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mypearlsareclutched · 1 month

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I Can't Survive

High By The Beach | Chapter Six

Modern!Aegon II x Original Female Character, Modern!Aemond x Original Female Character

After what happened on the beach, Mila is left wondering how this will effect her friendship with Aegon, and what this could mean for her future amongst the various Targaryens. But when she goes to sleep at night, whose blue eyes does she dream of?

Ain't nothing like the beach to get people feeling frisky. Is it just hot in Old Town or is it the She-Wolf and her scorned dragon bestie/ fuckbuddy?

Song inspiration | High By The Beach, Lana Del Rey

CW//TW: Sexual Content (MDNI, 18+), PIV sex, Aegon getting domesticated, catching feelings, Aegon's tattoos, Modern!Westeros has big Tesco, if you're not British you won't get the big Tesco hype, beach vibes, prescription meds, smut, fuckin on the floor, oral (m receiving), fingering, body worship, fwb relationship in progress...

Word count | 5.6k

previous chapter // next chapter

Neither of them spoke about what happened on the beach. Neither of them wanted to. Like the tide sweeping up onto the sand before drifting away again, the moment was there and then it was gone.

After a while, Mila had gotten up off of the sand and went back into the house, collapsing onto the sofa and dozing off like she was operating on automatic. Before she drifted off, she distantly heard Aegon shuffling about, the creak of a bed and his snoring through the walls.

When the sun rose, Mila's eyes cracked open and she released a soft groan. Her head felt groggy after smoking weed last night on top of her slight hangover from the day before last, and she was groggy and miserable.

Rubbing her eyes, her body jolted as she remembered what happened last night.

Lying on the beach, the sand in her hair, laughing with Aegon... his hair in her fingers, his lips on her, his name on her lips as she came-

"Shit." Mila whispers to herself, sitting up, "Shit, shit, shit!"

She runs a hand through her hair, feeling her nerves rising as she remembers more and more of what happened last night. Distantly, plans clatter together, indicating that Aegon is awake and making food.

"Oh, I'm fucked." She sighs as she stands up, "So ridiculously, abysmally, astronomically fucked."

In the kitchen, the object of her fucked-ness stands by the stove, scrambling eggs absentmindedly. From the bright light of the autumnal sun beyond the horizon, Mila knows its near noon. He was probably still shaking off the weed last night, like her. Or spent extra time in bed to ponder his woes about their situation. Mila internally groans.

Leaning against the kitchen's archway as casually as she could, she hummed in greeting, "No music today?"

Aegon turns his head to look at her, giving her a tight smiles before shrugging, "Seems so."

It's awkward. Mila feels her stomach plummeting as the silence lingers, and she gnaws on the corner of her thumb as she approaches the blonde man. His head doesn't rise again, almost like he does not notice her. But she can tell from the way he stiffens that he can sense her approach.

"Aegon-"

"Did you see the big Tesco down the road?" Aegon cuts her off, not looking up from his eggs.

"Um... no?" Mila says warily, eyebrows furrowed.

"There's a big Tesco down the road."

"No kidding."

"You don't like big Tesco?"

"Who doesn't like a big Tesco..."

"We need stuff." He shrugs, plating the food, "These are the last of the eggs we picked up at the services, AKA the only real food we have here. We need milk, coffee, painkillers, toilet roll, you need some socks, we should grab cutlery that wasn't made before 9/11..."

"How very domestic." Mila murmurs, looking at her feet.

Aegon sighs, putting the plate down as he finally turns to her. Mila looks up to meet his eyes, and she can see him visibly soften. He scratches the back of his neck, looking over her sleepy appearance. Mila takes a second to look over him herself, eyes roving over his tousled hair to his worn Beatles T-Shirt and grey joggers.

He looks good...

"What happened last night doesn't have to mean anything." He says, "I care about you very much, and I want only good things for you. I am well aware that I am not a good thing."

"Hey-" Mila interrupts.

"Nuh, shush, I'm talking, zip it." Insists Aegon with a hand in the air. "We were high, and tired and stressed, and if I'm being honest, I've wanted to bury my head in between your legs since the second I saw you smile. But nothing has to happen. It's too messy, it's too complicated. And I'm happy being uncomplicated right now."

"So... it meant nothing?" Mila asks, unsure of what answer she hopes to hear.

"No." Aegon smiles, "But what it means will make my head explode, and then my brains will get in our eggs." He walks over to her, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

"Look, I... I just don't want to hurt you, Aeg."

"You could never hurt me." He says earnestly, "You're the best thing that's happened to me in a while."

Mila takes a shaky breath, letting him pass her on his way to the dining room. His smell hits her as he brushes past, causing Mila's knees to weaken beneath her. As he sets his food down, he smiles brightly again, as if their conversation never happened, "So, big Tesco? Half an hour?"

"Sounds good." Mila smiles weakly, grabbing her own plate and joining him.

With the limited clothes options, Mila decides to don a Gwayne centric outfit. His wild youth days must have truly been behind him, because all Mila could find in his wardrobe are very frat boy-ish, super tight jeans and neon tank tops.

"I bet younger Gwayne would think Aegon rules." Mila scoffs, eyeing a wifebeater covered in embroidered, glittery marijuana leafs.

She decides on choosing a blue, checkered shirt and a pair of washed out levi's. They both practically hung off of her, but she was not here to look sexy. She was here to heal.

And to shag her ex-boyfriends brother, apparently. Mila rolled her eyes at her own thought, rubbing her forehead.

Across the hallway, Aegon yells to her, "Ready to go? It's not a fucking fashion show, princess. Wear a burlap sack for all the rest of us care!"

"Piss off, Aeg!" Mila calls back, "Be down in a sec!"

"I'll be in the car!" Aegon groans, his heavy boots (courtesy of Gwayne's emo phase) stomp across the hardwood floors, the front door opening and shutting behind him.

With a look to the mirror across the room, Mila nodded to herself before grabbing Aegon's coast. A sudden jabbing pain in the centre of her head stops her, causing her to wince and press her hand to her head. Ignoring it, she heads out the house.

The car drive could have been avoided, as the Tesco was basically just down the street. But Aegon insisted that they wouldn't want to walk with their supplies.

"Are you planning on buying out a whole big Tesco?" Mila inquires, getting out the car and following after a practically-skipping Aegon.

"You don't seem to grasp the magnitude of big Tesco. Like, at all."

"You like big Tesco a lot, huh?" She laughs, finally catching up to him.

"Big Tesco is my holy land."

Once inside said big Tesco, Aegon was like a dog left to its own devices in a park. He grabbed Mila's hands to walk through the aisles, already getting way too hyped at all the different sections there were. He noticed a pharmacy nestled near the cosmetics aisle, and led Mila over there with a grimace.

Mila gives him a look, wondering what he could possibly need at the counter.

"Gotta pick up a prescription." He says, rolling his eyes as he leans his elbows on the counter. The pharmacist walks over, her eyes roving over Aegon. She gives him a flirtatious smile, and Mila has to physically resist rolling her eyes.

"Can I help you?" The pharmacist asks, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear.

"Yeah, hi, I need to pick up an emergency prescription, name is Aegon Targaryen." He makes an over exaggerated exasperated face, "Can't believe I forgot it, came on holiday and it just slipped my mind."

"That's alright, Mr Targaryen. Has this been prescribed by a medical professional?"

"Yeah, by three actually." Aegon laughs, "Dr Nettles Waters put it into some kind of emergency system, apparently. It's called something funny- Lor, Loz... Laura...? Lorazepam! That's it-"

"I've found it, Mr Targaryen." The pharmacist says, halting his rambling. Aegon grins as the pharmacist continues typing on her computer, "It says we need to write down a second name to verify. Your... girlfriend? needs to sign the receipt. Can I get a name?" She asks, raising an eyebrow at Mila as she slides over a form.

Aegon's face falls, "Oh, well- she's not my girlf-"

"Emiliana Stark." Mila states as she takes the offered pen and signs the form. Aegon raises his eyebrows at her, mouthing 'Emiliana?', and she glares at him.

"Alright, perfect, thank you." Says the pharmacist with a tight smile, taking the form with a hardly-hidden glare as she disappears to get the prescription.

"Emiliana Stark?" Aegon smirks.

"Got a problem with my name, Aegon Targaryen?" Mila teases, snatching the receipt and prodding his chest, "You owe me."

"My knight in shining armour." He smiles brightly, rapping his knuckles on the counter.

"I didn't realise you're on medication for anxiety." Mila says conversationally as she looks at the receipt.

Aegon shrugs, looking away, "Been struggling with addictions and the old mental health since I was like, thirteen? Nettles got it put into this system where I can get it anywhere in Westeros, how great is that? I mean, if I don't take it regularly, I can get into a bad head space. Apparently, I'm 'a risk to myself and others'." He rolls his eyes, waving his hand dismissively.

"Are you a risk to me? Should I be running for the hills?"

"You tried that, remember? I found you." Aegon winks.

The pharmacist returns, giving Aegon his medication and a small slip of paper. She gives him another flirtatious smile as she presses the paper to his hand, offering . Her phone number, nice going. Mila paints on a fake smile, crossing her arms. Aegon takes the prescription and the paper with pursed lips, thanking the woman before turning and walking away with Mila in tow.

As they walk away, Aegon slides the paper into the coat pocket of a passing man, unnoticed. Mila stifles a laugh, raising her eyebrows at the blonde man who smiles victoriously.

"Alright, now we can have fun." Aegon says, sending a wink to the pharmacist before grabbing Mila's hand.

Walking around Tesco with Aegon is like walking with a small, excitable child. Mila can only compare it to when she went shopping with Luke and Joff when Rhaenyra and Laenor went on a business trip. They definitely regretted giving Mila and their young sons access to their credit card when they came home to see their living room was full of bags of various sweets and pastries. Joff was in a food coma, Luke was bouncing on the walls, Mila was grounded.

Aegon is currently looking through the racks of clothes, trying to find something that would fit Mila. H alien sunglasses are perched on his nose, his second beatles shirt looking raggedy.

"You should grab new clothes, too." Mila states, taking a grey sweater Aegon offered her, "You can't just go around wearing your uncles band T's for the next... gods know how long we'll be here."

"I'm serving delinquent chic, leave me alone."

"You're twenty eight."

"Reliving my wild youth." Aegon smirks, grabbing her a couple of pairs of jeans in her size and throwing them into their already half-full trolley.

"I need underwear too." Mila sighs, walking over to the lingerie section.

"Hell yeah." Aegon wolf whistles as he picks up a pair of giant, beige panties, "These would look great on you."

"Shut up." Mila scoffs, pulling the material from him and tossing it back where it came from, "I'm suprised this isn't one of the places you're banned from."

"Don't jinx it."

Mila looks around , rolling her eyes as Aegon gives his opinions on various items. As she grabs a matching pair of lacy bra and panties, Aegon watches her, an unreadable glint in his eyes. She pretends not to notice, putting the underwear into their trolley, along with a few more sexier items. Nothing wrong with feeling sexy... Aegon clearly agrees.

They continue past the clothing section, walking around the food aisles as Aegon grabs various ingredients. Mila watches him as he dots around like stressed sports mom, his concentrated face eerily similar to Rhaenyra's.

"Should we get booze?" Mila asks as she looks at the wine.

"I'm T total." Aegon shrugs, "But I don't mind if you grab some." But Mila puts the wine back, resisting her own urge.

"How are we paying for this, by the way?" She looks at his growing collection of food, clothes, another pair of neon crocs, and a literal microwave. Aegon pats his coat pockets, pulling out a gold credit card. Mila furrows her brows at it.

"It's Viserys'." He explains.

"What?" Mila's eyes bulge out of her skull, covering the card in his hand, "Are you kidding? Stealing from your own dad, come on, Aegon!"

"Chill, Em." Aegon chuckles, "If he hasn't noticed it's missing by now, then he never will."

"How long have you had this." She demands.

Aegon counts on his fingers, pretending like he does not know exactly how long he has had it, "Four years."

"Aegon!"

"Lik I said, if he hadn't noticed now, then he never will. It's been years, most dude's would notice by now."

"He's basically a vegetable."

"Exactly." Aegon winks, pocking the credit card again, "He has like fifty, and he owns the most lucrative business in the seven kingdoms, he probably still thinks this is under one of his cadillacs seats."

"You're trouble." Mila sighs, pushing the trolley with Aegon in tow.

