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carolmunson · 7 months

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the boy is mine (carol's edition)

you know i had to do it to 'em. if you'd like to take a crack at the 'the boy is mine' writing challenge, you can check it out here. you can also see the masterlist of everyone's works here. a/n: for me, how eddie was fleshed out in FOI has always been how i see him. hurting, but goofy, but snarky, but sweet, but loving, but scared, but all that. eddie 'has taken care of himself since third grade' munson just makes sense to me. in this ficlet, our romantic night in gets muddled when eddie doesn't know how to just let someone love him right. i've also always have written eddie as older than he actually is, so here -- he's 25. argue with the wall. tw: 18+, angst, hurt/comfort, some smutty references but no smut, references to smoking and drinking. some arguing but nothing crazy.

The day was hard on his shoulders and back, no one should be hunched over the hood of a car for this long -- and even being young isn't saving him from the grimace he makes every time he gets out of his bed with a decades old mattresss. Eddie cracks his neck each way while he chugs down the road leading to Forest Hills, slick and shiny with rain from the afternoon. The orangey yellow headlights on his beat up '71 Chevrolet bounce cheerily off the darkened asphalt, but the scrape, clatter, and growl of his engine and whatever else was a stark reminder that this van was on it's last leg. As bright as the headlights were, the gloomy purpled evening sky was a perfect match to his mood.

Today is Eddie Munson's birthday.

For the past few years, Eddie has spent his birthday working double shifts at the auto shop and then meeting the guys at the Hideout to get so drunk he can't see. Can't be sad about your birthday if you're too drunk to think about how your mama's dead and your dad won't call. Can't be sad about how you won't ever get to hear her sing you happy birthday, or put on a record, or dance with you in the living room. Or have your dad make dinner and put the six pack away if only for that night. To not run out on 'a job' or 'work a late shift' where he won't come back for days afterward.

He'd drink and drink until you had to hold him up to get him out of the bar, piling him into the back seat and having the guys follow you home to help load him into bed. He always looked forward to the greasy diner hangover breakfast in the morning where it could be just the two of you, and not his birthday, and not all the awful things he thinks he is.

The gravel groans and crunches when he pulls in at the side of the trailer he used to share with Wayne. With another roll of his head and shoulders he kills the ignition, hopping out of the van and leaning over to grab his bag. It's only when he slings it over his shoulder that he notices the warm glow of the kitchen light on, passing muted through the small curtains. He hip checks the door shut and makes his way up the steps that need repairing -- another thing to add to the list for 'Spring Cleaning' in a couple weeks that he knows he'll forget to do until you remind him or one of the boards rots out. Eddie's ring tap against the metal handle and he braces for the screech of the door, only to be met with the cozy blend of garlic, onion, and rosemary hitting his nose first. He swallows while he kicks off his work boots, turning the corner to see you in the kitchenette, putting the lid back onto the one large pasta pot he has and turning the burner off. "Oh!" you jump when you see him, shock turning into a smile, "You're earlier than I thought you'd be. Hold on!"

"What're y--" He's interrupted by you hurrying into the fridge, glass clinking when you pull out a Mionetto bottle that was already opened to reveal the cork.

"Surprise!" you ring out, popping the bottle with a little flourish, "Happy birthday!" He stands there, unsure at first what he's looking at, trying to take it all in. You in the kitchen with an apron on, the table set nice, a cake set on the counter to cool with a covered bowl of what looks like home made vanilla frosting next to it. To the side, a familiar small notebook lays opened to a buttercream recipe -- his mom's buttercream recipe, still scrawled in her loopy handwriting on yellowing pages with fading blue ink.

"Melvald's didn't have any like, nice cups," you say with a scrunch of your nose as you pour two glasses of prosecco into flimsy plastic flutes, "Is that okay?" "Uh..." he snaps back to reality when you hand him the cup, "Y-yeah that's okay." "Happy birthday, handsome," you smile, raising your drink before you take a sip, he follows suit.

"What is all this?" he asks, voice sounding like it's coming from someone else. Objectively, he should be falling to his knees right now, crying with adoration for you. Sobbing over the clear effort you've put in for a romantic night together at the trailer. "Um," you suck in your lips quickly, and release them, eyes lowering to the scuffed linoleum, "I uh, I made braised short rib and mashed potatoes, some broccoli. Wayne told me that um, that your dad used to smoke them for your birthday but we don't have a smoker so..."

"Why?" The swell in his heart builds from genuine affection to suspicious bitterness, this was way too much.

"Did you not check the calendar today or something? It's kind of a big day," you try to lighten the mood with a laugh, taking the apron off and hanging it on the hook by the hallway, "Sit, sit." He follows your direction, sitting at the table where the place setting is the best it can be with what you have. You even folded up the paper towels nicely. He silently sips on the bubbles, uncomfortable on the makeshift throw pillow cushion on the chair, while you take the plate in front of him and begin serving.

"I should um," he starts, voice gravelly, "I should wash my hands and uh, and change or..." "Yeah," you nod, voice higher pitched than expected, "Go, go ahead. It'll all be ready when you're done washing up." He leaves the glass behind, thudding into the bedroom where he notices a Frederick's of Hollywood bag sitting at the end of the bed. A small pile of gifts in shiny blue paper lay stacked up pretty on his dresser -- a card front in center 'Eddie My Love' - you write it in the same way you sing it to him absentmindedly every now and again. Flipping the lyrics every time. He swallows again, pulling in his cheeks and biting down while he peels off his coveralls and slips into what he was planning to wear to drinks later -- a band tee and some worn jeans. It feels cheap to wear this now, now that you've put in all this effort. Now that you're looking all sweet and put together in the kitchen for him. He rolls his shoulders again, trying to stretch the frustration out. He doesn't wanna be mad at you, you didn't do anything wrong. He doesn't wanan feel so sick in his chest over it -- but he does. All this work for what? Eddie takes his rings off to wash his hands, using the same Dove bar soap to wash the remaining grime off his face from work. Big inhale, big exhale into the towel on the door before making it back to the kitchen where the dinette table was ready for dinner, two tapered candles lit in old holders on the side. He sits across from you, your eyes glittering in the light of the flame.

"You didn't have to do this," he says quietly. Your lips twitch into a half smile, head cocking slightly to the side. "I know, but it's your day...it's a big one, too. The big two-five," your voice doing its best to soothe, "Can't just, I dunno -- get plastered at The Hideout every year..."

"Sure I can," he shrugs with a quirk of his brows, pushing the mashed potatoes around with his fork. He watches the melty pat of butter ooze off one of the edges like a volcano, pooling in next to the broccoli. "And you like that? That's fun for you?" you chuckle before noticing he's just playing with his food, "You gonna eat?"

"Getting plastered at The Hideout is like, tradition," he mutters, looking at the clock over the cabinets, "And we're gonna be late meeting the guys."

"Ed..." you say, a vapor of disappointment floating through his name when you say it. He winces.

"Like I said, babe," he says, "You didn't have to do all this -- y'know, spend all this extra cash on dinner and --"

"I know I didn't have to, but I wanted to -- I wanted to do something nice so that your birthday could be sp -- " "Okay, well I don't need my birthday to be special, it never is," he snaps, he doesn't mean to, "I didn't ask you to do this for me." You hold your soft gaze at him, shoulders round down while you rest a cheek on your palm. If Eddie's mama was still alive, she'd tell you to get your elbows off the table.

