inside of him.

Bobby pushes everything else aside the moment he feels the heroin’s high kick up in him, wanting to relax with you now. 

“Real good shit, baby, ain’t that right?” Bobby talks in a low, mumbling voice, caressing your cheek with his thumb. “Real dynamite stuff, but nothin’ to get us crazy, huh? Just enough.”

“Just enough,” you repeat softly, blushing as Bobby plants a kiss on your cheek. 

Unlike you who enjoys a hazy, slow high and would rather do nothing but focus on it, Bobby basically springs back to life and is less irritable—avoiding coming down when he has his fix; it’s the difference between real addiction and chipping.

Having everyone else in the room slowly begin to prepare their fix and shoot up too takes no time, reminding you of the old days back in college when all your friends and roommates would get together to smoke weed and shoot up.

Marcie can barely speak out a word herself from how strong her high is and it’s the same with Lindsey whom she lays down on her bed side by side, giggling and trying to make slurred conversation.

Hank smokes a joint overtop of his heroin high, completely phased and out of reach but clearly enjoying himself.

When it comes to Bobby and his affection and love for you, nothing significantly doubles nor is a high needed to enjoy one another’s company, yet you’re still growing excited and all the more horny thinking you two may just end up having sex right here, right now.

Just the very thought of it now has your pussy aching and throbbing and before anyone else can realize it, you and Bobby get off the couch and walk into Marcie’s kitchen.

Wrapping your arms around Bobby’s shoulders, you let him pin you up against the kitchen wall—beginning to sloppily make out with you all over again.

Bobby’s hot tongue collides with yours, fighting for dominance in your mouth followed by eager touchiness from Bobby’s firm hands—toying with the tips of your nipples underneath your bra and squeezing your breasts over and over again.

Your shirt continues to ride up your stomach as the makeout session grows needier; Bobby keeps his hands greedily touching your breasts only to notice the look of shyness in your eyes. “When did you ever get so shy, baby?” Bobby murmurs against the nape of your neck, “you know you’ve done so much more with me.”

“More like I can’t wait for us to get home,” you whisper back, feeling a surge of newfound confidence within you, “but you can’t wait to fuck me so here we are.”

“You know I want you anytime, anywhere, baby,” Bobby grunts, unzipping the fly of his jeans to free his erection.

“Do it, do it.” You bite down on the corner of your lip, pushing your pelvis against Bobby’s. “Just do it already.”

“Never took me for a show off huh?” Bobby pumps his cock in one hand, smirking at the sticky droplets of precum beginning to ooze down his shaft. “I wanna get you ready for me baby—show you off too,” Bobby runs his free hand up your skirt, pulling the fabric of your panties aside your pussy to position and angle himself. “Let them all know you’re mine and mine only.”

“B-Bobby,” you moan softly, already feeling him teasing your clit with the tip of his cock.

Marcie’s the only one in the apartment who could care the least what you and Bobby are up to, why, and how. After all, it’s not the first time Bobby’s fucked someone in her apartment or the hallways of it before too.

Hank on the other hand becomes so high he can barely keep his eyes open after struggling to finish his joint, but Lindsey’s done the bare minimum of chipping and is very well aware of what’s going on in the kitchen.

From where Lindsey sits on the edge of the bed she can see a peek of Bobby’s ass from his jeans almost down to his knees, your skirt riding up to your waist, and your bare thighs wrapped around Bobby’s waist. 

“This cunt is mine,” Bobby breathes hotly against your neck, roughly gripping both sides of your hips, “online mine, and I get to fill you up.”

‘Oh my God.’ Every inch of your body writhes for Bobby as you feel his firm hands move up from your hips and roam over your breasts again greedily before going back down your waist.

Bobby snakes his tongue into your mouth, kissing you sloppily; you return back his lustful insistency and roll your eyes back in pleasure to feel Bobby beginning to spread your pussy open with both of his thumbs.

“Mm!” You moan in Bobby’s mouth, squeezing your eyes shut.

Pressing her lips down firmly and quietly watching the two of you, Lindsey sees Bobby pull his right hand out from underneath your skirt and pop them into his mouth—licking and lubricating his fingers with his spit generously before rubbing them back over your sore clit.

Hearing filthy little moans continue to escape your lips, Bobby smirks against the nape of your neck and relentlessly rubs over your clit with the tips of his fingers as fast as he can.

Bobby applies the perfect amount of pressure over your clit at an angle, keeping his complete focus there to stimulate you close to orgasm.

You buck your hips onto Bobby’s fingers again and again—desperate for him to continue touching you and obsessed with the way Bobby works his slender fingers to please every sweet spot over your clit.

“Ohhhh, Bobby!” Moaning louder in longing desperation without a care as to who else notices or listens, you feel the warmth of Bobby’s cock begin to press up against the entrance of your pussy.