He follows after her, letting her push the trolley along. She winces again, putting her hand to her head. Aegon notices, furrowing his brow as his hand rests on her shoulder.

"How's your head?" He asks, concerned.

"Would it be wildly inappropriate to say 'I haven't had any complaints yet'?"

"Yes." Aegon chuckles, "Considering that the last person you gave head to was my brother, and the last person who gave you head was me-"

Mila shushes him, pressing a hand to his mouth as a middle aged woman eyes them from across the aisle, "I'm going to tape your mouth shut."

"There are other ways to shut me up." Aegon murmurs, his words muffled by her hand, eyebrows waggling. Mila rolls her eyes, half-heartedly punching his shoulder. He staggers dramatically, pouting.

"Drama queen." Mila nudges him out of the way, pushing the trolley as he jogs after her, wrapping an arm around her waist as he kisses her temple.

He kept a hand on her waist as she pushed the trolley, offering a conforting presence as the pain in her head continues.

"Here." Aegon grabs handfuls of painkillers, showing them to her proudly, "Theser will help."

"Hm." Mila smiles.

"Withdrawal is a bitch. Two days ago you went on one hell of a bender, your brain is kicking your ass right now."

"Feels like it." As Aegon piles more painkillers into the trolley, Mila grabs some soap and toiletries, before looking at the cosmetics section, "I'm getting makeup."

"Yeah, wonderful time to get all dolled up, Em." Aegon quips, watching her as she grabs various items.

"Maybe you'll let me do yours, make you look all perdy."

Aegon flicks her nose, taking her hand in his as he drags her away from the cosmetic section, rolling his eyes playfully at her giggles.

Once stocked up on everything they could possibly need, and paid for it with Viserys Targaryen's stolen credit card, the two of them headed back to the beach house.

They unpacked slowly, as it appears Aegon has short term memory loss and got excited with every purchase he remembered he bought. Mila watches him from across the kitchen, putting away boxes of pasta and rice.

"Oh! Almost forgot." Aegon says as he rummages through one of the bags, pulling out a little black box. He throws it to Mila with a grin, and she rolls her eyes when she realises it's a pay-as-you-go phone.

"What's this?" She asks, an eyebrow raised.

"A pay-as-you-go!" Aegon grins.

"I can see that." Mila laughs, "Why?"

"So you can call your brother." Aegon shrugs. Mila's smile drops slightly, feeling guilt rise in her chest as she remembers that Cregan doesn't know where she is.

"Oh gods." She sighs, tearing open the box, "He's going to be so worried."

"Hey." Mila looks up as Aegon stands, covering her shaking hands with his own, "Don't beat yourself up about it. It's been a tough few days, you've been through a lot. Just give him a quick call when you feel up to it. I've got to call Halaena as well, and my mother probably. But it's late now, let's call them in the morning."

"Okay..." She sighs, gnawing on her lower lip.

"Want a distraction?"

"Behave." Mila rolls her eyes.

"Get your mind out of the gutter, Stark." Aegon gasps, clutching imaginary pearls, as he walks back over to the bags. He pulls out her various makeup items, lifting them up, "Wanna make me all perdy?"

Mila's smile returns, putting the phone down and extending her hand to take the makeup from him. Aegon passes it over, rolling his eyes and sighing dramatically.

"Sit down, Targaryen."

Aegon chuckles, sitting down in front of her. She decides to forego using foundation and blush, as the lucky Targaryen bastard already looks airbrushed, so she grabs an eyeshadow palette and looks over the colours.

"How does green sound?"

"Sounds very on brand." Aegon smirks, referring to the Hightower's obsession with green. Mila rolls her eyes, unwrapping a brush and rucking Aegon's hair behind his ears to get better access to his big, blue eyes. He smiles at her, wiggling his eyebrows.

Mila leans forward, swiping the brush covered in green powder over Aegon's eyelid. He flinches a bit, but she presses a hand to his cheek gently, and he settles down. She takes her time applying the eyeshadow, admiring all the little details of his face, all his microexpressions. The freckles across his nose, the small scar on his lip, his long eyelashes that are too blonde to be noticed at first. Every time she drags the brush along his eyelid his eyelids twitch, and everytime she caresses the skin of his cheek with the pad of her thumb, his lips twitch into a microscopic smile.

"Alright, I'm going to use white eyeliner to do little leaves next to your eyes."

"Cute." Aegon nods, keeping his eyes closed as she puts down the eyeshadow pallette down and picks up the liquid liner.

Mila presses her hand to his head to keep him still, focusing on the eyeliner. Aegon's eyes open slightly, looking up at her through his eyelashes. His eyes remain on her, focused on her biting on her lip slightly in concentration. A small smile appears on his lips, though he tries to hide it when she refocuses on his face.

Once she was satisfied with the slightly smudged vines and leafs, she hums, clicking the eyeliner shut as Aegon blinks up at her.

"Am I the prettiest princess?" He asks with a toothy grin.

"You are." Mila laughs, kissing his nose. It was ike second nature, even though they've only known each other for less than two weeks, Mila felt so safe and at peace with him. Aegon smiles up at her, his hand remaining on her waist as she admires her work.

Her fingers come up to tuck his blonde hair behind his ears, and he leans into her touch slightly. His eyes flutter closed as she runs her fingers through his hair, and they remain sitting on the kitchen floor, sharing space and gentle caresses.

This means nothing. Mila tries to tell herself, Nothing. Definitely.

Aegon made spaghetti, and Mila was once again pleasantly surprised by his culinary skills.

They chat pleasantly, joking around about their pasts and making wild plans for their future.

Aegon has decided he wants to be a tattoo artist, showing Mila the ink he has acquired over the years. Mila was most impressed by the dragon covering his hip down to his knee, and the golden retriever on his forearm. Sunfyre, Aegon explains, his smile slightly sad.

When asked about what she wanted to be, Mila had to think for a second. With a sad smile of her own, she just tells Aegon about her dream of wanting to open a bookshop. Since she was a little girl she wanted to have a tiny, old bookshop somewhere secret, her own little escape. Aegon smiles as he watches her describe her dream.

They're sat close enough at the dining table that their knees brush together, and as Mila goes on a tangent about her bookshop dream, Aegon's hand covers her own on the table, absentmindedly rubbing circles over her skin. Mila's voice fades off, looking down at his hand.

Aegon stiffens, immediately going to remove his hand. But Mila catches it, intertwining their fingers. They share a look, the air tense.

"This doesn't mean nothing, does it?" Mila asks, though she knows the answer.

"No." Aegon sighs, "I think it means a lot."

What happened between them on the beach was like the tide sweeping up onto the sand before drifting away again, the moment was there and then it was gone.

But just like the waves, it repeats its accent towards them.

Standing up from the table, Mila walked around it with slow, unhurried steps. Aegon watched her with an unreadable expression, body tense with anticipation.

Lifting her leg up, she climbed into Aegon's lap, wrapping her arms around his neck. His hands braced her hips, keeping her sat atop him. He looks up at her longingly, eyes wide. He opens his mouth to speak, but she shushes him, running a hand through his hair. He bums appreciatively, and she presses her forehead to his.

As she pressed her lips to his, the world around them disappeared.

Aegon's hold on her tightens a she kisses him, his large hands gripping onto her as a lifeline as he tilts his head and deepens the kiss. Their lips dance together, soft and romantic.

It takes Mila's breath away, her fingers coming up to run through the silver tresses of the man below her. Aegon holds her close, his tongue caressing her lower lip, asking for permission. She grants it, their tongues meeting in a sweet, passionate dance.

He stands, lifting her up gently to wrap her legs around his waist, waking her back towards the rest of the house before she stops him.

"Can't wait." Mila says breathlessly, "No bedroom. Right now."

"Fuck." Aegon groans, pulling her down to the ground, their lips reconnecting feverishly.

His hands pull up her shirt, crawling down her body to distribute open mouthed kisses across her belly and up her sternum.

Tugging on her bra, he stares up at her wildly, "Off, now."

Giggling breathlessly, Mila obliges, sitting up to pull her shirt off her head and fiddle with the clasp of her bra behind her. Aegon lies between her spread legs, biting long her waist, his hands kneading her flesh.

Once the offending lace of her bra is removed, Aegon pushes her back down, lying over her to kiss the skin of her breasts. His tongue dances along her nipple, pulling it into his mouth to suck on it gently.

"Fuck, Aeg." Mila moans, grabbing a fistful of his blonde hair. He hums around her nipple, his other hand caressing the unattended tit.

Mila bucks her hips up, feeling his hard length beneath his jeans.

"Clothes. Off." She demands, pushing his chest so he can be rid of his shirt. Aegon complies, sitting on his haunches to lift off his shirt. Once it is gone and discarded to the side, Mila focuses on his torso.

Aegon's face flushes, clearly unused to being seen naked lately. Mila eyes him, taking notice of his softer body. A year of getting better had turned his slender, borderline malnourished body into a healthier, almost pudgy form. It was clear from how Aegon stiffened he was worried she would be uncomfortable, knowing Aemond was lean and tall and built.

But Mila just wanted to grab onto Aegon and do unholy things to him.

She pushes him against the hardwood floors, crawling over him. He avoids her eyes with a blush across his cheeks, opening his mouth to apologise before Mila presses a kiss to his lips, her hands running over his cheeks before descending down his neck and shoulders. As her finger tips drag along his pale skin, her lips follow. Aegon shudders as she lays butterfly kisses over every inch of skin.

"Beautiful." Mila murmurs, kissing the soft spot between his pecks. He groans, and she moves her lips over to his nipples. As she begins biting and licking them, her hand travels further down south to palm his bulge.

Aegon chokes out a gasp, squirming below her as she pays attention to his sensitive nipples whilst she cups him in her hand, "Fuck, Mila, please..."

"Please what, baby?"

"I... I need you." Aegon admitted, "Like, right now."

Mila grins, pressing another kiss to his collarbone before moving further down his body, unbuckling his belt with deft fingers. Above her, Aegon breathes heavily, watching her with blown out pupils.

She frees his cock, taking her lower lip between her teeth as she watches it slap against his stomach, hard and flush and leaking. Mila has to resist moaning at the sight, leaning over and licking Aegon's cock from base to tip. Aegon groans, throwing his head back in pleasure.

Mila wraps a hand around his the base, her other hand smoothing over Aegon's thigh as she takes the tip between her

Writhing, Aegon's hand reaches down to collect Mila's curls into his fist, holding it away from her face so he can watch her. His lips release groans and breathy praises.

"Gods, feel so good."

"Just like that, baby."

"So beautiful, taking my cock in your mouth like a pro."

Mila eats up the praises, sucking his member with more fervour. Spit pools around his base, rolling down his balls.

"Baby, baby, stop." Aegon pleads, and Mila raises her head instantly. Giving him a concerned look, she runs a hand over his thigh as he holds one arm over his eyes, chest heaving.

"Are you okay, Aeg?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine." Aegon chuckles breathlessly, "You're just... too good, I can't lie. Was about to cum like some kind of inexperienced teenager."

"Nothing wrong with that." Mila smiles, nuzzling her cheek against his thigh, "You made me finish pretty quickly on the beach."

"Yeah but you're a girl, I could make you finish like fifty times tonight and I'll be out for the count after one. Especially with that mouth of yours."

"Is that your plan? Making me cum fifty times tonight?"

"No." Aegon says, pulling his arm from his eyes to look down at her, "I plan to make you cum fifty times . Then, I' going to sleep, and then i'll make you cum at least another thirty times before dawn."

"Cocky."

"Experienced." Aegon sits up, cupping her cheeks to lift her up for a kiss, wrapping an arm around her. They kiss before separating to tear off their jeans', Aegon sliding them down his thighs as Mila shucks hers off and tossing them as far as she can throw them.

She practically pounces back onto him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders to pull him on top of her.

"Shit." Aegon stops, lifting himself up, "We don't have condoms."

"I have an IUD." Mila smiles, pecking his cheek, "And I got checked a week before I went to . I'm clean."

Aegon grins, pursing his lips appreciatively as he resumes kissing along her collarbone. Mila playfully tuts at his silence, dragging a nail over his shoulder.

"What about you?" She asks, "Are you clean, Mr Man-Whore?"

"Hmmm, I don't know. Does syphilis just go away?"

"You're so not funny."