In the flame, your glittering eyes turn glassy. You let a soft breath out through your nose, a sulk clear in your posture. "You're right," you mumble, a soft squeak of a sound while you slowly stand, shaking your head, "You're right, you didn't ask. I shouldn't have assumed that you..."

You trail off while you flick the lights on in the kitchen, leaning forward to gently blow out the taper candles. Your hand swishes away the smoke and soot, pushing out out of the cracked kitchen window before the smoke detector catches it. The cabinets creak while you take out some Tupperware from the top shelves, the good stuff that the ladies in the park sold Wayne back in the 70s. They click and clack as the bowls and trays and their tops hit the formica counter top.

"Well--well, wait -- you don't have to pack it up, babe," he says, sitting up a little taller in the chair. When he hears the shudder in your breath he stands, "You don't have to put it away."

"No, it's fine," you assure, a small strain coming through from your chest, "It'll be like -- you'll be so excited when you get home and there's all this food. I just gotta call the guys and tell them to just go to the bar instead of coming here."

"Whaddayou mean, coming here?"

You turn around, eyes wet now but not crying, a tug on your brow and taughtness in your jaw from where you try to hold it back.

"It was supposed to be a surprise," you shrug, "But like, it's not important. Lemme just pack this up and I'll get it figured out." "What's the surprise?" he asks, tilting his head to get a better look at you. "Well I..." you let out another breath, lower lip wobbling; an action your stop with a sharp inhale through the nose. "Well I thought it would be fun if the guys came over and did a birthday oneshot campaign with you. I helped Gare and Jeff write it and Jeff was gonna DM," you let out in one breath, "And it was gonna be like, a silly drinking game version." "You were gonna play?" he asks meekly. You nod. You rarely play, always watch. Always make snacks or help him clean up the trailer, always order the pizza because Eddie forgets to. Always add extra mushrooms on one because Richie likes extra mushrooms. Always make sure to get one with white sauce cause red cause doesn't sit great with Dustin.

"Did a, um, did a character sheet and whatever," you say, defeated, while you open the utensil drawer to pull out an extra pair of tongs and a serving spoon, "Drew her -- it's in your card."

You start to pack up the food and the tears start up again, welling in your eyes but still not spilling over. Eddie steps forward, getting between you and the pots and pans on the stove.

"Hey, wait," his voice bare audible, "Babe, don't."

"It's okay," you sniffle, "I just have to call them."

"No -- baby, stop," there's an edge now, ring hand falling on your wrist, "Stop packing it up."

"It's fine--"

A waltz between you, him, and the tupperware on the counter.

"Don't make me..." he huffs, trying to maneuver the tongs out of your hand, "If you don't stop, we're gonna have a pr--"

"Ed, enough! We will go to the bar, it's fine," you urge, anxiety heightening in your chest where it bursts, you start to cry, "Please, let me put it away. It's fine. I just -- fuck --"

"I feel like such an asshole," you sigh, breaking. You relent, letting go of the tongs where he takes them and leaves them between the burners on the yellowed stove.

"Don't be like that, you're not," he soothes, closing in on you against the counters edge, "You're not, I'm sorry."

"I really just wanted your birthday to be special," you weakly murmur, wiping at your eyes.

"You know how I get," he says, rough hands coming up to cup your face where he leaves a soft kiss to your cheek, "M'just not great at bein' fussed over."

"You deserve to be fussed over, doofus," you garble out, his thumbs replacing your fingers to catch the tears as they fall.

"It's hard, babe," he nods, "You knows it's hard for me. Y'know with my mom's stuff gone and my dad being...who fuckin' -- who fuckin' knows. The Hideout just makes sense. That's y'know -- that's what I deserve."

"That's not even true," you shake your head, "Don't be stupid."

"Well, I barely graduated so," he offers you a peck to each salty, wet cheek, "Stupid's my middle name." "Don't cry, sweetheart," he breathes, leaning in with a slow kiss. A kiss drenched in apologies and thank yous, breaks away just to kiss again. And again, and again, and again until you're both breathless under the sickly yellow green glow of the overhead kitchen light. "How about I change into something nicer than this, and we'll pop these plates in the microwave and start over," he asks, a smile toying on his full lips, "'Kay?"

You nod back, getting another peck stolen from you, and following him down the hall. "Oh, yes, yes, allow me to slip into something more..." he announces with flourish, posing half sexily half awkwardly in the doorway to his bedroom, "Uncomfortable." You snort, giggling while you follow in after him, settling on the end of his bed, "You don't have to dress up fancy." "'Course I do," he tsks, brows furrowing, "M'going to a five star restaurant doll, I can't look like a slob." He pulls out a pair of slacks from a funeral he went to two years ago, discarding his jeans and sliding them up over his pale legs. To your dismay, he plucks the t-shirt with a screen print of a tux out of his closet, and exchanges the worn Dio tee with that. You'll always prefer the Dio tee. "Classy," you tease. He winks, and that's enough to make you okay with the tux shirt. His fingers trail over the stack of presents and land on the envelope.

"Can I open the card?"

"Sure."

"Am I gonna cry over it?" he asks, looking at you over the dull paper when he flicks open the top.

You shake your head, "Nah, it's not sappy. You're the sappy card writer."

"I'm so sappy," he agrees, pulling out the card, "I gotta work on that, huh?"

"No, I like when you're sappy, ya sap." You watch him read the card, blush evident in the warm wash of gold from his bedside lamp. You're not a sappy card writer, but you always know how to make him feel like a kid with a crush. When he opens up your character sheet his bottom lip tucks between his teeth. "Shit," he grins, "Rogue tiefling, huh? You tryna kill me?"

"I thought it could be fun," you titter, standing up to look at the pages next to him, "Chaotic evil. Look at me."

"Ugh, baby's first villain," he gushes, "I love it."

"Look at the picture," you bounce on the balls of your feet while he goes to the next page. A much quieter 'shit' falls from his mouth. It was not a drawing that was for the rest of the guys to see, a sketch of a tiefling version of you in an outfit meant for his eyes only. "So you are trying to kill me," he asks, fingers tracing the curve of 'your' hip on the page where the outfit digs into the fat of 'your' hips.

"No, that'll be later," you smirk.

"Hm?' his brows raise.

"What do you think is in the Frederick's bag?" you ask, faux innocence smattering into your tone.

"Ah, you put a little costume together for me?" Eddie's mouth waters at the thought, brain fuzzy as he looks at the picture and then at you.

"Something like that," you tease, making your way back out into the hallway. "Something like that?!" he repeats back, hurrying back out to pull you into a searing kiss before you can make it back into the kitchen. The kind from the movies where he dips you down toward the faded carpet. As he pulls away, he nuzzles your nose against his, staring at you through lowered lids, "Thank you."

"You're very welcome," you nod, both of you making it back to full height, "Happy birthday."

You relight the candles on the table and nuke the plates of food, topping off each others plastic flutes with the left over Prosecco. There's three cases of beer in the fridge and you know Gareth is bringing Absinthe and it's something you pray doesn't mess your boyfriend up too much.

Dinner is the best meal Eddie's had in years, unable to keep his eyes off of you in between bites while you rehash your day and him, his. You're picking up the dishes off the table when the boys show up and they deliver. Taking the heat off you, they provide the snacks and even more extra booze. Jeff passes out party hats that make you all look ridiculous -- Eddie can remember laughing this much on his birthday, not even when he was a kid. Not even when his mama was alive.