“Baby,” Bobby pants, slowly thrusting inside of you as slow and deep as he can to make you feel every inch of his cock with each push.

With his hips angled up to thrust in you back and forth with ease and his ruffled hair sticking to the sides of his face from beginning to sweat, you feel Bobby’s cock now easily beginning to slide out of the wet mess your pussy has become from all of his teasing and the fact it thrills you to fuck Bobby in front of everyone else.

Bobby presses the side of his cheek against yours, remaining close to your body and gripping your hips to thrust into you again and again—watching you take his cock in with little to no effort.

Marcie’s kitchen fills with the sounds of both of your whimpers, soft moans, and sloppy thrusting in an instant, but Lindsey’s the only one actively paying attention and watching Bobby fuck you against the wall.

Your pussy convulses and Bobby’s thick cock stretching you and the sensation of feeling filled by him brings you closer and closer to a sweet building orgasm.

Speeding up by the minute and fucking the life out of you roughly against the wall, Bobby’s quick to switch his speedy pace to rougher and even faster—now pounding into your pussy with no mercy.

Your thighs shake uncontrollably like jelly against Bobby’s hips and you can barely muster up the energy to shakily grip onto the mess his hair has become—still unable to hold back your shrieking moans.

Without even trying, the tip of Bobby’s cock comes into contact with your G-spot time and time again, making it feel like you’re on the verge of releasing an uncontrollable orgasm.

“Ohhh y-yes, yes, YES!” Feeling Bobby thrusting upwards, you practically begin to bounce on his cock from the angle he fucks you in against the wall. “B-Bobby, YES!”

As your body begs to feel Bobby’s cock in you again every time he thrusts out, Bobby gives your face a rough squeeze and hears you whimper against him—your thighs weakening and barely holding onto his waist now.

“M-more, more, more! Fuck me, fuck me!” You beg, desperately rolling your hips back onto Bobby’s cock.

“Oh baby, this is all for you,” Bobby smirks at you wryly, watching the way your pussy clenches against his shaft. “I know you fucking love this.”

Upkeeping a perfect rhythm of sloppy fucking, your breasts jiggle against Bobby’s chest and your knees begin to tingle as you’re just about to cum.

Even though Bobby can tell through your rapid breathing and body language reacting against his, Bobby continues to fuck you effortlessly with no sign of stopping for you to cum. “G-God, I’m so addicted to you, baby.” 

You cock your head back against the wall with a shaky groan, welcoming the wet, harsh kisses Bobby leaves against your neck.

Had Bobby been anywhere else with you and had more time, even he knows he’d very fuck you again and again for hours until both of you couldn’t take it anymore; anything to please and tease you just the way you want it.

Skin slapping against skin, your inner thighs begin to redden from the constant contact of Bobby’s hips which only adds to the intense pleasure flowing through you.

“Cum for me, cum for me,” Bobby beckons, holding onto you as tightly as he can.

In an instant, a sensation of ecstasy rocks over your body with the release of your orgasm as you tightly clutch onto Bobby’s back for balance.

Whimpering and whining, you curl your toes and squeeze your eyes shut—feeling as though you’re seeing stars from the incredible orgasm you experience all as Bobby still thrusts inside of you.

“Uhhhh, fuck!” You hear a soft grunt come from Bobby’s behalf as he cums inside of you moments later—making sure to raise your hips upward and not spill a drop onto the kitchen floor.

Relief washes over your body from head to toe as you ride out the aftermath of your orgasm, still trying to catch your breath and feeling your soaked pussy gushing against Bobby’s cock while he fills you with spurt after spurt of his cum.

Making a mess on Marcie’s kitchen floor, having the neighbors or anyone in the hallway hear, or even the idea of getting you pregnant with unsafe sex isn’t a concern to you or Bobby at all at this moment.

Still dazed from your high and enjoying every last lingering bit of your orgasm, you rest your chin over Bobby’s shoulder and gaze back out towards Marcie’s bed—locking eyes with Lindsey.

Lindsey stares at you completely unamused, but even you can tell through her expression that Lindsey’s blood boils in jealousy at the sight of you two and that she’s seen just about everything.

You grin back lazily at Lindsey, licking over your lips. Regardless of whatever she says or does now, you know better; Lindsey can’t fool you or anyone else for that matter.

Lindsey still wants Bobby badly as ever and the way she looks at the two of you now freshly fucked against the wall of Marcie’s kitchen only continues to prove it.

You giggle breathily, tilting your head back against the wall slowly as you feel Bobby thrusting inside of you yet again for a second round.

With your boyfriend’s lips kissing up your neck and having barely gotten a taste of you with just one orgasm, you let your body get lost in ecstasy—wanting to be fucked again and again.