"I'm hilarious." Aegon groans, hiking her legs up his waist as he attaches himself to her neck again, "But I am clean. I fucked around but never without protection. I was a sensible man-whore."

"You're about to fuck without protection now." Mila says with a raised eyebrow.

"This is different." He insists as he reaches down to line himself with her entrance.

Mila takes a sharp breath as she feels the hot tip of him press against her, coating itself in the wetness found in her most intimate place. Aegon takes a sharp breath at the feeling, rubbing his tip along her slit teasingly.

"So wet." Aegon praises, biting his lip as he looks her in the eyes, "All this for little old me?"

"Don't get cocky now." Mila chuckles breathlessly, though it turns into a low moan as he pushes into her, spearing her on his fat cock.

"If you keep making noises like that, my ego will never recover." He murmurs, though his eyes fall down to where they join, his breaths heavy as he pushes further and further in.

As his hips meet hers, Mila lets out a shaky moan, feeling so full. Aegon places his hand over her cheek, pulling her face so she looks him in the eyes, "Are you okay?"

"Y-yeah... feels good." She smiles, her own hands running through his hair and over his shoulders. Aegon practically purrs, nuzzling his head into her neck as he pulls out and thrusts back in gently, causing them both to gasp out.

"Shit..." Aegon sighs, grabbing her hips to hold her in place as he fucks into her, pace quickening with every jolt of ecstasy their coupling brings them. Mila wraps her legs around his hips, meeting his thrusts with her own movements of her hips.

Aegon's grip on her hips tightens, his fingernails pressing screscent shaped indents into her flushed skin as he keeps every inch of both of their bodies attached, fucking her with small, hard thrusts to keep her warmth pressed to him.

"Feels s'good." Aegon groans, lifting his head up to watch Mila's face, every pleasured contort of her face motivating him to fuck her better, grinding his pelvis against her clit.

"Oh, fuck, Aeg..." Mila sighs, eyelids fluttering.

"Need more, baby?" He asks, kissing her cheek. She nods, and Aegon smirks, "Harder or faster?"

"Harder... and faster..." She breathes, a small smile on her kiss-swollen lips.

"Good girl."

Aegon grabs her ankles, pushing them up to rest on his shoulder as he leans his head down and begins thrusting into her faster with urgency. She moans loud, arching her back as his cock finds her g-shot, pummelling it with every sharp thrust.

"Fuck, right there, just like that..." Mila rambles, one hand gripping onto Aegon's waist and the other twisting into his hair.

Aegon groans, his fingernails scratching across the floorboards as he tries to find purchase, fucking into her wildly. Leaning further down, and pushing Mila's knees further down in the process, Aegon rests a hand next to her head, the other reaching down to flick at her clit.

Mewling, Mila shudders as she peaks, her eyes fluttering closed as her cunt clenches around Aegon. He groans as he feels her tighten, smiling wildly at her.

"There you go, pretty girl." Aegon breathes, "Look at you. Such a mess on my cock. I'm not done yet, sweetheart, I know you can give me another one."

Mila gasps as he continues to pound into her, his deft fingers playing with her clit and making her see stars, her body overwhelmed by pleasure. She shakes her head, gasping and moaning beneath him.

"I can't, I can't..." She insists, though her body pushes through overstimulation and creeps closer and closer to another orgasm.

"Yes you can beautiful. I can feel it, you're doing so well. Gonna make you cum again, aren't I?"

"Yes! Yes, please, fuck!" Mila whines, tears shining her eyes as she looks up at the beautiful sight of Aegon fucking her, "You feel so good, Aegon."

"Fuck..." He breathes, eyes rolling back as his hips stutter at the sound of his name on her lips, "Gods you're too good. Gotta feel you cum again, feels so fucking good when you cum on my cock, baby. You gonna cum for me?"

Mila nods vigorously, gripping onto Aegon's forearm beside her as her climax gets closer and closer. With a scream of his name, she coats him in herself as she finished for the second time.

Aegon leans back slightly, sitting on his haunches as he holds her knees over his hips, pulling her onto him over and over as he gets closer to his own end. He hangs his head slightly, mouth agape as his stomach flexes with the effort. After a few more pumps, he shudders and groans out Mila's name, pumping her full of his spend with three more shaky thrusts.

Sated, Aegon collapses against Mila, his head resting in the crook of her neck. His cool breath fans her heated neck, and she runs a hand over his ruffled hair as she closes her eyes and catches her breath.

She can feel him place a gentle kiss on his shoulder, his hands soothing over the indents his nails made on her hips and thighs. Mila

"Now, I'm not so good with numbers..." Aegon pants, lifting himself up onto his elbows as he looks down at Mila. She raises an eyebrow, pushing some of her hair off of her sweaty forehead. Aegon drags his lips down her stomach, eyes twinkling, "You're at two orgasms, you better keep count..."

AN// Horniness wins again. Hope y'all don't mind the slightly chubby Aegon aspect of this, I'm just such a whore for that. Let me know what you think! Next chapter is currently being edited and then it'll be out sooooon!! Mwah <3

Lula x

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kristinagehrmann · 3 months

Text

Freelance strategies that have saved my butt!

Some of them I wish someone had told me when I was a newbie illustrator, some I have used from the start and they're still proving effective. Hope they're helpful <3

1. Decide on a clockout time at the workday's end. Whether 5pm or any other, relax & do nothing more work-related til next day. It sounds counterintuitive, but if your times are random/too long, this will boost productivity & decrease stress! In German it's called Feierabend.

2. Overestimate your deadlines. Especially as a new illustrator it can be hard to accurately tell a client how long a project will take, so make a habit of estimating generously. Don't take on more than one "rush gig" at a time.

3. Don't apologise if you did nothing wrong. Instead, "Thank you for your understanding." (e.g. if you have to reject an unattractive project) is both effective and polite.

4. Have a professional website with an easily accessible email address. It helped me get work long before anyone knew me on social media, even when my skill level was lower than now. From an art director's perspective: www.muddycolors.com/2021/09/why-y...

5. communication is key! Whenever anything is unclear in a client's brief, ASK. When you won't be able to meet a deadline, TELL them. Have clear quote & contract templates ready. Don't have any? Ask a fellow freelancer (like me!) Example for a quote: x.com/KristinaDraws... (99% of project conflicts are due to insufficient communication, this includes vague terms and/or nonexistent contracts!)

6. Your can also ask your fellow pros for pricing information in specific markets. Chances are it's already written down someplace (GAG handbook, blog article...) & they can link you to it. Being specific increases your chances of getting good answers. Pro illustrators have a sincere interest in you knowing & charging good prices - a rising tide lifts all boats!

7. Identify your most productive time of the day. This is when you do your best work. For me it's morning to noon. So I tend to do other chores (grocery shopping, exercise) in the afternoon when I'm more "head tired".

8. To stay hydrated (important!), make it a habit to always keep a drink on your desk. For me that's usually a mug of tea. Hot tea feels good too, bc 90% of the year it's chilly at my desk. I'm also a serious believer in a high fiber diet.

9. Something that has LITERALLY saved my butt: an orthopedic seat cushion (from Bonmedico, bought at Amazon) where the spine can basically "hang free" when you sit. This will turn every desk chair into a healthy one! Be smart and don't use it as an excuse for sitting even longer than you already do, but it does make long periods of sitting to work so, so much easier.

#freelance #freelance illustrator #freelance illustration #freelance life #business #freelance advice

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winxanity-ii · 27 days

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UNCONVENTIONAL ALLIES

ship: deadpool!gojo x fem!mutant!reader x wolverine!geto warnings: non-explicit word count: 3.3k a/n: Writing this was so much fun! I just love blending different worlds and seeing what kind of chaos unfolds 😂. Hope you enjoy this wild ride! 💖

★·.·´🇯‌🇺‌🇯‌🇺‌🇹‌🇸‌🇺‌ 🇰‌🇦‌🇮‌🇸‌🇪‌🇳‌ 🇲‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌🇱‌🇮‌🇸‌🇹‌`·.·★

You were sitting at a dingy, neon-lit bar tucked away in a forgotten corner of the city.

The place smelled of stale beer, fried food, and something musty that clung to the faded upholstery of the worn-out bar stools.

A jukebox in the corner plays a muffled tune, the kind that barely competes with the low hum of conversation and the occasional clatter of pool balls.

The air was thick, not just with the haze of cigarette smoke but with the weight of a thousand stories that had soaked into the cracked wooden walls over the years.

You were hunched over a dog-eared copy of your Anatomy & Physiology textbook, muttering terms under your breath like some sort of desperate mantra—brachialis, trapezius, sternocleidomastoid—trying to cram as much information as you could before your brain decided it's had enough.

You had read the same sentence three times now, and each time the words made less sense than before. Frustration bubbled up in your chest.

With a heavy sigh, you sat back and threw your head back against the creaky barstool, feeling the weight of everything crashing down on you at once.

The looming specter of your upcoming exam was like a shadow over your thoughts, a constant reminder of how much was riding on you passing this class.

Your mind raced, not just with the material you were supposed to be studying, but with the overwhelming tide of stress that came from being swamped in thousands upon thousands of dollars in student loans.

Every page you turned felt like another reminder of just how deep you were in. And as if that wasn't enough, the thought of returning to your messy, noisy dorm made you groan inwardly.

Your roommate had been a nightmare lately—blasting music at odd hours, leaving her stuff everywhere, and treating the place like her personal dumping ground. It was impossible to find peace, and it was driving you insane.

You reached over for your drink—a grapefruit High Noon, the only small comfort you had allowed yourself tonight. The cold, fizzy liquid was a slight balm against the headache building behind your eyes.

You took a long sip, letting the bitterness wash over your tongue as you tried to drown out the noise around you and the noise in your head.

Just as you were about to return to the same sentence you had been trying to absorb for the last ten minutes, you noticed movement at the far end of the bar. Two guys slipped in, almost unnoticed, except for the way they carried themselves—like they weren't just walking into a bar, but onto a stage.

One was wearing a skintight red and black suit that clung to his lean, muscular frame, showcasing his agility and strength. The suit had a dark, almost tactical look, with black patches accentuating the deep red fabric. It was all about practicality and style, with twin katanas strapped to his back in a sleek 'X' formation, ready to be drawn at a moment’s notice.

His mask was a full-head covering, stretching tightly over every contour, leaving no part of his face nor hair exposed. The eye areas were reinforced with black outlines, creating a stark contrast against the red, giving the impression of expressive eyes even though they were hidden.

Overall, he looked like he was dressed for battle, but even then, there was a playfulness in his stance, like he was just waiting for the fun to start.

The other guy was in all black. His outfit fully leather, tough but flexible, perfect for someone who needed to move fast and hit hard. It was sleek, with subtle detailing that caught the light when he shifted. Over his eyes, he wore a sharp mask, a slim black visor that added to his already intimidating presence. His long black hair is tied back into a neat bun at the back of his head, adding a touch of elegance to his otherwise rugged appearance. His hands were gloved, with a weird alteration that freed his knuckles on up.

The whole look was one of power and precision, every inch of him screaming danger, but in a way that was somehow... controlled. Like he was the kind of guy who didn't make idle threats.

Together, they were an odd pair—one dressed like he was ready for a chaotic spree, the other like he was here to end a war. And yet, there was a strange harmony between them, like they had been through this dance a hundred times before.

"What's with these two?" you muttered under your breath with a snort, flipping a page in your textbook without really seeing it. "Comic-Con isn't for another month."

The two men walked further into the bar, their steps measured and purposeful. A few patrons glanced their way, curiosity flickering in their eyes for a moment before they turned back to their drinks and quiet conversations, uninterested in the newcomers.

You silently watched from your tucked-away spot, noting how out of place they looked against the bar's grimy, dimly lit backdrop.

They made their way to the bar, their movements fluid yet distinct—one with a swagger that screamed "look at me," the other moving like a shadow, quiet and precise.

Thinking this was the end of it, you forced yourself to refocus on your textbook, trying to absorb the intricate connection of human muscles that had been eluding you all night.

Just as you started to get a grip on the complex anatomy, two shadows fell over your book, fully obscuring what little light the dim bar offered.

You sucked your teeth with an annoyed "tch," glaring up, ready to tell off whichever group of men thought they'd get lucky tonight. But your words got caught in your throat when you realized who was standing before you—the two men from earlier.

The one in red, who now sat in the seat next to you, had a vibrant galaxy cocktail in hand, stirring it with a straw like he had all the time in the world.