After the oneshot completes and everyone is ankles deep in a tipsy haze and the smoke from a few joints lingers in the air, you walk in with the cake that is finally frosted -- the 2 and 5 confetti colored candles dancing in front of him while the rest sparkle in the middle of the coffee table. He makes one thousand wishes that he knows will come true because his friends are all still there with him and so are you. You're one room right over, cutting the cake and plating it up, and you'll be there when the boys leave in your skimpy nerdy costume that you bought just for him. And you'll be there while he sleeps and you'll be there when he wakes up. You'll be there across from him the next morning when he feeds you fries dipped in chocolate shake at the diner.

Today is Eddie Munson's birthday. And his mother's buttercream frosting is the sweetest it's ever tasted.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fan fiction #eddie munson fanfiction #the boy is mine challenge #eddie munson x y/n

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thyme-in-a-bubble · 2 months

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sugar & spice 101

an intro to the au

here is a comprehensive little breakdown of this AU and its main characters.

series masterlist | masterlist | join my taglist

Y/n Y/l/n

student at whitlock college | history major

camgirl (later pornstar), under the name Cherry Blossom (UrLittleCherry)

lives in a house off campus with roommates: Steve, Bucky and Curtis

last song listened to on spotify: my hair by Ariana Grande

Steve Rogers

student at whitlock college | fine arts major | on a football scholarship | whitlock college football team

lives in a house off campus with roommates: Y/n, Bucky and Curtis

one of Y/n's friends with benefits

username in Y/n's chat: Like1OfUrFrenchGrls

last song listened to on spotify: little green by Joni Mitchell

James 'Bucky' Barnes

student at whitlock college | sociology major | whitlock college football team

lives in a house off campus with roommates: Steve, Y/n and Curtis

one of Y/n's friends with benefits

username in Y/n's chat: WinterIsCumming

last song listened to on spotify: make out in my car by Sufjan Stevens

Curtis Everett

student at whitlock college | psychology major

lives in a house off campus with roommates: Steve, Bucky and Y/n

one of Y/n's friends with benefits

username in Y/n's chat: Yours4Everett

last song listened to on spotify: crimson and clover by Joan Jett and the Blackhearts

Hugh Ransom Drysdale

student at whitlock college | business major | member of delta phi | whitlock college football team

Y/n's ex-boyfriend

username in Y/n's chat: TittyCokeKingXXX

last song listened to on spotify: mount everest by Labrinth

Ari Levinson

pornstar, but doesn't change his name

username in Y/n's chat: Ari_Lev_Official

real life pornstar doppelgängers just for the vibes: James Deen or Small Hands

last song listened to on spotify: man in the long black coat by Bob Dylan, cover by The Proper Way and Carrie Myers

Nick Fowler

pornstar, under the name Nicky Night

username in Y/n's chat: NickyNight

real life pornstar doppelgängers just for the vibes: Manuel Ferrara or Mickey Mod

last song listened to on spotify: supermodel by Måneskin

Lloyd Hansen

pornstar, under the name Lloyd™

username in Y/n's chat: MrHansen

real life pornstar doppelgängers just for the vibes: Xander Corvus or Johnny Sins

last song listened to on spotify: sweetest pie by Megan Thee Stallion and Dua Lipa

Lee Bodecker

pornstar, under the name Lee Longly

username in Y/n's chat: SurferShlong

real life pornstar doppelgängers just for the vibes: Tommy Pistol or Charles Dera

last song listened to on spotify: love grows (where my rosemary goes) by Edison Lighthouse

Andy Barber

divorced dilf

next door neighbour to Y/n, Steve, Bucky and Curtis

username in Y/n's chat: A_B_Cunt_Destroyer

last song listened to on spotify: sweet by Cigarettes After Sex

list of porn studios we'll bump into in this au:

Stark Sins (ceo: Tony Stark. vibe similar to pure taboo or missax)

Romanoff Productions (ceo: Natasha Romanoff. vibe similar to kink or new sensations)

Scarlet Films (ceo: Wanda Maximoff. vibe similar to bellesa or deeper)

Comet Pictures (ceo: Carol Danvers. vibe similar to erika lust or adult time)

Smash Studios (ceo: Bruce Banner. vibe similar to brazzers or bangbros)

other regulars who follow Y/n:

Cream314159 (Frank Adler)

TearinYoBootyUp (Jake Jensen)

DrownByPussy (Cole Turner)

Cum4Ride (Johnny Storm)

Ddadddy6969

KlassyKinky

8inchStallion

Call_Me_Sir_844

BootyLover47

BongDong420

DirtyTommy69

KyleKyleson (....yes that is a sims joke)

Carl123456

Bby_Grls_Dom

NastyBoi

ItsBradBtch

729AlwaysHard

TheFrogo

UrPervyDaddy398

#lea’s writing #sugar and spice au #camgirl!reader ᰔ #pornstar!reader ᰔ #bucky barnes smut #steve rogers smut #ari levinson smut #curtis everett smut #ransom drysdale smut #lloyd hansen smut #andy barber smut #lee bodecker smut #nick fowler smut #chris evans smut #sebastian stan smut

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unspeakable-imagination · 20 days

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Cigar Smoke and Sleepless Nights || Part 7

Cw: fighting/sparring, language, use of tabacco

1.5k words. My requests are open, my Masterlis is here

It was nearly midnight and you sat in the library, hunching over one of the bulky computers. You were working on one of the projects you’d been assigned. It was stupid science project that Hank shoved upon you, explaining that you had to spend your time learning just as every other student, no matter the age in the mansion. You supposed you were grateful for the fact he was giving you something to do, aside from cleaning and beating the bags downstairs.

The blue light casting from the screen was giving you a headache. You leaned over the desk and rubbed your eyes, groaning in a mixture of frustration and irritation. “I hate screens,” you muttered as you pushed your chair backwards. You winced at the sound of the metal scraping on the floor and abruptly stood “Fucking chairs.” You left your items at the desk as you paced towards the library door, deciding to go outside for a smoke break. Maybe you could return with a cup of tea with rosemary to cure your poor feeling head.

The trip to the back door was fairly easy, and, just as you'd seen before, Logan was outside, leaning against the wall in his usual spot. His cigar hung loosely from his lips as his gaze casted downwards. His expression was far, as if he was zoned out. He looked lost, just staring at the walkway. You went to your place on the opposite side of the door, grabbing your cigarette and newly-refilled zippo. You were able to spark up your vice and leaned against him. The moment you took a drag and exhaled the smoke, he shook and his head snapped up. His eyes zeroed in on you and he blinked, returning to reality. You hesitantly waved.

“Hey… you good?” His lips smacked as they parted, the seal around his cigar breaking. “You seem kinda out if it?” he pulled the cigar away from his mouth and aucked on his teeth, blowing the last if smoke out his nose.

“Yeah, I'm okay. I was just thinking. Didny even hear you come out.” You nodded, apprehensive of his response. You were unsure if he was telling The truth just because of how uncharacteristically quiet he'd spoken. It was a stark contrast to his usual abrasive tone.

“Yeah, okay. Okay.” She sighed watched your smoke blow in he wind. You both fell silent, listening to the owls and the other night creatures calling into the night. You lifted you head, your neck bearing as you stared at the moon, the slim cresent seeming to call to you. You closed your eyes and swallowed, relaxing into the wall. You'd been unconsciously continued smoking your cigarette, like you were on autopilot, your hand routinely lifting and dropping with each breath.

You hadn't noticed that your cigarette was burnt out till you took another drag and felt the heat creep against your finger, startling you. You jumped and dropped the butt, then looked at the tiny red marks between your fingers where you had burned. It was really a burn, but it was enough to spook you back to the present.

You pursed your lips and stepped on the filter, Snuffing out any other heat or amber that it may have had before picking it up as your garbage. You glanced at logan as you shifted and twisted to the door. You walked inside, placing the filter into a hallway garbage can, making your way to the kitchen.

You were able to make your tea and return to the library as planned, the drink on a stool. You didn't place it on the desk out of a worry that you'd knock it over and ruin the computers. You wrinkled your nose just at the thought. Since you were much more relaxed, you were able to focus on your project and got back to work. It was reliably easy to get a good portion of the work done, spending another hour and a half on it until you decided you should take your time to clean the halls that you're paid for.

That too, passed fairly quick and you found yourself in the gym. Kicking and rolling against the light-weight punching bag, you were panting. You paused your movement and huffed. Lifting your hand to still the bag and reset it to start again. You took a deep breath while rolling your eyes up to the ceiling, trying to find a center and motivation to keep going.

The loud, banging and mechanical sound of the door opening made you jump and you smelled the familiar adamantium scent. Your head snapped to Logan and he nodded towards you, acknowledging your presence.

“Do you want to spar?” You blurted. “I don't get enough socialization with other people and you're the only person I see awake. It would be easier to fight a human that moves than a punching bag on a chain, right?” you'd clearly Caught him off guard. His eyebrows raised and his head tilted A little.

“Uh, yeah?” he shrugged his shoulders and then shook his head, wiping the look off his face. He pointed a finger towards the sparring ring on one side of the gym and turned on his heel to walk to it. Quickly. You slid out of the way of the bag you'd been at and beeline to the ring, getting a little excited that you'd finally get to have some real human interaction.

Smoothly, he ducked under the rope and into the ring, you quickly following suit. You gravitated to the opposite edge of the circle That he went to and your turned to face him he put his arms up and you mimicked him, poorly. When he looked at your arms, his head tilted and he scoffed.

“That's how you think we're gonn’ fight?” She put his arms down and strutted the few paces forward. Embarrassed you put your arms down,

“I don't know how?” You explained. He clicked his tongue and grabbed your arms, pulling them up and closer inwards, and your throat went dry. You stared At his hands as he readjusted you, his drip moving to your hips to readjust your stance. Your arms faltered and he looked back up through his brows and grabbed your arms again.

“strong, keep them tense don't let them falter. This is a pretty basic stance, if you're going to fight me, You're going to do it right.” You hastily nodded, and he stepped back and looked you over. He shrugged and gave a face that said ‘that'll do’ before he went back to the opposite side of the ring And stood there.

“Come at me, kid.” You dropped your arms and gave him a look.

“What?”

“Arms up,” he snapped. You quickly put Your arms back in front of your torso and tensed them the way he told you. “Come and hit me,” he said.

“I- uh, okay. I can fight without the stance though.” Slinking forwards you quickly tried to punch towards his ribs, but he sidestepped you and grabbed your wrist, yanking you further forward into the roping of the ring. You bounced off of it and spun around to poom at his mildly amused expression.

“Can you, now?” You turned red and stepped forward, doing something similar jutting for his ribs but faking him out and putting out your foot To trip his sidestep. He stumbled and the smirk fell from his face as he caught his balance. He Twisted and looked at you as you swung a leg up to kick towards him. He caught your ankle and pushed it to the opposite side, pulling you off your stable leg towards the ground. You put your palms out and sprung yourself up, doing a handspring and landing on your feet next to the edge. Your lips involuntarily pulled back and you hissed out of reflex.

He let out a breathy chuckle. “Impressive, not something I can really do,” he said. He stomped forward and you ran towards him and slid under, between his legs. You popped up behind him like a gopher and swiped his leg, and he fell, but twisted quick enough that when he grabbed your triceps, that you fell with him. You landed ontop of him, and took the opportunity to headbutt him, forgetting that his skull was made of adamantium. Your head rang, your sight went blurry and your ears were singing. You wobbled And he pulled himself out from under you. He sat up smoothly and grabbed you by your shoulders to brace you. Faintly you heard him talking. You swallowed and blinked, your hand shooting up to grab your temple. You heard him curse, and slowly, theringingg subsided and your vision focused in.

“Hey, hey you okay?” you looked at him, blinking away the shock.

“Yeah, i- I'm good? I just have a hounding headache. I forgot you're bones are metal. Really rattled my brain,” you muttered.

He chuckled. “You've got balls, girl. You've got big fuckin’ balls.”

“Actually, I don't. I think I need to go take some tylenol and go to sleep,” you saw him smile as you turned your head, crawling off of your knees and leaving the ring.

Taglist: @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @callsign-ember

#logan howlett #wolverine #hugh jackman #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett x you #logan howlett imagine #wolverine imagine #wolverine x reader #wolverine x you #logan x reader

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hocuspocusbabyy · 3 months

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Love Grows: Eloise x Cressida. (18+) 🦢🕊️

Description: A continuation of Must Be A Dream

Pairing: Eloise Bridgerton x Cressida Cowper

Warnings: It’s smut babe, it’s smut.

“Last one darling, I promise.” The brunette whispered her presence unyielding, as though imbibing the essence of her very soul. Her legs trembled, weak and unrequited spasms of sorrow her body spent as her heart could only search for more. “Shh Cress I’ve got you.”

Eloise promised, her perfectly kept nails curls against the height of the blondes hip as her tongue pressed flat against her again. So close yet so far, the brunette resembled that of an echo - tangible, unobtainable.

Cressida’s inner voice grew thick, taunting, peeling at the very edges of her mind as Eloise continued her devotion. Reiterate swarms of warmth against the seems of her flesh, opening her into yet another bloom. An evolution Cressida had never aspired to attain, how could one surpass the heavens and expect another gate? Eloise’s tongue flush against her skin, repeated, nauseating motions that curled and whipped upon the pits of her stomach. She could not moderate her hunger for much longer, a fist striking down, hand against her lover's head as she ascended.

Those who have wings do not require keys nor gates.

Her back lay flat against the compost heap, the seams of her trousers wet askew beside them. Her blonde hair tainted with clumps of abrasion and mire.

Eloise laced her tongue along the crevice of Cressida’s knee, in silent disbelief, praise to whatever gods allowed her this moment. Stark beneath the Cowper thousands count sheets, her flesh hot as she dove forward again.

Give me my sin, and I shall worship the devil as though he were my friend, she thought.

Gazing up at her lover, the flat of her chest, the extensive span of her torso littered and bloodied with the presence of her. As though a map, formations of union, imperfections of diligence, smear of sin - the most welcome, becoming and sort after cardinal.

Till death gives up on them, through every circle of hell and inch of eternity. Realms and continents, cosmos and dirt. Eloise and Cressida would chase each other till the edge of reality warped beneath them. A solace found between them, that others could only aspire to.

Eloise pressed a final kiss against her lover's heated, worn flesh.

Crawling up against the grain to lay against her. The blonde left to simply mewl and gasp beneath her. The brunette mouth latched upon her skin, as though pray, irrevocable truths carved upon her being, that would last long beyond her body.

"Are you enjoying yourself down there?" Cressida whispered, sardonic, finally regaining her bonds as the brunette rose to her neck and snuggled closer with a lilt.