You blinked, momentarily taken aback by the surreal scene, but quickly got back on track. With a disinterested, sarcastic tone, you asked, "What could I possibly help you two gentlemen with?"

The man in black opened his mouth to speak, but the one in red jumped in. "Oh, there's a lot you could help us with! Cooking, lending us some cash, maybe even—"

"Deadpool," the one in black interrupted, his tone flat but carrying a note of irritation.

The man in red's head snapped towards him. "Huh? What's up?"

The one in black groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose with clear exasperation. He turned to you, his demeanor shifting to something almost apologetic. "We don't mean to interrupt your evening, but we're looking for 'Y/N.' We've asked around and heard that she often frequents this bar."

For a moment, you just sat there, heart pounding in your chest. Your mind was racing, but outwardly, you kept your expression cool and passive.

You tilted your head and nodded realistically, pretending to be unfazed. "Oh, Y/N? She's my roommate. We come here sometimes to study for our exams, but she flaked on me tonight. Guess she got caught up," You paused, then asked casually, "What do you need from her? I can pass along a message if you'd like."

The two men exchanged a glance, and the one in red burst out with a long, drawn-out "Wow, you're good!" He turned to his companion, still twirling his straw in his drink. "Bro, if we didn't have a pic, I'd 100% believe her," he said, holding both hands up in mock surrender.

You froze, your breath hitching in your throat. Your mind raced, a thousand thoughts per second.

Before you could think of a way to escape or talk your way out, the man in red turned back to you. "Look, toots, I'll be honest—we need you. Now, I understand how scary this may be, two men coming in and searching for little ol' you, but you have no worries, I promise."

The man in black spoke up, his tone more measured. "Yes, like he said, we're not here to harm you. We just—"

His friend cut him off, leaning in closer. "You want to trust us? Look," he said, before abruptly reaching up and pulling off his mask. "Bam! Face reveal!"

Underneath the mask, his features were striking: bright blue eyes that practically glowed in the dim light of the bar, and a handsome face with sharp cheekbones and a strong jawline. His hair was cut short in a buzzcut, white as freshly fallen snow, adding a stark contrast to the dim, smoky atmosphere around him.

His skin was marked with faint burn scars, lines and patches that wove across his face like a map of past battles and close calls. Yet, these scars didn't detract from his appearance; they only added to his rugged, mysterious allure, hinting at the untold stories and experiences that lay beneath the surface.

The one in black sputtered, "D-Deadpool, what the fu—"

"You can stop with the code names, Geto," the man in said with a smirk. "We gotta get her to trust us."

The one in black—Geto—groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose again in frustration. "At my expense, though?"

Deadpool shrugged nonchalantly, leaning on his hands and tilting his head down to take a sip from his drink. "Why wouldn't I? You expect me to call you 'Wolverine' all night yet we know her name? I wouldn't trust us either."

Geto groans again, his patience clearly wearing thin. "Again with the 'trust us' bullshit. That still doesn't give a good reason why you revealed my fucking name and not your own.”

Deadpool just lets out a giggle, shrugging again with a carefree grin. "Oops?"

Geto stared at him blankly for a moment before bluntly stating, "Fuck you, Gojo Satoru."

Gojo's mouth dropped open in mock shock. "W-Wha… why… my entire name, bro??? Even the damn Japanese format???"

Geto just ignored his outburst, turning his attention back to you, his expression serious once more. "Now, as I was saying, we've been searching for you."

You blinked, snapping yourself out of the mini-panic swirling in your mind, now acutely aware of the two men surrounding you—Gojo sitting casually beside you and Geto standing in front of you with a more guarded stance.

"And why would that be?" you asked cautiously, trying to mask the nervous energy coursing through you.

Gojo, never one to let a moment of tension linger, cut in with a playful grin. "Because our jobs tend to get really messy, and we need a pair of healing hands for quicker recovery times. Besides, something's telling me you might be up for a little adventure."

You raised an eyebrow and snorted, unimpressed by his casual tone. "And why would I want to do that?"

Geto finally spoke up, his voice gravelly and weighted with a seriousness that cut through Gojo's playful demeanor. "You look knowledgeable in the medical field," he said plainly. "And like Gojo said, our line of work tends to need that kind of expertise."

Before you could even think of a response, Gojo jumped back in, his grin widening even more. "Plus, we've got a feeling you'd make a great addition to our little team. It's not every day you find a cute healer; most tend to be old crones."

And there it was. The mention of your healing powers.

You're not sure how, but it seemed like no matter where you went, that knowledge always managed to catch up with you.

Being a mutant wasn't something you advertised; it wasn't something you wore on your sleeve. Especially not in a world where the line between acceptance and fear was still razor-thin, where prejudice against mutants ran deep.

You'd learned early on to keep your abilities under wraps.

The hate and mistrust toward mutants had only grown more intense over the years, with some humans seeing you as a threat rather than a person.

Sure, there were heroes and vigilante groups like the X-Men who fought for mutant rights and tried to prove that mutants could be protectors, not dangers. But still, the divide remained. A silent, persistent wall between those who could heal and those who only knew how to fear.

It wasn't just about staying safe. It was about maintaining some semblance of a normal life, of blending in.

The last thing you needed was to be dragged into the chaos of someone else's fight, to be seen as a tool rather than a person. Yet here you were, once again, your secret laid bare before these strangers who seemed to know more about you than you were comfortable with.

You swallow hard, trying to keep your expression neutral, ready to tell them you had absolutely no interest in whatever scheme they were trying to pull you into. But before the words left your mouth, the door to the bar slammed open, the sound echoing through the room like a gunshot.

A group of burly men stormed in, instantly grabbing the attention of everyone present. The leader—a rough-looking guy with a missing hand, which was poorly wrapped in a blood-soaked bandage—scanned the room with a snarl until his eyes landed on Gojo.

His face contorted into a scowl as he pointed his bleeding nub directly in your direction. "That's them!" he growled, his voice filled with fury. "Get those bastards!"

Before you could even react, the men charged forward, but Gojo's grin only grew wider, like he had been waiting for this exact moment. Suddenly, he threw a hand up, shouting, "Wait!"

The men paused, looking confused, their momentum halted by the unexpected command.

Gojo stood up slowly, the corners of his mouth curling into a mischievous smirk as he loudly slurped down the rest of his cocktail.

He released an exaggerated "Ahhh" of satisfaction, savoring the last drop before shoving his mask back on with a quick flick of his wrist. He turned to the men with a gleeful expression and said, "Okay, I'm ready, boys~."

Without missing a beat, he launched himself into the fray.

The bar erupted into chaos.

Gojo moved like a blur, dodging a punch with a fluid twist of his body, then delivering a quick jab to his attacker’s gut.

It was almost like a dance, his movements graceful yet deadly.

He ducked under a swing, flipped over a table with the ease of a seasoned acrobat, and landed a perfectly timed kick that sent one guy crashing into the jukebox, which sputtered and then blasted out distorted music. "Nice try, but you're gonna have to do better than that!" he quipped, his voice filled with that unmistakable humor.

Geto was a stark contrast. All raw power and precision, he grabbed one of the men by the collar and slammed him into the nearest wall.

The impact left a dent in the plaster, and the guy crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

Geto didn't waste a single movement—every punch, every kick was delivered with a calculated brutality meant to incapacitate. "Stay down, monkey," he muttered, his voice low and dangerous, as he drove a knee into another attacker's stomach, sending him reeling backward into a table, which collapsed under the weight.

As the fight intensified, bar patrons started scrambling for the exit, knocking over chairs and tables in their haste to escape.

The bartender, a burly man with a grizzled beard, stepped out from behind the bar, shouting above the noise. "Hey! You're gonna pay for this mess! Take your fight outside, or I'll—"

Before he could finish his sentence, the leader with the missing hand growled in frustration. "Shut up!" He grabbed a glass from the bar with his good hand and hurled it at the bartender, the glass shattering against his skull.

The bartender stumbled back, eyes wide with shock, before collapsing behind the counter, blood pooling around his head.

The violence seemed to escalate, everything becoming a blur of fists, broken glass, and shouts.

A chair flew across the room, smashing into the wall near where you were crouched, and you instinctively threw up your arms to shield yourself from the splinters. Heart racing, you knew you had to get out, but the chaos was overwhelming.

One of the attackers swung a metal pipe at Gojo, who effortlessly sidestepped and countered with a spinning kick that knocked the man off his feet and sent him sliding across the bar’s sticky floor. "You guys really know how to make a guy feel special~" Gojo laughed, eyes alight with adrenaline.

Wide-eyed, you stuttered, "H-Holy shit," as your flight set in. Hastily, you tried to pack up all your things, shoving books and papers into your backpack with trembling hands.

Just as you threw the bag over your shoulders and turned to make a run for it, a rough hand reached out and grabbed your puffed ponytail in a tight grip.

"Where do ya think you're going, girly? Leavin' your crew so soon?" a gruff voice sneered.

You looked up to find one of the thugs grinning down at you with a mouth full of yellowed teeth.

Desperation bubbled up as you blubbered, "L-Look, I have nothing to do with this, I swear! I'm just a struggling college student!" You weakly rubbed your hands together, hoping to somehow appeal to his sense of mercy—if he even had one.

The man let out a wet cackle, but just as dread washed over you and you thought your life was about to end, his eyes widened in shock. An arm had looped around his neck from behind, pulling him back with surprising strength.

It was Geto.

"That's no way to treat a lady, now is it?" he growled into the man's ear, his voice low and dangerous.

With his free hand, Geto shot his arm out, and you watched in stunned silence as three sharp metal claws extended from between his knuckles with a sharp "snikt."

In one swift motion, Geto slashed upward, driving the claws through the man's head with a sickening gurgle. His movements were methodical, almost surgical—each strike designed not just to disable, but to finish his opponent swiftly and efficiently.

"This is getting messy," he muttered, casting a quick glance your way. "Stay low and keep your head down."

A small splatter of fresh blood dotted your face, hot and sticky. Too shocked to speak, you could only nod wordlessly, your heart hammering in your chest.

A flash of metal cut through the dim light as Geto disarmed another attacker, the weapon clattering to the ground.

The jukebox, now playing a scratchy rendition of an old rock song, suddenly exploded into sparks as another attacker was thrown against it, his weight too much for the old machine to bear.

The smell of burning circuitry filled the air, mixing with the scent of spilled alcohol and the coppery tang of blood.

Just as you thought things couldn't get any worse, the leader of the group grabbed a table leg and charged at Geto with a wild roar. He swung the makeshift club with all his might, but Geto sidestepped, letting the momentum carry the leader past him.

Geto turned and delivered a punishing elbow to the back of the leader’s neck, sending him crashing to the ground.

With a few men down, Gojo turned to you, his eyes sparkling with amusement despite the chaos. "Looks like you're coming with us, whether you like it or not," he teased, and before you could argue, he rushed over, scooping you up over his shoulder as if you weighed nothing. "Hang on tight, princess!"

You began shouting, "Wait—what!? You can't be serious!!" just as your world flipped upside down in an instant.

Gojo's grip was surprisingly firm, and you were jostled around like a ragdoll as he darted through the chaos of the bar, cackling like a madman. Chairs and debris flew past, and you clutched onto him, trying not to lose your dinner.

Geto, maintaining his composure amidst the chaos, bent down to grab your bag and textbooks. He gave you an apologetic glance, his expression almost soft despite the situation. "Sorry about this," he said, his voice calm amidst the madness.

The three of you burst through the bar's front door and into the cool night air.

The sharp contrast between the smoky, dim interior of the bar and the crisp, open night sky made everything feel surreal, like you had stepped out of one world and into another.

Gojo's laughter echoed in your ears, wild and free, mingling with the distant sounds of the ongoing brawl behind you. "Trust me," he shouted over his shoulder, not slowing his pace even a little, "we're gonna have a lot of fun!"

As Gojo sprinted down the street, weaving through narrow alleys with you still slung over his shoulder, you let out a small, incredulous laugh.

It was half at the absurdity of the situation and half at the exhilarating sense of liberation coursing through you.

Because at the end of it all, against all odds...

...he might just be right.