"I've never enjoyed anyone more," Eloise said, shockingly candid, nuzzling her nose against the blonde's jaw. Her eyes drifted closed, a mere second after they were snapped back open vision clouded over as Eloise bit into the soft flesh of her cheek.

“You made a mess.” The brunette shrugged, her damp fingers tracing up across the blondes lips.

Cressida took the fingers willingly, sucking them between her lips, cleaning every inch of herself from the other woman’s skin. Her holy communion, if she were the cup, Eloise were the wine.

Eloise smiled gently, her hair dishevelled littering her eyesight hundreds of hair pins scattered around as Cressida reached to stroke her face. Her eyes softened as she studied the blondes flushed face, the smudge of a nose, rosy pink cheeks, perfect swollen lips.

An unfathomable beauty, the optical illusion that was Cressida Cowper. In all her years following or prior, Eloise doubted she would ever come across such a wonder.

"I—" Cressida started finally opening her eyes fully to look at the brunette, "you're bleeding" she whispered quickly moving to sit up, pushing the brunette back to straddle her. Perfectly pale flesh now covered and darkened by their location. The mulch, cold and welcoming upon their burning flesh. Cressida knees sunk deeper as she grasped the other woman’s face within her her hands, "I'm sorry," she whispered, licking the blood from her cupid's bow.

Eloise laughed lightly, her tongue gently flicking against the witch's own. The pair indulged in a few shared kitten licks mixed with light brushing kisses across their faces.

"It's okay my Swan," the brunette reassured her left hand pressed into her lower back massaging the bottom of her spine, comfortingly, grounding. Her other sunk into the blondes' silky curls stroke lightly at her scalp - not dissimilar to the attention one would done a cat.

"Hell. I love it when you call me that." The blonde giggled gently, her thumbs running firmly across the brunettes shoulder blades pulling them flush to another.

They sat there silently rocking, few notes of Cressida's perfume were still in the air, pomegranate and incense, mixed with the iron bite of fresh blood, completion and the delightful musk of their mingled sweat. Eloise pressed a kiss to her hair, the blonde now resting gently against her shoulder nose pressed into her neck humming gently.

"If someone cut me into pieces," Cressida whispered, her chin firm upon the brunettes shoulder as she meticulously rolled a strand of hair between her fingers, "and all that was left of me was my hands, would you know that they were mine?"

"Yes," the brunette said, without hesitation, her eyes closed and neck flushed as the other woman snuggled against it. "Why'd you ask?"

Cressida shrugged, "I read a penny dreadful, with Ben.” she clarified. “Well more he read it to me, but I am grateful to him, and I honour our time together, as I do with your entire family. I find your existence within them all. Especially your mother.” Cressida claimed tilting to kiss the underside of her lovers jaw.

"Ah" the brunette mumbled, holding the older woman against her as if for warmth; making a mental note to yell at ben again about filling her Swans head with nonsense.

"How?" The blonde continued, her lips loving against Eloise’s flesh as she spoke. Every syllable scribed to her skin, "how would you know?"

Eloise opened one eye then leaning back to look at the blonde, "Well I'd start by looking for a trail of garden soil." She joked, taking the blonde's hand within her own, playing with her fingers gently.

Cressida tsked, her free hand tugging at her hair until she flinched, the blonde. Eloise brushing her knuckles over the soft curve of Cressida’s breast as best she could in their position. "There's a scar on your left index finger. Across your knuckle."

Cressida glanced at it, a weak silver thread buried in the furrows of her skin beneath one of her many rings. "Hardly," she said. "And if my blood had already drained by then, it would be the same colour as the rest of me. You'd never see it."

Eloise huffed. "Then I'd look for a torn thumbnail, chipped nail polish" she tried, pressing the pad of her thumb against the blondes as if to play war. "Your left hand, that you pick when you're agitated –“

"I do not – "

"Yes, you do," Eloise said.

The blonde said nothing. As Eloise wrapped her hand around her wrist; Their eyes met while she brought her hand to her lips and sucked each of her fingers in turn, her tongue curling around her knuckles, her smooth painted nails, the faint whorls of her fingertips.

"Or perhaps I'd use muscle memory," she said, giving her thumb a firm bite before letting her go.

"You'd suck my cold, dead fingers, would you?"

"If that is what it took to find you."

She seemed pleased by that. Cressida moved to kiss her, one hand sliding into her hair while she shifted them across the dirt beneath them. Her head lay against Eloise’s chest as their fingers danced together.

Then Eloise reached and twisted at her wedding ring, the bitter gold pulling on her eyelid. "Or I'd look for this, I suppose."

"One would presume that anyone to dismember me would strip me of my jewellery first."

"I'd look for the tan line then," Eloise shrugged. "Given how you refuse to take the damn thing off, it would be there."

Cressida sighed lightly at the, rolling off the brunette not far enough away that their shoulders were no longer touching - but enough to convey her hate for the conversation's turn. They lay side by side upon the dirt, surrounded by the beauty of her doing, as though relics buried beneath the world together for generations to come.

"I don't think Alfred would be able to identify me" the blonde mumbled, tugging her bottom lip between her teeth. "He's not as attentive, I couldn't even tell you the last time he held my hand."

Eloise made a noise of recognition, too busy thinking about the man who was stupid enough not to hold such hands that belonged to thee Cressida Cowper. Goddess.

The brunette pushed the hair back from her face and scratched lightly at her crown, before rolling over to rest her body upon the blondes again. It seemed they could last few moment without each other, as though marbles upon sand, sinking, seeking and soothing other another.

She perched above her, studying the way her pupils had become frantic and pleading, begging her to pull the wool over both their eyes. For a moment longer, here in their garden, that green house, the only home they’d ever been granted.

"Then he is a fool, more so than I already thought" the brunette commented as she bent down to press kisses along the brunette's jaw until her lips reached the warm shell of her ear. "I promise to you, my Swan, if you see to ever leave my sight for so long. I would seek you out and bring you here," she said, after a beat, "Always.”

"Even if I were just a hand?" The older woman asked, a wave of vulnerability gripped her. Crawling at her cheats as the brunette lips travelled there as though aware of her internal pressure.

"Even then" Eloise confirmed with a smile, kissing the blonde’s nose careful not to lay too much of her weight on to her. Urging her to breathe, her hand slowing bending up across her elbow, deft fingers drawing across her skin till it bumped and twisted towards her. Their hands fell together, grasped above their heads, the brunettes motions working to remove the offending object. Pulling until the ring finally popped off her finger, into her palm.

“I fear I have grown to resent the thing.” Cressida whispered, it had been a wedding gift of her father’s. The only thing he had ever granted them, in ode of their shared name.

Eloise sat up then, much to the blondes confusion as she reached back unclapsing the chain from around her neck. Sliding an all too familiar circle from upon it, Cressida had seen the ring a million times, Eloise refused to ever be without it.

“Then we shall trade. This—-was my fathers, my mother gave it to him before their wedding. It was handed to me at a young age and I was promised to keep it, until—-.”

“Until?”

“Until a hand was found worthy of it.” Eloise whispered, sliding the blondes ring upon her chain and sliding her own upon her finger. “We shall keep these as a reminder, and I will always find you.” The brunette promised, placing a gentle kiss upon the other woman’s lips.

The green house a heaven against the winter chill and their harsh reality.

#fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #cressida cowper x eloise bridgerton #eloise bridgerton #eloise bridgerton smut #cressida x debling #cressida cowper smut #cressida bridgerton #eloise x cressida #cressida cowper #creloise #Spotify

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eldrith · 1 month

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Would you be willing to tell us anything about your WIPs?

sure! i have so many - like a sick amount lol. so here are just some in no particular order... with songs that have lyrics that fit the plot <3 ive been heavily discouraged as of late and can’t guarantee anything in terms of posting these

about you ; jacaerys x aunt/targ!reader [jace is betrothed to baela], request. ➺ vibes: escaping your family just to tame an untamable beast. saving your cousin's life, almost losing your own. feels like unrequited childhood longing, slow burning; like finding the cherished toy that was lost in your youth. like laughing in the face of death. sounds like 'about you' by the 1975, like the roar of an ancient beast, the buzzing of a fly in the corner of a peaceful room. tastes like herbal tinctures, root of thistle, and milk of the poppy. smells like ancient dragonsmoke and rolls of gauze.

dead men don't sing ; jacaerys x stark!reader, request. ➺ vibes: sweet, but foreboding - like the destiny woven into your bloodline long before your mother’s mother ever had a name. feels like playful love, poorly contained desire; like when the burden placed upon your back is lifted by the one you love. sounds like 'would that i' by hozier, like the northern wind snapping in your ears. tastes like snow on your tongue, remnants of wine upon lips. smells like the woods in winter; like a well-burned hearth.

a golden cage [part iv] ; jacaerys x aunt/targ!reader ➺ vibes: awkward dinner parties, the embarrassment of sprouting affection. feels like an apology in the back of your throat, like the guilt and subsequent relief of looking at someone and feeling like you're looking into a mirror. sounds like 'south' by hippo campus & ‘shake it out’ by florence & the machine; like dramatic declarations and whispered vows. tastes like wine in your cup and the salt of ocean upon lips. smells like incense burnt low and muddled sourleaf tea.

honeyed [part ii] ; jacaerys x queen's advisor!reader. ➺ vibes: flirty, sweet, - resisting something you know is inevitable. feels like the giddiness of camping with an old friend; or the first time riding a dragon; like looking up during a storm just to feel rain hit your smile. sounds like 'pools' by glass animals, like quiet whispers within canvas tents; like the chorus of full tables at Raventree Hall, celebrating royal guests. tastes like wild berries and fresh river water. smells like the leather of dragonsaddles, like wild rosemary.

miscellaneous; these may never see the light of day

untitled ; jacaerys x lady!reader, request. ➺ vibes: yearning for your best friend & knowing them better than the back of your hand. betrothal proposals, envy. feels like lounging in the hot sun, like worrying over looks sent to you across the ballroom; gossiping with your crush’s brother. like the brush of fingers upon your neck, like a gut bubbling in unspoken jealousy. sounds like ‘daydream / wetdream / nightmare’ by saint motel, like butchering the pronunciation of an ancient tongue. tastes like cucumber sandwiches, like hot tea under the summer sun. smells like old library scrolls and cologne oils upon a warm neck.

half-fleshed fic of modern jace x best friend reader ➺ vibes: almost-friends-with-benefits with your best friend - poor drunken choices, insecurities, yearning. feels like not knowing what you are, like washing off the remnants of lipstick upon your neck in the shower. sounds like 'an ode to a conversation stuck in your throat' by del water gap & ‘affection’ by BETWEEN FRIENDS; like the faint whispering when someone sleeps. tastes like guinness on tap, like cookies made at 2am. smells like empty streets after rain, like the warmth of your best friend’s hoodie.

untitled ; jacaerys x wife/betrothed!reader [undecided, v incomplete] ➺ vibes: teasing someone to see them squirm, smiling politely to hide a smirk. feels like the excitement of a chase, the warmth of desire; like tugging on curly tresses. sounds like the scraping of silver cutlery against plates, like breathless pleads against sweaty skin - like 'silvertongue' by young the giant. tastes like an eager tongue pressing against your own, sweet like blueberry pie. smells like blown out candles, scented oils on pillows.

untitled ; jacaerys x wife!reader ➺ vibes: giddiness & good news. happiness, the blossoming flower that sprouts from the seed of sorrow. feels like sand under your feet, like arms around your waist. sounds like the shaking of pride in a voice, like ‘jackie and wilson’ by hozier. tastes like salt of tears, like rosemary cakes. smells like home.

& maybe a nsfw version of the 5 love languages with jacaerys but who knows

#anon #what is eldrith writing?#jacaerys x reader #jacaerys #there’s so many #i am drowning #trying this out #bc i may change my masterlist summaries to this style #idk yet

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fantasticsandwich · 1 month

Text

yandere influencer x fem reader (pt 5)

Your fingers hovered in the air, inches from the tarnished brass of the door knocker. Your pulse hammered in your ears. The hallway felt too narrow, the air thick with the scent of stale cooking and old wood. You'd expected to be greeted by chaos—the aftermath of Rian's heartache—yet when you finally mustered the courage to tap against the cool metal, the scene unfolding before you was far from what you had envisioned.

The door swung open, revealing not a disheveled den of inebriated sorrow, but a stranger, standing amidst a stillness that seemed to part around him like mist. His pale skin caught the dim light, lending him an ethereal glow, while his dark hair framed his face in stark contrast, softening the sharp angles of his cheekbones. Your breath hitched, and you felt as if you'd stepped into a quiet corner of the world you hadn't known existed.

“Uh, hey,” you stuttered. The bag of takeout dangled from your grasp, its colors vibrant against the monochrome backdrop of the apartment. “I brought food.”

His lips quirked, a glimmer of amusement in his cat-like eyes. “For me?”

"Sort of, but I don’t usually bring food for strangers,” you managed to say, awkwardness tangling your words. You offered up the takeout like a shield, something tangible to fill the space between you.

“Well, I’m Blaise, and because I was told to anticipate your arrival, you must be Y/N. Now that we’ve had introductions, come in," he said, stepping aside.

As you passed the threshold, the door clicked shut, a quiet seal to the cocoon of warmth that enveloped you as you stood inside Rian’s apartment. Alone now in the small living room, you rocked on your heels.

“Pardon if I’m wrong, but I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“We haven’t. I’m only babysitting Rian for the evening ‘cause he’d drink himself to death otherwise,” Blaise blandly said. “Connor had to step out. Family stuff.”

“Right, I hope everything is okay,” you replied, aware of their proximity in the narrow hall.

“Rian’s coping, have no idea what’s going on with Connor.. I’m not too close with him, but you know how it is. Anyway, I made a portion for him, but since he left, would you like to stay for dinner? I’m making Tuscan chicken.”

The scent of herbs and spices already wafted from the kitchen. It smelled promising.

“I—” you faltered, eagerness warring with the knot of anxiety that coiled in your stomach. You clutched the bag of takeout, now rendered superfluous. Yet, something about the offer tugged at you.

“Sure,” you found yourself reluctantly agreeing, the word escaping your mouth before doubt could reclaim it. A flash of triumph lit his features, quickly masked by the flicker of a passing car outside the window.

“Great,” he murmured, leading the way to the kitchen. His silhouette etched against the stainless steel appliances and sleek countertops.

Expensive, you noted. How were these students affording decent flats in the city center?

As Blaise moved to resume his cooking, the subtle scent of rosemary and garlic wrapped around you, a comforting shroud that made you forget, for a moment, the pressures that lay just beyond the door.