A/N: hi guys! just wanted to post this after watching the new deadpool wolverine movie and binging on SatoSugu x reader fics, so hope this wasn't a too bad of a read; not sure if i'll actually do more of this or not 😩also, sorry for being gone for so long, finally dug myself up out of my lil ball of anger/sadness. now that i'm back at the dorm, i hope to bring you guys more of the lil delusions i have swimming about ❤️❤️

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flowercrowngods · 11 months

Text

shattered on the cliff’s edge, trapped by the tides

part 1 / 7 | or: read on ao3

The fog rolls in like a heavy cloud that morning, leaving the city in eerie darkness as Steve hurries toward the heavy door to the steel manufactory, scarf wound tightly around his neck to keep out the cold so uncommon for late September.

“Thanks,” he mutters to the gruff, broad man who holds open the door for him. He sees him every morning but has never had the chance to ask about his name. The question is on the tip of his tongue when, with a nod and a touch to his sturdy-looking hat, the man walks down a different corridor than Steve.

Where outside the fog was so thick that all noise seemed dulled, like cotton in his ears, the manufactory is a cacophony of banging and clanging, hissing and whirring, and Steve needs a moment to breathe the polluted, heavy air that’s always just a tad too hot for his lungs.

He doesn’t mind the work, is good with his hands and enjoys the single-minded focus it provides on a good day, the deafening noise loud enough to drown out most of the comments the other workers throw his way; comments about his father, his upbringing, and his rather sudden downfall when Richard D. Harrington decided to disown his eldest son three years ago without rhyme or reason.

Steelwork, engineering, intricate cogs that work massive machinery — they fascinate him, they keep him busy fourteen hours a day, and they leave him dead to the world when the shift is over and graciously let him sleep through the dreams that have been haunting him ever since he can remember being haunted.

It’s always the same dream, in the fall more than in the spring. A lighthouse trapped in the sea, waves rolling and crashing, water rising so high that it might as well swallow the lighthouse whole. And through it all, a beacon. And through it all, a voice he cannot make out. And through it all, a ticking that echoes through his skull even long after he gasped awake with a lungful of water that Robin says might be Tuberculosis.

He blinks away the gloom that has laid over his heart like the fog over the city, shakes off the trancelike feeling that overtakes him every time he tries to think about the lighthouse when he is wide awake, and rubs away the headache that comes with sleep deprivation. It’s fall again, which means he spends his nights haunted by ghostly images of a lighthouse he’s not even sure exists, robbed of all chances at resting if he doesn’t work himself to the point of absolute exhaustion.

They are earlier this year, the night terrors. Everything is a little earlier this year.

A heavy hand lands on his shoulder as Emerson arrives behind him, leading him to their station with idle chatter about the weather and the horrible, horrible fog that Steve has not the patience to partake in today — which is just as well for Emerson and his sunny disposition, he’ll simply talk enough for the both of them. Steve is fond enough of him to let him be as he falls into the routine of working steel and breathing overheated, coal-stained air.

They work in unison until noon, the headache dull enough as long as he keeps busy, but almost blinding when he stops for even a second. A booming voice makes him look up from his station, though, as he is being summoned to the office.

It’s never a good sign, and Steve can feel the blood draining from his face, pulling the ache with it as it travels down his spine and settles in his centre in a pit of nausea.

“Oh no,” Emerson murmurs under his breath, even managing to sound genuine about it. “What did you do?”

Images assault his mind. Prison, if he’s lucky. Asylum and electroshock therapy if he’s not; if his father changed his mind about making it public that his eldest son and heir deserves punishment, or treatment for moral insanity. Steve tries not to think of that too often, tries not to look at men like that anymore — tries not to look at anyone anymore until the public forgets about him.

But every time he is reminded that he exists is another time of fear. Fear of being found out.

“I… have no idea,” Steve says after a while, looking up to where the door to the office looms above all of them, leaving them to feel like prisoners in a panopticon.

“Better not keep ‘em waiting, then. Probably too late to run, eh?”

“Probably,” Steve says, dazed, not really listening to Emerson as he kicks into motion and walks briskly up the stairs, pretending not to feel everyone’s eyes on his back.

It is out of a nervous habit that he pulls the watch from his pocket, its silver chain linked to his vest. It springs open in his hands as he takes the steps one by one, providing comfort for no reason other than it’s his. It doesn’t show the time, never has, but after losing everything at his father’s whim, the pocket watch stayed with him.

“Keep it,” Richard had sneered. “The blasted thing isn’t worth a penny!”

The fingers only ever moved incrementally over the years, and backwards, but still there is something about the watch that makes him keep it close at all times. Collecting himself, he closes his hand around the light metal and filigree ornaments and mentally counts to three before putting it back in his pocket and knocking on the door.

“Ah, Harrington,” the superior manager says, his voice sounding like gravel as per usual. The man has a habit of competing with the steel manufactory’s chimneys, only he smokes cigars instead of coal dust like his workers. Steve remembers the smell of fine cigars, and this office smells like the best among them.

It only helps to strengthen his disdain for the man.

Still he nods and aims for a pleasant smile. “You asked for me, sir?”

“Yes, yes,” the man says, leaning back in his thick leather chair and motioning for Steve to take a seat at the sturdy, delicately engraved mahogany desk. “Sit down, sit down, time is money and I give you more of that than you deserve anyway. I have a proposition for you and you are in no position to decline, yes?”

“Yes?” Steve says dumbly, taking his time to sit down just to spite him.

The man, however, is not as easily perturbed. “That’s what I want to hear, I have to admire your morale, Harrington. Here,” he turns and reaches for a cabinet, rummaging around for a minute before—

The blood in Steve’s veins freezes, leaving him cold and too hot all at once.

Underneath the beefy hand, he makes out a photograph — or possibly a postcard — showing a stark white lighthouse trapped in the sea, gigantic waves crashing into it, threatening to tear it down and carry it along to wherever the tides lead. The beacon of light is steadfast and stubborn, guiding and pointing at something that’s out of the frame, but what Steve can only assume is absolute nothingness out in the open sea.

He slides it over the table to lie in front of Steve, and he fights every urge to recoil, only gripping the arm rest far too tightly.

“See, we got a telegram earlier today that they’re having problems with the lighthouse up north. They say it’s something with the generator, not fit enough to last in the cold, where the air is made of saltwater more than oxygen.”

Steve nods, though he is only halfway listening, his heart hammering in his chest at the picture of the lighthouse, etched onto the paper like it has no idea it is also etched on the very forefront of Steve’s mind — has been, for almost three decades now.

“And since you’re the only one here traditionally educated in reading and writing,” the man continues, either unaware of Steve’s dizziness or delighting in it, “and you know your way around a machine or two, fixing the generator and handling the light shouldn’t be a problem for you.”

It’s not a question. It’s not even an offer.

Steve wonders if maybe he fell down the stairs and hit his head, if maybe the sleep deprivation is finally leading to hallucinations like Robin keeps warning him.

“You want me to fix the lighthouse?”

“That is precisely what I want, yes. Stay there a while, find out what seems to be the problem.”

He’s getting up, walking over to a cabinet, pulling out a half-empty bottle of what Steve can only assume is whisky. A biting, earthy smell floats through the room, thick enough to cling to his clothes if he stays here much longer.

“You’ll find yourself familiar with the equipment, as it is us who supply them. In fact, you have built generators and fixtures and engines like that. You’re a bright spark, Harrington, I can admit that. You’re the best fit. And I’m not asking.”

His jaw clicks shut, his hands clenched into fists beneath the table as he meets those dark eyes head-on.

“When do I leave?”

An ugly grin spreads the man’s face, gaining too much joy from other people’s powerlessness down the food chain.

“Tomorrow. If I remember correctly, and I usually do, you do not have much business to attend to, and even fewer things to pack. I trust you will find your place at the train station at five tomorrow morning. Emerson will know to fill your shoes in your absence.”

How long will I be gone? he wants to ask, but is too afraid that the answer will only be another cruel smirk and a sip of whisky.

He gets up, certain that he is being dismissed, and getting no sign that he’s wrong.

“Oh, and Harrington.” He stops with his hand on the door already. “Perhaps this is a good time to mention that the lighthouse is without a keeper. I have offered your services for the time being, seeing as you will already be there. The salary, of course, will be thrice as much as your usual.”

The daze is back, smelling of saltwater air and whisky, rushing in his ears like waves bursting on the cliffs.

“What happened to the old keepers?” he dares to ask.

“That doesn’t concern you.”

“Yes, it does. What happened to the old keepers?”

“I think you shall find out soon enough.” A beat of silence — horrible, tidal silence. Then, “You’re dismissed.”

***

The train ride is blessedly pleasant, the first class ticket providing the luxury of comfortable seating and relative silence, the wheels occasionally clicking along the railway loud enough to drown out the near-deafening rushing of the ocean in his ears — or perhaps it’s not the ocean, perhaps it is his own blood, pumped with fear and apprehension.

The only upside to all of this is the telegram he’s been gripping tightly all morning so as not to lose it, not to forget about it, not to think it was a dream. A childish, hopeless dream, a longing for company to battle the fear of the dark.

I’ll meet you there. 3 days.

Signed: Robin Buckley. She never took his name, said she did not want to be associated with Richard and the Harrington wealth that came with the Napoleonic wars — never mind that they happened almost a century ago.

Blood money isn’t wealth, Steven, she’d said to him on many occasions, and he loved her for it all the more.

Maybe it will be fine if Robin is there with him. Maybe they won’t end up succumbing to madness like people are wont to do, subjected to the endless loneliness of lighthouse keeping. Confronted with a darkness so deep it needs human invention to remain habitable. Maybe, he wonders idly and with shortness of breath, the world will end if all its lights are gone. Maybe all that will remain is nothingness and the ruthless sea — maybe, until the sun rises again and the light returns. But up north, the sun doesn’t stay all that long. Up north, they say the darkness is different. They say it’s sentient. They say—

A servant offers him some tea or coffee if he pleases, ripping hit out of his obsessive spiral of apprehension and fear.

“Yes, thank you,” he breathes, miming quiet politeness to cover up the lack of air in his lungs. The servant nods, not at all perturbed by Steve’s rather horrific disposition, and moves along.

The tea helps a little. It’s hard to think horrible thoughts when there is a steaming cup in your hands smelling comfortingly of herbs and just a hint at something spicy. It feels almost primal, his fear of the lighthouse — but just as primal is the comfort he finds in the warmth spreading from his hands all the way through his body. The shaking stops after a minute, and breath has returned to his lungs in a way that doesn’t leave him scared to let it out.

It will be fine. The sea will lose its terror, and so will darkness. He will read, and fix what needs to be fixed, and laugh at it all with Robin by his side, who will teach him about birds they will never see, about authors that don’t live anymore, and about the stars they get to watch.

It will be fine. He will be fine. Always, with Robin.

***

He arrives at the seaside town just before nightfall, and the first thing he notices is not the rushing of the ocean, but the crispness of the air that feels vastly different in his lungs to the grey and brown, polluted city air. It’s like he’s a babe taking his first breath in this world; and just like a babe, he is overcome with the urge to cry. He doesn’t, only pinches the bridge of his nose and grabs his bags — two of them, filled only with clothes and books to pass the time.

The walk to the next inn is a long one, and by the time he arrives there — guttural laughter coming even through closed doors and windows — he is frozen to his bones. If he’d thought that fall was quick to arrive in the city, he might as well have entered an arctic winter up here. The half suspects, though, that the cold comes from his empty stomach and the bitterness that replaced the fear just as well as the actual, biting cold.

And to think it’s only just early September.

He pushes the door open and finds it blissfully warm, a large fire roaring in the fireplace and in the hearth, leaving the food steaming on the plates. Silence settles almost immediately, and Steve freezes on the spot. Being perceived in a situation he has no control over has never been his strong suit, and he wonders just what these people have heard about him. If they heard anything at all.

“Come in or get out, but leave the cold out there,” a large lady says from behind the bar, an apron wrapped around her skirt and a towel in her hand as she eyes him with wary but not unkind eyes.

“Forgive me,” Steve says, stepping further into the inn and letting the heavy door fall shut behind him.

“Ahh,” someone says from where he’s sitting on a round table with six other, quite burly men. Fishermen, Steve assumes, or harbour workers, if their sun-tanned skin and general muscular build are any indication. He places his jug of beer on the table and eyes Steve rather closely. “You’re the boy they sent. Who will fix the lighthouse, aye?”

“Aye,” Steve says stupidly, internally cringing at himself. Then, turning towards the woman, “Have you a room to spare?”