Your fingers brushed against the cool metal handle of the refrigerator, easing the takeout inside as if tucking away your unease alongside it. You straightened up and turned to find Blaise back by the stove, his movements a quiet ballet as he stirred the contents of a pan. The sizzle of chicken meeting hot oil was a soothing symphony in the modest kitchen.

“Mind if I sit down?” you ventured, gesturing toward the table set for three.

“Please, do.”

You slid into a chair, the wood cool beneath your palms, and watched him work. There was a grace in his gestures that belied the tired shadows under his eyes.

“I’m surprised we haven’t met before. You know Rian and Connor well?”

“Ah, we go way back,” Blaise replied without looking up, his attention on a jar of herbs. “Same primary schools, but we split for secondary, though. Connor and I are in the same year, meaning we’re one behind you.”

“Right, that makes sense.” You fiddled with a napkin, folding and unfolding it as your mind ticked over their age difference, an insignificant detail.

A door down the hall creaked open, and Rian shambled in, his figure slumped and eyes rimmed red like the last whispers of sunset. He looked as though he had wrestled with heartache and came out the other side bruised and on life support.

“Hey,” you said, standing so quickly your chair scraped loudly against the floor. “Rian, are you starting to feel okay now?”

Blaise turned off the stove and joined you, his impassive expression softening as he took in Rian’s sorry state. “Sit down. Let us get you something to eat.”

He managed a weak smile, grateful yet overwhelmed, and sank into the remaining chair. “I’m sorry for being such a mess.”

You patted his shoulder. “S’alright. For better or worse, you’re our mess.”

As Blaise plated the food, a fragrant offering of comfort, you stood by Rian’s side, your hand hovering above his shoulder, hesitant yet yearning to reassure. The tension in the room was palpable, a static charge waiting for release.

“Here,” Blaise said, setting down a plate.

“Smells incredible,” you chimed in, hoping to lift Rian’s spirits.

“Good. That means you won’t be able to detect the poison.”

You settled into a silence punctuated only by the clink of cutlery on plates and the distant hum of city life beyond the apartment walls. You twirled your fork through the creamy pasta, the rich aroma of herbs and garlic coaxing a sigh from your lips.

You had never tasted anything as decadent. And under the tutlage of a college student?

“Blaise, this is just… it’s absolutely wonderful.” The flavors exploded across your palate, a symphony of home-cooked perfection that made your store-bought takeout seem like a distant, bland memory. Frantic, you shoveled another forkful into your mouth. “If I were being executed, this would be my last meal request.”

“Thank you,” he replied with a modest chuckle, his hand resting lightly on the back of your chair—a touch so faint it might have been accidental, but it sent a ripple of awareness down your spine.

Adjusting your sleeves, you tried not to dwell on the warmth radiating from where his fingers brushed against the fabric, or how your heart seemed to pulse in time with his proximity.

“Connor has got to see what he’s missing out,” Rian suddenly exclaimed, wiping his mouth with a napkin before reaching for his phone. His voice was tinged with mischief, a spark of his usual playfulness returning as he dialed his roommate’s number.

“Watch him be eating instant noodles again,” you joked.

Connor accepted the video call request. Soon, the group was face-to-face with him. His surroundings were dark, with only the light from the computer illuminating the place. You heard faint, crackly conversation and deduced that he wasn’t in his room. He was out, but where? Blaise had mentioned a family emergency… You hoped everything was alright.

“Hey, Connor! You have to see what Blaise cooked up over here.” Rian beamed into the phone screen, panning the camera over the spread of Tuscan chicken and sides that adorned the table.

The screen flickered, and Connor’s face appeared, squinting through the darkness. He gasped.

“Bastard! How could you make that without me? It looks amazing.”

As everyone had fortold, he held up a sad cup of noodles, eliciting laughter from the trio.

As they bantered, the screen shifted, and a pale face came into view beside Connor’s, his dark eyes locking onto the scene. Heart pounding, you were suddenly confronted with the image of Cillian. Or rather, his bag still slung over his shoulder. But you knew that jawline anywhere.

Leaning away, Connor eagerly gestured for him to step into frame. Quirking a brow, Cillian ventured closer to the desktop. His lips moved, mouthing something, but without him even approaching the mic, you could not hear him. As his eyes roamed around the screen, the surprise expression on his face morphed into something you were unable to decipher.

When he finally realized it was you, he went entirely still as if the screen had frozen. While you shook, he remained deathly still. His lips pressed together like he didn’t want to say anything at all. He was staring. Just… staring. Directly at you, into your soul. With the screen’s blue light shining against his face, he looked like a ghost.

“Cillian!” Rian called out, seemingly oblivious to the sudden change in atmosphere. “Look at what you’re missing out on. Connor’s friend made a delicious meal for us.”

“Hi, Lee,” you added weakly.

“Looks good,” he said at last.

Blaise’s brows furrowed. Leaning in, he squinted at the screen. “What’s with Samara from The Ring in the background? Bro is ghastly.”

“Uh, I think it’s just bad lighting. But you still look good!” Rian mumbled, but before anyone could press further, Cillian lunged forward, seizing the device.

“Hey!” said Connor, voice warbled.

He looked directly into the camera, and your heart experienced a start. You felt as if he was there in the room, confronting you face-to-face. You had to lean back from the intensity of his gaze.

Without another word, he ended the call. His visage flickered and vanished like a specter dispelled by the light of day. A hush descended upon yhe group, broken only by the distant hum of city traffic filtering through the window.

You felt a chill snake down your spine, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. You glanced at the blank phone screen, then at Blaise, whose casual demeanor seemed to have returned as quickly as it had left. He shrugged and tossed the phone aside, but you remained motionless.

“What was that about?” He asked, his voice carrying a hint of concern.

“Cillian has major FOMO,” you simply said. Your eyes darted to the spot where Blaise’s hand had once rested on your chair, now conspicuously absent. With a start, you realized you missed the warmth.

As you resumed eating, you found yourself stealing glances at Blaise. He hummed between bites, mindlessly twirling pasta with his fork. You were startled by your momentary lapse; for the first time in eons, your mind was not consumed by thoughts of Cillian.

a/n: idk how i feel about the direction and pacing of this story. :/ do y'all feel like it's too slow burn??? i have at least 20 chapters planned

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x darling #yandere oc #yandere male #cillian

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infin1ty-garden · 2 months

Text

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ 100 FOLLOWER CELEBRATION PROMPT LIST!

In celebration of reaching 100 followers, a new prompt list!

✧. ┊ I will NOT write smut, inappropriate relationships (e.i. teacher/student, father/daughter...), pregnancy fics, dark fics, underage character, political content, please do not request things containing major spoilers, character x OC

✧. ┊ I WILL write character(s) (from the fandom list) x reader as well as alternate universe fic. Sometimes I will write character x character

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ FANDOMS I WRITE FOR! - here!

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ NEW ADDITIONS!

✧. ┊ WUTHERING WAVES - rover, chixia, yangyang, sanhua, jiyan & jinhsi

✧. ┊ HOTD - cregan stark, gwayne hightower, haelena targaryen, jacaerys velaryon & rhaenyra targaryen

✧. ┊ DUNE - paul atreides, feyd-rautha harkonnen & chani kynes

✧. ┊ MONKEY MAN - kid (monkey man)

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ FIRST!

✧. ┊ welcome to infinity garden! please first choose if you want:

i. bouquet - one shot ii. corsage - headcanons

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ THEN!

✧. ┊ pick any arrangement of flowers (prompts/aus) but please do not make them contradictory

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ FLOWERS!