“Have you money to spare?” she retorts, clearly mocking him for his odd choice of words — it’s hard, laying down his aristocratic upbringing, especially in a town auch as this.

“Of course,” he says. “For food, drink, and someone to bring me to the lighthouse in three days.”

Another man of the group snorts loudly, shaking his head and studying his ale like it would tell him the future.

“No way, boy. Ain’t no one gettin’ close to that thing.”

“She’s haunted. Has a mind and a life of her own, and she’s made it clear that no one is welcome to get too close. ‘S what lighthouses are for, eh? No getting too close. You get too close, you die. Simple as that.”

Steve takes it in, the pale faces of the men all nodding along, the thousand yard stares they all have in common — and his fear is back. But greater than his fear is his annoyance with men who insist on calling him boy and decide to speak in riddles instead of making sense.

“Haunted?” he asks, taking one of two spare seats at the table, nodding at the woman in thanks as she brings him an ale that only barely smells like piss. “How?”

“Haven’t you heard?” a fourth man, the oldest of them, speaks up. “There’s a curse on the lighthouse. No one gets out alive. We only ever bring her new stock, like cattle to the slaughterhouse. She takes. She takes and takes, boy.”

“So you do bring them,” Steve points out, far too tired and irritated to listen to a ghost story before he’s even had a proper, warm dinner.

The men still, and Steve places a tower of money in the centre of the table.

“It’s yours,” he says, looking at each of them, one after the other, “if you take us there in three days. Four, if the weather decides to play.”

“Us?”

“My wife,” Steve says.

“Fine,” one of them, the one who first spoke to him, grumbles, reaching for the money. “Now go. This table is for grownups, boy.”

With an eye-roll and an air of arrogance, Steve gets up and finds a seat at another table closer to the fireplace. Soon after, fresh stew is placed before him and he dives in.

***

The lighthouse towers on top of the cliffs and Steve watches, mesmerised, as he makes out its shape even in the pitch black darkness. It’s eerie, the power it emanates, the myths and legends that weave around it and its kind. Legends that would be fascinating learning about them in the safety of one’s bed, but which are horrifying to remember days before the nameless fates could be one’s own.

The darkness of the night really is endless here without the lights of the city, and he can only imagine how the lighthouse would help, how it would bring back hope and security, a promise of safe passage. It’s brings him a sort of peace; a purpose, imagining this town in the lighthouse’s beacon. Safe for the night, safe until the sun comes back.

Still it doesn’t ease his night terrors, filled with whispers as they are, growing in urgency and almost clear enough to make out.

Three days pass. Four. Five. There is no sign of Robin. Anxiety grows within him, because Steve knows Robin was going to take the seaside route from the Cunningham estate — well, one of them, at least.

She has a mind of her own. She takes and takes, boy. She’s haunted. Has a mind and a life of her own, and she’s made it clear that no one is welcome to get too close.

What if…

No. No, there is simply no way. Haunted lighthouses taking lives. There’s no— no way. He won’t fall for their ghost stories.

Unfortunately, however, they don’t fall for his charm either, and on the seventh day, when the sea is calm and the sun steady above them, the man who took they money — Old John, apparently — approaches him.

“We’re leaving now,” he says, shoving Steve ahead of him, deaf to his protest that they have to wait, they have to wait. “Your sweetheart ain’t coming, kid. Don’t think she’ll be coming anywhere ever again if she really took the ship. They talk of a ship that got lost in the storm, burst on the cliffs because there was no light. I’m sorry, kid, but I won’t risk waiting any longer.”

A ship lost in the storm?

But… No. No!

“No,” he whispers, letting himself be shoved onto a tiny boat and rocked this way and that, feeling nauseous for more reasons than one.

He’s wrong, Steve knows; feels it in his very soul. Robin is not dead. She’ll come.

She… She will come. She won’t leave him alone, all alone, in this place that has been haunting him for years and years.

She’ll come.

The lighthouse towers above them, perched on top of cliffs that make Steve understand why nobody wanted take him here. There’s no safe way of getting close, let alone climbing up the stairs carved into the cliffs, leading up to the door with no railing, no rope to hold onto. One large wave crashing into him, and he’d belong to the ocean.

He wants to cry again. Wants to curl in on himself and weep as the reality of everything begins to settle in the deepest, darkest places of his heart.

If he leaves the boat, he’ll be trapped with no way of getting out, no way of contacting the land they’ve left far, far behind. Supplies are said to last several months, he knows, he studied the file he got. Several months without human interaction unless Robin magically, wonderfully appears in a few days after all.

“Good luck, kid,” is the last thing he’ll ever hear of Old John as he pulls himself onto the cliffs, reaching for his bags from the old man’s hands. The sea is deafening here as waves crash and burst relentlessly, and he can’t hear what else Old John is saying, but he thanks him and salutes, which the seaman returns with an air of melancholy.

Steve climbs the stairs, soaked to the bones by the splashing water, but somehow — miraculously — malign his way up. As he turns around, fog is starting to gather above the water, but he can make out the tiny silhouette of the boat.

He watches, and it’s meant as a last goodbye, one last glance at his one way out. But terror fills him as he watches, helplessly, powerlessly, as Old John’s boat keels over and disappears. He keeps his eyes fixed to the spot, not daring to look away until there’s proof of life. But Old John doesn’t break the surface again.

And Steve is left filled with horror and the absolute certainty that he might not make it out if he sets foot inside the lighthouse.

Behind him, the door opens with a horrible, terrifying creak, and the beating of his heart is too loud for any other noise to exist in Steve’s world right now.

🌊 part 2 (coming 26 October)

tagging (trading tags for kindness): @klausinamarink @vampeddie @steviesummer @sharpbutsoft @auroraplume

#steddie fic #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve x eddie #stranger things #stranger things fanfic #spooky lighthouse au #dio words #this is so long i’m so sorry 😭😭 i’ll try not to let the other parts be so extensive with exposition hdhdh #it will go up on ao3 when i’ve had the time to proofread this but as things are rn we just fuck around and ignore typos #*frantically scrambling* does any of this make sense so far???

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my-dearest-aster · 22 days

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[250324]

We’re just friends, I say

But the tea with you

Always brings out

A myriad of flavours

Rich, I call it,

And grow fond of the old small café

A little more each time

I pause when we talk

Because I lose myself somewhere

In your spring of warm emerald green

Sea waves crash against the shore

Cicadas chirp

A siren song

The water has never

Felt so much like home

Tides overtake me and raise me up

My sun is much closer in high noon

It dries the salt on my face

Touches me in farewell hugs each day

And flickers in

Roaring laughter every passing moment

It burns in things only we know

And the freckles it leaves me with

Are all that much sweeter

I love getting sunburnt by you

You’re my perfect temperature

And the light I’d gladly become blind in.

#poetry #original poem #poem #writeblr #writing #spilled ink #spilled poetry #poems and quotes

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starboy-acer · 3 months

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RIPTIDE SHIP NAMES THAT I USE!

Note: I don't ship Niklaus with any of them, but I really really like the names, so I keep them. if the ship name is pink then that means i actually ship it/love it amen (aka it prolly is a rarepair developed by a mutual that i fell in love with). some of these i may not ship and plenty of these can be taken as platonic only! these are just ship/duo names for characters (using & means i see it only as platonic/familial/a duo/trio name with no romance elements at all.

ALBATRIO

fish and chips: chip/gillion [otp]

navyseal: jay/gillion

mockingjay: chip/jay

poly pirates: chip/jay/gillon [otp pt 2]

CHIP

sailorsong/scarlet captains: chip/jazz

fools gold/bargaining chip: chip & niklaus

drunken sailors: chip/caspian

chiptune: chip/queen

stoneflame: chip/igneous

treble theft: chip/jazz/queen [liam someguy thank u for this]

JAY FERIN

women in STEM: jay/ensa

pistolwhip: jay/lizzie

sharpshooter: jay/kira

bloodshot: jay/anastasia

sheshells: jay/edyn

artemis anchor: jay/aslana

jay's harem/let's go lesbians: jay/her many girlfriends (ever changing, always evolving)

high noon: jay & ichabod

GILLION TIDESTRIDER

swordfish: gillion/caspian [only person other than chip i can see him w]

dealbreaker: gillion & niklaus

sea shanty: gillion/queen

the moist ones: gillion & felipe & goobleck

buddycops: DOPPLE Gillion & Kira [thank u mast]

MULTIPLE PC + NPC POLY

fish squared and chips/sea sharp: chip/gillion/caspian

manlet, manwhore, manslayer: chip & gillion & niklaus

deal with the devil: chip & jay & gillion & niklaus

bardic inspiration: chip/jay/gillion/queen

full ensemble: chip/jay/gillion/queen/jazz

NPC RIPTIDE PIRATES, GUEST PCS, MISC NPCS

watergun/writer's block: drey/finn

robopanda/cybershot: alphonze/gryffon

cattlepunk: drey/ichabod [I ADORE THEM. thank u liam someguy]

whitefeather/widow duo: ichabod/ella teach [LOML. made & rp'd this w jynx]

dead husband society: drey/ichabod/ella [u can literally only understand this if you’ve read The Cattlepunk Fic]

starshine: drey/ella [thank jrwi reset]

pearlescent: aslana/edyn [thanks to jynx for putting me on this]

lamprey: anastasia/aslana

meta duo: felipe & goobleck

sea serpent: price & edyn

sea witch: niklaus/edyn [hangout actor au put me on this...]

GRANDBERRYS + JAZZ

waning crescent: lizzie/ava [CANON. LOVE THEM.]

rose tides: lizzie/edyn

guns n roses: lizzie/jazz

singing the blues: jazz/caspian

jam session: jazz/queen

beatbox: jazz & la alma (shoutout hangout actor au rp)

soundwaves: caspian/queen

rosewater: lizzie/caspian [tbh... i love it]

polyberry: lizzie/caspian/john/rudith (all the grandberrys)

PLS MSG ME, REPLY, REBLOG, IDC TO TELL ME EITHER MORE SHIP NAMES FOR THESE SHIPS OR GIVE ME NEW ONES TO BE ADDED IF I LIKE THEM!!!! ill update this consistently!!!

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unreliable-narrator-chilaios · 2 months

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chilaios week; day 6 prompt: "beach episode/alternative universe", using both prompts; 1,579 words

no i did not do the previous days. yet. but i WAS struck by inspiration for this one. i don't want to give too much away so i'm not saying what the AU is, but you'll figure it out lol

title: Chilchuck's Secret

cws: not any, I think? this one's very sweet. i wanted to use the good vibes of beach episode... i guess there's some suggestive lines, but it's not nsft at all.

There’s a secret at the beach, if you know where and when to look.

And nobody knows but Chilchuck, of course.

He was always the sort of man to keep his cards close to his chest, and this was no exception. Anything that he treasured, he had to keep locked away - hoarding everything he held dear to keep it safe and sound, out of the way of harm… with maybe only a hint of jealousy inherent in that act. Greed, even.

Not that he was the greedy one out of the two of them. That title belonged to Laios, through and through.

The brittle shale that crumpled beneath his fingers was cool to the touch, compared to how it would feel later. It hadn’t yet been baked in the sun for hours today. The shale and limestone and sand were blissfully cool for now, letting him take his time on his way down the short cliffside to the cove. It was the time of year that it was cool in the morning and searingly hot in the afternoon, the time of year that he was always tempted to stay from dawn until dusk. Maybe even longer than that. It was a rush to get across the route when the sand scalded and blistered his feet, but when it was cool, it was almost soft. Pleasant.

He needed the lack of urgency - the slowly building arthritis in his hands and knees made him especially stiff in the mornings. His tri-weekly trips here had been helping considerably, but the way down to get there was rough, even if the reward was well worth it. His body creaked traitorously, even as it allowed him his nimble movements down the short rock wall, the sudden lurch from his hop down onto flat stone.

Tide pools flourished here. It was low tide, making the shallow dips and pools in the rock especially prominent, where hardy, stubborn plants drooped at the surface and critters scuttled within and between them. He was careful to sidestep a crab on his way to the sand proper, relaxing as his feet sank into the fine grains.

He breathed in the scent of sea spray, salt and foam, the smell of things washed up by the tide and left stranded when the waters receded. A chunk of driftwood would soon be picked up again at noon, when the high tide came back; clumps of washed-up kelp and algae littered the beach, at the line where he knew the tide would come up to later.

The sun was still low in the sky, just barely peeking through the trees that sheltered the cove. The passage to the ocean was narrow, and the forest was thick in this area. Most of the cove wasn’t just blocked off by trees, but cliffs. His route down the side of one was the safest; the beach here was free of litter, free of the sound of crinkling plastic and the smell of waste, the bright eyesores of humanity that left their mark on nature’s majesty.

Chilchuck relaxed as his eyes gravitated towards an outcropping of rock in the center of the water. He wasn’t here yet, but that was fine. The half foot was early to their meeting.

He made himself comfortable. The sand yielded to him where he stepped, slipping between his toes and under his heel as he walked across the sandy portions of the beach, coming up to a rock that he’d begun to favor in the past month. Pebbles and sharp stones littered the sand here, but he didn’t mind, avoiding them the best he could before he quickly scaled the side of the beach rock.

It was the outermost boulder of a wider outcropping that extended from the cliffs, forming a small, flat perch on top that let him have an excellent view of the cove. The chill in the rock was soothing as he sat down, careful not to let his swimming trunks get caught on the sharp little crags.

Other than his swimming trunks, he wasn’t wearing much. Just a plain white swim shirt. The trunks themselves were solid black. He would have opted for clothing that looked a little better, but he had to replace them often - he kept stashes of extra pairs in an alcove nearby, in case of them being ripped or shredded while he was here.

It happened much more often than he’d like. The thought alone made him huff, amused, as his whiskers twitched and his tail curled around his side. His ears flicked when he felt the breeze stir the inner ear fur. He usually hid his more… animalistic features when he could, but he knew Laios would just rip his clothes off even faster, just for a chance to feel his tail. Grabby bastard.

Speaking of. Speak of the devil, and he shall come.

There’s a large, dark shadow in the water. The water here is practically crystal clear, but it’s massive and far away - the cove is huge, after all, stretching across half a mile from one side to the other. He can see the little flurries of shoals of fish scattering in its wake, schools dispersing and reforming as they flittered between open water and the abundance of plants in the makeshift, tiny reef that had formed here. Small stretches of coral were in the deeper parts of the water, here, and seagrass and algae offering food and shelter a little further out, teetering off into just rocks closer to the beach. Algae particularly liked the base of the sea stack in the middle, the base of the colossal rock wrapped in slimy dark green.

With a burst of ripples and sea spray, the figure breaks the surface of the water, hauling itself up the rock with relative ease, even as gravity drags it down. He isn’t meant for the surface, after all, and without the buoyancy of the water, he’s heavy - because, after all, he’s an utterly massive cecaelia. Pale skin transitioned to yellow-gold at the waist, the muscular fatty upper human half matched with a fat, bulky form of an octopus, rippling with muscle underneath slick, oddly-textured skin and suction cups. He easily hauled himself onto his own perch, running a hand through his blonde hair and practically deflating under his own weight for a moment.

Those golden eyes light up like always when their gazes meet. Swaths of his skin light up in a blushing pink, giving away how happy he is. Laios was always, and would always be, an open book. He loves that about him.

Chilchuck carefully made his way back down the rock, feet planted into the sand and pebbles and sea glass. He waded into the shallows, where the water was relatively warm. It wasn’t long until he was swimming, doing a bit of a pathetic doggy paddle to the base of the sea stack - and then one of those muscular arms gently wound its way around his torso, lifting him up out of the water and onto the little plateau. The routine was wound into them at this point, wordlessly slumping into one another as soon as he was able to reach his human half. Those big, strong arms wrapped around him, one hand coming down to pet along the drenched fur of his tail.

He didn’t shake himself out like he wanted to. That was a bit too dog-like, for his tastes. Laios always laughed at him when he did it, with that soft, genuinely happy laugh.

“Dork,” he mumbled, non-contextually. It earned a chuckle, vibrating through that broad chest.

He’s pulled into a kiss, small and chaste, but sweet nonetheless. He curls his tail around the cecaelia’s hand, relaxing into his hold like always after he pulled away. That chest was the perfect pillow, letting him listen to his breathing, the beating of his heart. He knew it would sound different if he listened to it while the man was underwater, when he used his gills instead of his lungs. He found his body idly fascinating, but not as fascinating as Laios found his to be.

The hand not occupied with his tail pressed softly against the back of his neck, thumbing across the muscles between his neck and shoulder. “You missed me,” he teased, curling one of those arms around his leg to hold him securely. He always wanted to completely surround him, hold him with everything he had. “That was… what, two days?”

“Shut up,” he scolded, playfully. He smacked his bicep lightly, swatting at him like a fly. It just made the man laugh. His ears burned and he knew they were scarlet on the inside. He couldn’t help that Laios was the best thing going on in his life right now. His secret treasure. “I didn’t miss you, you were just annoying immediately. I mean, come on. You’re bright pink. I thought that the color change was for camouflage! Eedjit.”

He laughed that sweet laugh again.

“M’eudail.” He said it with the tone of an insult, a curse, even if it very much wasn’t, as he swatted him again. “Ye fuckin’ sook.”

“You definitely missed me.” Laios was grinning, more of that oddly-textured skin flushing pink and red. “I can change the subject, though. Do you want to hear about a weird fish I caught the other day?”

Chilchuck huffed, whiskers twitching. “Sure.”

He could listen to him talk about just about anything for hours.

#chilaios week #chilaios week day 6 #chilaios

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xxsycamore · 1 month

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a/n: at long last, the end of this slightly different story I did for Napoleon last year. I wanted to write about a more quiet and intimate way of spending his birthday. Contains non-explicit nsft, MDNI. part i - part ii - part iii Happy belated birthday, Napoleon!

iv. insieme finiremo per cercare un posto quieto per nasconderci

The next day Napoleon is up before noon, and there's something laughably selfish about it that MC can't quite put her finger on, but she's not complaining. Napoleon makes up something about the fresh air and the climate messing up with his sleep, but he looks too excited for the day to unfold. Both he and MC are dressed up all in white today, with his linen pant legs rolled up just a little, giving him that boyish look that perfectly compliments his messy hair. His normal cleaning up is already everyone else's day-off look, it's unbelievable that he can get any more casual than that, but voilà.

The walk down the hill and to the beach is scenic, and with just enough obstacles to prevent them from eating all the food they packed before they can even reach their destination. The sun is high up in the sky and it feels almost weird to fall out of rhythm and have breakfast at a time that normally sees everyone leaving the table after their second meal of the day, back in the mansion.

The beach lacks the way-kinder-on-the-feet fine golden sand but it's not all rough stones either - a big chunk of it is taken by a wide rock, the surface smoothened by centuries worth of high tides. The vibrant blue of the sea is even more breathtaking when contrasted with the warm gray of the stone.

Napoleon and MC lay out their little picnic there, declaring themselves a pair of lizards. They still open the parasol, of course, using its modest shade in a semi-lying position that reminds of breakfast in bed. Olive paste spread over rye bread, peppers stuffed with ricotta, figs, white grapes, by the time they're all gone Napoleon talks about being sleepy again, and MC finds it hard not to relate, especially when he offers his chest like so. It turns out to be a passing drowsiness, a gap of time they fill with more chatter before the seawater becomes too enticing with its promise of cooling them off. With a pile of white clothes left behind, Napoleon takes in the clear waters that allow him to see the seafloor and a flame is lit in his eyes - the next second he's diving down from the rock, leaving MC to shout his name in betrayal as she lags behind due to properly folding her dress.

Brushing aside wet strands that stick to his forehead, Napoleon watches her make her way down slippery rocks, her two-piece bikini out of this world but simultaneously a sight he feels like he's seen countless times before. Because that's just how easily she fits right in, in his life. By the time she swims to his embrace he's reconsidered going underwater to pull on her leg, he must kiss her right now. And so he does. And so they're done pretending they weren't waiting for this the entire time.

The moment MC rises to the tips of her toes, Napoleon's arms secure their hold on her rear and lift her up, making her wrap her legs around his torso. Clothing is being shoved aside and out of the way. Napoleon whispers something about his next birthday wish involving going in nude next time they get in the water, and he makes it so the chuckle he receives in return morphs into a moan. The sea seemed a lot more waveless before they went in, or maybe the sea has nothing to do with it at all.

Chestnut-colored hair strands dance in the waters and catch the shimmer of the sun, leaving Napoleon unusually still and quiet even for the aftermath of their lovemaking, hypnotized as he is by the beauty of it all. They remain there connected under the water, surrounded by the moment in all its pure naturalistic scenery. Like they're the last two people standing on Earth.

The wet trail of footsteps leading to their spot on the rock disappears quicker than it would do in wet sand. The waterdrops on warmed skin dry about as fast, but Napoleon is faster when he chases after their cascading down MC's back, with his lips. It's salty, but his mouth is still sweetened by the kisses the two of them shared earlier.

Napoleon has many childhood stories from around the shore, enough to fill a whole afternoon with, and he keeps prodding at MC's memory so it could be tit for that. He asks again why they didn't bring that bottle of wine with them, reminding that it's not going to be 'that early in the day' forever, you know.

They take a walk and lament the absence of seashells which prevents Napoleon from showing a game he used to play a long, long time ago, and then make do with rocks that turn out to be no less eye-catching with their translucence. They only stop when it hits them that they intended to save some daylight for reading too.

It's not that the books are not of interest, if that was the case then the one hour spent in their hosts' home library picking them would have been a waste of time. It's just that Napoleon can't stop staring, and MC can't stop staring either. After the third time it gets annoying to lose your line, so why bother at all.

He tells her to remain in position, even with the book now closed and put aside - with her on her belly, and the sun still resting on her back, Napoleon soon straddles her legs and lets his large hands roam on her back.

After spending a good time admiring the tan line left by a thin strap and how it sealed their memory, seriously rivaling his awfully temporary in comparison lovemarks, he is no longer holding a grudge against non-nudity. And he takes her again under the setting sun, right there and then.

"Would you like me to carry you on the way back?"

MC tucks a strand behind her ear, the silky smoothness of her hair now replaced by sun-dried waves that smell like the sea. They're done gathering their things but she can't shake off the feeling that they'd left something behind. Before the terribly cheesy thought of that something being a piece of themselves can creep inside her already dreamy mind, she hurries to answer him.

"No, there's no reason for that, I can still walk!"

"Then, let's make a reason."

The mouthfuls of blood that were offered to him last night, politely turned down with a recognition of her tired eyes, are now seized in a true Napoleon fashion. It's a habit with him, putting a strategy in action until he comes out triumphant and with a smirk on his face that no one can wipe off. It's less contributed by getting his fill of the euphoric essence and more by the matching expression on MC's face, caught by the last rays of the sun bleeding in shades of orange. She doesn't complain being princess-carried back home anymore. This close up, she can easily remove the blood spilled on his chin with the back of her hand and retain some of their decency. Because it surely isn't hard to imagine whatever else the two of them were up to the whole day.

Un mondo fatto per due.

Back home, there's another surprise awaiting both the birthday boy and MC. It would appear that things cannot be kept secret under this roof, too, in case they'd started missing the atmosphere of Comte's mansion too much. The table in the garden has just been laid for the whole family but Napoleon is offered the central seat, under the sounds of birthday sing-alongs. He doesn't know which gaze to return first and ends up being rendered speechless and with a bubbling warmth in his heart that gets to his face. The attention doesn't bother him at all but MC still checks with a hand laid on top of his, under the table. His smile is dazzling when he turns their hands around and gives hers a little squeeze.

It's the perfect end of a perfect day, and Napoleon makes sure to repeat it a few times more times, for good measure, in a whisper close to her ear when he falls asleep with his head on her chest that night. Together with a handful of I-love-you's. Just for good measure.

#ikemen vampire #ikevamp #ikevamp napoleon #ikemen vampire napoleon #ikemen napoleon #ikemen series #ikeseries #otome

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elliebyrrdwrites · 26 days

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I'm just a Drabbler.

DRAMIONE

Death gives a whole new perspective to the simpler things in life.

There is a glow against the horizon that is starting to melt into the dark blues of the sky. The sun is promising light, while the night battles its end. Hermione watches the sun rise like a child being born, as the night gives in to it’s old age and the inevitable death that occurs every morning, without fail.

She never thought that, in death, she would enjoy the ongoing metamorphosis of the sky above. But it is something that, in life, she had paid little attention to.

She can feel Draco approaching. It’s been like that since they both died. Some sort of connection that formed as they both fell through the Veil. Though, it is one they seem to fight on a daily basis.

He appears to her right, the smell of mint and citrus filling her nostrils. She angles her head up to watch him lift an unlit cigarette to his mouth. Watches, as he lifts a lighter to it and sets it ablaze.

Through squinted eyes, he puffs on the cigarette, until the end is cherry red and crackling as the paper around the tobacco burns. Feeling her gaze on him, he lowers the cigarette from his mouth and exhales slowly. He lifts a brow at her and she rolls her eyes.

“Those things are disgusting.” She lifts her head. “Cancerous.”

The corner of Draco’s lips lift, just enough to cause her stomach to flip uncomfortably. “I’m already dead. Seems a good a time as any to start a new bad habit.”

“Well, I hate it.” She turns back to gaze out at the horizon, her chin lifting proudly.

“Yes, but that just makes it all the more alluring.”

He sticks the cigarette back into his mouth and stretches his arms high over his head and arches his back in a nice, long stretch. As the light of the sun begins to spread across the horizon, a little hut becomes visible. It’s so far away, it looks as small as a pin prick.

“That it?” Draco says around the butt of the cigarette. The smoke snakes up around his pale blue eyes and Hermione hums in ascent. “I think so.”

“So, this is it, huh?”

She nods, eagerly. “Finally.” She sighs and lifts her face to the sky. Closing her eyes, she inhales deeply and allows the cool, damp air to touch her face just a little longer. Soon, they’ll be completing the task handed to them from the man in Limbo. And then, they can finally earn their passage back.

Hermione had initially accepted the task with enthusiasm, and very little questions. She just wanted to get back home. To Ron, to her job and her friends.

The journey to this spot was long and difficult. But together, she and Draco had walked mile after mile, day after day, until they finally arrived to the little home where a very important woman would be killed. Their job, was to ensure that she didn’t die. Their job, was to protect this woman. The woman, apparently, was going to be very important for the future of the human race. A vital figure in the tides of change, the man in Limbo had said. Once she and Draco would ensure that the woman would live past noon, the two of them would be transported back to Limbo, where they would be allowed to pass back through the Veil and back into their lives.

When she opened her eyes, Hermione found Draco watching her. Over the weeks, his gaze had softened considerably. It felt like hers had sharpened, finally seeing Draco for who he actually was.

Which was funny and charming, and not as prattish as she had once thought.

There was a lingering sadness that seemed to cling to them. it seemed to have developed over the past few days, having spent their nights curled up together around a campfire they stared at for hours on end, waiting for sleep to come.

Sleep, as it turns out, was not something the dead needed often, or even at all.

But, they both seemed to miss it. And often, they would lie still in each others warmth and pretend to sleep, eyes closed. Draco’s body would spoon around hers, his fingers soothing little circles over her abdomen and as they pretended to sleep, Hermione often found that she could allow him to dip the pads of his fingers onto her bare stomach, or to run the palm of his hand against her thigh.

It never went further than that. Because, back in the mortal realm, she was engaged, of course. And Draco was just her coworker.

Together, they had tumbled through the veil and erroneously began their journey into the afterlife.

#dramione #fanfic #dramione fanfic #hermione granger #draco malfoy #draco x hermione #hermione x draco #dramione fanfiction #dramione ship #dramione fan fiction #dhr fanfiction #dramione drabbles #dramione drabble #dhr drabbles #dhr drabble

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crissiebaby · 1 year

Text

Double Diaper Dare: Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER: This story contains diaper usage, public humiliation, masturbation/diaper sex, WAM, hypnosis, diaper filling, slime transformation, and other ABDL themes. This series is a direct follow-up to the short story, Codi’s Trick, and while you don’t need to read it to understand this, I highly recommend it. I hope you enjoy!

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Codi’s Diary: Entry 141

I was alone for a long time, longer than the deepest reaches of my memory banks would ever allow me to remember. No name, no goals or aspirations, and barely any consciousness to speak of. Floating along as a pile of amorphous goo in zero gravity apathetic to everything around me. I didn’t know at the time if anything else or anyone else was out there. Heck, I didn’t even know what time was.

That was until my form was sucked into and sent hurling past the event horizon of a black hole only to be spat out on some barren rock in the middle of a dead star system. It would’ve been a bleak ending to a dismal existence were it not for a parting gift that my sudden trip through time and space had left me with. I didn’t understand it then but I had been given the unique ability to create wormholes at will. Wormholes that I could use to travel the cosmos.

With the farthest reaches of space within my grasp, I traveled the galaxy and watched countless civilizations across millions of stars rise and fall, learning from them and developing consciousness slowly over time. However, there was one planet I found myself coming back to again and again. A small, underdeveloped planet with sentient life that was only beginning to take its first steps, much like I was. These bizarre and complicated life forms were called humans, and if only I had known then what my newfound love for humanity would lead to…

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“I dare you.”

Three little words that, while seemingly insignificant, had the power to turn tides and wage wars. To turn down a dare would be to bring unparalleled shame and dishonor.

“Bawk bawk!” shouted Crissie repeatedly, flapping her arms up and down like a chicken as she encircled Codi’s drawing corner. She lifted her knees high with every step to add to the animal caricature, her double-thick diaper rustling in Codi’s ears like a trash bag full of leaves, “I didn’t know my favorite roomie was such a chicky-chick-chicken! Bawk bawk!”

Focusing on her tablet as her eye twitched uncontrollably, Codi was nearing her daily limit of Crissie’s annoying antics, and it wasn’t even noon yet. Having been living within Crissie’s pocket dimension nursery for several months, there wasn’t a day that went by without the aforementioned diaper lover finding some new and unique way to pester her. And things had only gotten worse since the big Halloween reveal. “For the last time, no! You can say whatever you want but I’m not going to shift into my slime form and that’s final!” she said, blushing as she once again was forced to acknowledge her species.

Despite the humanoid form that Codi took, she was actually a goo-person from a different dimension. And while she could move between forms with ease, she preferred to keep her human form whenever she could even before rooming with Crissie. Sadly, that hasn’t stopped Crissie from asking her to change into a slime every single day since she found out. Her latest approach: the ‘dare’ tactic.

“Awww! But it could be so much fun!” whined Crissie as she thought back to how amazing it felt to have Codi’s goo swirling around in her diaper. If only that witch’s spell hadn’t been temporary, then they could have horny playtimes like that all the time. Flopping her arms over Codi’s shoulders, she sank to the floor pathetically, “Pleeeeeeeeeease! I promise I won’t ask for anything else!”

Shaking her head, Codi snickered, “Oh, pleeeeeeease, yourself! We both know that’s not true. You said the exact same thing after you asked me to draw those diaper nudes of you AND after you got me to put that suppository in your…you-know-where!”

“Hehehe, yeah,” said Crissie, forgetting the plot for a brief moment as she fondly remembered the outcome of that suppository, “...but I really mean it this time!”

Rolling her eyes, Codi ignored Crissie’s pleas and attempted to resume her work. That was until the brat reached over her body and snatched her drawing pen out of her hand. “Crissie, I swear if you don’t give that back-”

“You’ll what?” said Crissie, pulling open the front of her diaper and dropping the pen inside, “Ooh, and I think I’m gonna have an accident pretty soon.”

Frustrated and over Crissie’s brattitude, Codi stretched her hand out quickly transforming her fingers into strands of purple goo, and wrapped herself around Crissie’s wrists and waist. She then pulled Crissie in close and promptly stuck her free hand down the front of Crissie’s diaper, retrieving her pen in seconds. “There, I’d say I lived up to my end of the dare,” she snarked, blowing the remnants of powder off of her drawing pen with a satisfied smirk, “So, now I dare you to shut up and go play in your crib until I’m done drawing.”

Puffing up her cheeks into a big pout, Crissie made a series of angry noises before stomping off and plopping herself down in her crib. She may have been pissed at how Codi got around the dare, but she was much too proud to not follow a dare given to her. Grabbing the bars of the crib, she slammed them up into place and folded her arms as she sat cross-legged on the plush mattress, her eyes locked on Codi.

Codi, meanwhile, got back to work despite feeling Crissie’s eyes burning a hole in the back of her non-existent skull. Thankfully, knowing how short of an attention span Crissie had, it wouldn’t be long before her mind was occupied by something else. At least, that’s what she hoped, anyway, failing to calculate precisely how petty Crissie was feeling.

After a few minutes of staring at her artistic adversary from behind a row of crib bars, Crissie finally gave up on the stoic approach, knowing that she’d need to step up her game if she was going to get Codi to focus her attention back on her. Luckily, she had perfect equipment ready to go within the comfort of her crib. Pulling out a Magic Wand from under her pillow, things in the nursery were about to get very loud.

“Mmmmmmm! Uuuuuugh!” moaned Crissie as she pressed the head of the large, white vibrator against the front of her diaper. She wasn’t nearly as horny as she was making it out to be, but that wasn’t the point. The point was to get on Codi’s nerves, and in that department, she was definitely succeeding.

Placing a hand on one of her ears, Codi furrowed her brows and attempted to block out the world around her. Unfortunately, that was easier said than done, as Crissie’s sexual noises only got louder and more “passionate.” She swore that Crissie had to be one of the worst actors of all time. That sadly didn’t mean that she wasn’t accomplishing her goal of being an outright distraction.

Slamming her pen down on her desk, Codi promptly stood up and stomped over to Crissie’s crib. “You’re lucky I can’t create wormholes anymore or else I would be so outta here. I’m seriously about to tape your mouth shut,” she said starkly with zero humor in her tone, continuously dreading the fact that Master had stolen her powers from her when she had first arrived in the nursery.

“Kinky,” responded Crissie, giggling as she stuck her tongue out, “Wait a minute, you got up from your desk! That means you’re done drawing, which means I won the dare!”

Pressing her thumb and forefinger on her eyes, Codi let out a long, painful groan. “I was literally getting up to tell you to can it. But sure, if it makes you feel good, you beat your dare. Now can you let me draw in peace?!”

“Nuh-uh! That means we’re tied one to one!” shouted Crissie, leaping to her feet and peeking her head over the side of the Crib, “So now it’s my turn to give you a dare again! Those are the rules.”

Throwing her arms in the air dramatically, Codi yelled, “What moronic rules are you talking about?!”

“The rules of Double Diaper Dare, of course,” said Crissie, acting as though what she was saying was common knowledge, “We’re supposed to give each other dares until one of us fails to do their dare or they chicken out! It’s like Double Dog Dare, only all the dares are supposed to be diaper-themed. I don’t get where the confusion is.”

Resting her head on the side of one of the crib posts, Codi couldn’t believe how self-centered and ridiculous Crissie was behaving. It wasn’t like those adjectives weren’t normally used to describe Crissie. However, for some reason, she was even worse today than usual, “The confusion is how your baby brain possibly could’ve perceived that we were playing a game at all. I don’t remember agreeing to Double Diaper Dare or whatever you sai-”

“Bawk! Bawk bawk bawk bawk!” Without hesitation, Crissie instantly launched into another series of mocking chicken noises, refusing to let Codi get a word in edgewise.

Balling up her fist, something inside of Codi snapped as her ears were once again assaulted by Crissie’s ceaseless gibberish. Whether it was her inner-competitive spirit or the result of all the mind-numbing ways Crissie had gone out of her way to be annoying, she refused to let this indignity stand. As much as she didn’t want to play Crissie’s stupid game, this was the perfect opportunity to change the status quo within the nursery for the foreseeable future. If Crissie wanted to play games, she was going to make the bratty Little suffer as much as possible. “Fine then! You wanna play Double Diaper Dare? Bring it!” she said, placing her hands on her hips as she glared at her opponent, “But if I’m playing, there’s gonna be some stakes involved. If I win, you have to leave me alone and play quietly whenever I’m working. Deal?”

Getting exactly what she wanted, Crissie's mouth curled into a sly smile. “Deal!” she said, officially throwing down the gauntlet with her dear roomie, “And if I win, I get to play with Slime Codi again!” She extended her arm through the crib bars, offering her hand to Codi to seal the deal.

Codi instantly returned the gesture, gripping Crissie’s hand tightly as she shook it. “Alright, CrissieBaby, hit me with your best shot. What’s my dare?”

TO BE CONTINUED…

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Edited by AllySmolShork

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