ALEO ✧. ┊ ⁭one-sided attraction

ASTER ✧. ┊ ⁭pacific rim au

BABY'S BREATH ✧. ┊⁭ soulmates au

CAMELLIA ✧. ┊ mutual pining

CARNATION ✧. ┊ hanahaki au

EDELWEISS ✧. ┊ 5 + 1 of (you choose)

FERN ✧. ┊ ⁭fantasy au

GARDENIA ✧. ┊ secret relationship

HYACINTH ✧. ┊⁭ sacrifice; you die in their arms

HYDRANGEA ✧. ┊ you may be sick, but they are there to care for you

IVY ✧. ┊ friends to lovers

JASMINE ✧. ┊ first kiss

LAVENDER ✧. ┊ after a new revelation, they stop trusting you

LILY ✧. ┊ enemies to lovers

MARIGOLD ✧. ┊ they get jealous of someone getting close to you

MORNING GLORY ✧. ┊ an injury, that is carefully cared for by them

MYRTLE ✧. ┊ arranged marriage au

PARSLEY ✧. ┊ road trip au

POPPY ✧. ┊ after getting rejected, they realise what they already have

ROSE ✧. ┊ write a letter after the death of reader mourning their death

ROSEMARY ✧. ┊ love confessions

TULIP ✧. ┊ ⁭fake/pretend relationship au

WILLOW ✧. ┊ star wars au

YARROW ✧. ┊ love potion

Thanks for 100 followers and reading/requesting!

✧. ┊⁭ floral dividers by @saradika-graphics

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zeciex · 1 year

Text

A Vow of Blood - 14

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

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

Chapter 14: From the Shadows

AO3 - Masterlist

Daenera was wrapped in one of her favorite silk robes, observing as the maids diligently prepared her bath. Specks of dirt clung to her nails from her recent time spent in the gardens, assisting the gardeners in planding the new seeds she had acquired from the market. The servants worked in silence while she rose from her seat, striding through her chambers and opening the doors to the balcony, relishing in the gentle breeze.

Down below, Aegon and Aemond engaged in their training, although it was evident that the former’s mind was preoccupied elsewhere. Dark circles adorned his eyes, a clear indication of his late-night excursions into the city, if she had to guess.

As if sensing her presence, Aemond glanced up, locking eyes with her. His hair tumbled over his shoulders, strands of pale moonlight and ever so perfect. His usual smirk widened, and she could almost hear the subtle hum of smug self satisfaction as his eye roamed her body.

Daenera tugged at the robe, keeping it firmly closed as she had nothing underneath.

For days, she had deftly eluded his advances, and even on the rare occasions he managed to corner her, they were always amidst a crowd. His persistent attempts to provoke a response from her did not deter her. Daenera had armored herself with a facade of obliviousness and politeness, feigning ignorance and pretending as though nothing had transpired between them.

Daenera turned away, making her way back inside, passing by the table adorned with stacks of letters. Among the pile of letters, one had arrived that morning from Dragonstone.

It was a usual letter that kept her informed of the things that were happening on Dragonstone and how the health of her brothers was. There was no important information, but Rhaenyra urged her daughter to return home in time for the birth of the newest member of their family. Her mother also mentioned the numerous inquires regarding Daenera’s hand in marriage.

It seemed her return to the capital seemed to have reignited the interest in gaining her favor. Since Daenera had come of age there had been waves upon waves of offers for her hand in marriage, raining from boys at the age of two and twelve and men thrice her age. The list included the notable houses such as Tullys, Brackens, Blackwoods, Freys, Tyrells, Redwynes, Merryweathers, Arryns, Lannisters, and even an offer for her to marry Cregan Stark.

The cold never suited her.

Daenera couldn’t indefinitely keep the suitors at bay. Sooner or later, she would have to make a choice. But for now, she would amuse herself with being entertained by their flowery prose.

“The bath is ready, princess,” one of the serving girls announced.

“Thank you.”

The servants filed out of her chambers in a line, their heads lowered, and the door closing behind them. Daenera couldn’t recall the castle maids ever being as skittish as they appeared now.

Daenera walked towards the bath and sat at the edge to pour rose oil into the water, its fragrant essence enveloping the air around her. She carefully scattered petals of various flowers, jasmine, and rosemary, onto the surface of the water, letting her fingers dance along it, to feel the temperature.

Feeling the urge to immerse herself in the soothing depths, Daenera shed her robe, allowing it to slip from her body and stepped into the water. Warmth engulfed her and she let out a contented sigh.

The golden light of the setting sun filtered through the room, casting a ethereal glow upon her surroundings.

As she settled into the water, resting her head against the edge of the tub, she picked up one of the letters from a potential suitor, curiosity guiding her gaze over the carefully crafted words and well-intentioned wishes.

Aran Blackwood’s name caught her eye, a younger brother of someone who had once pursued her mother’s hand. His letter carried a tone of kindness and humor, although tinged with a hint of aloofness. In his excitement, he ventured off on tangents, oblivious to the fact that Daenera might not share his enthusiasm for certain matters. Despite this, there was a sweetness to his words that stirred a flicker of warmth within her.

Lost in the ambience of the bath, Daenera allowed herself to linger in the present moment, contemplating the myriad of paths that lay before her, and she did not notice as the shadows stirred.

“You think a bath is enough to wash away your sins?” A voice questioned.

Startled by the unexpected intrusion, Daenera let out a yelp, causing the water in the tub to ripple dangerously close to the brim. The letter she had been holding slipped from her grasp, its ink bleeding into the water as it floated on the surface. Hastily, she retrieved it and tossed it onto the stone floor with a soggy splat.

Her arms then instinctively crossed over her chest as she tried her best to preserve some modesty, relying far too much on the murkiness of warm water and the scattered flowers on the surface to shield any other view.

Emerging from the shadows, Aemond stepped into the stream of sunlight pouring in through the windows, transforming his silver locks into a resplendent mane of gold.

Daenera’s eye’s hardened, her cheeks flustering in a mix of embarrassment and anger. “What in the seven hells are you doing here?!”

“Can’t an uncle pay a visit to his sweet niece?” Aemond mused, his voice dripping with syrupy sweetness that wasn’t thick enough to hide the mockery in his tone. Still, there was a dangerous edge to his mere presence.

“He can, but he certainly shouldn’t materialize out of thin air like some ghost emerging from the shadows. And how did you even manage to gain entry?” Daenera retorted sharply, far from amused by his intrusive presence. She glanced back at the closed door, certain she locked it. And even then, Fenrick was just outside.

“Would you have welcomed me if I had knocked on the front door?” Aemond replied, a mischievous glint to his eye.

“No,” she shot back without hesitation. He wouldn’t even have made it to the point of knocking, as Fenrick, her loyal guard, would have promptly turned him away, especially considering the compromising position she currently found herself in. Her narrowed eyes bore into him. “And why shouldn't I raise my voice and summon my guard this instant to pluck out your one remaining eye.”

Aemond’s lips curled into a knowing smile, his voice filled with a smug confidence. “And tarnish your own reputation? I don’t think so.”

He took a step closer to her, the colden light slowly waned as the sun descended beneath the horizon, casting his face in shadows that seemed to curl around him. The shadows only served to etch out the scar on his face.

Daenera couldn’t help but wonder, if he were to lose both his eyes, would he wander about donning two eyepatches or give up on them entirely. She was inclined to find out as he continued his approach, stalking towards her like a cat coming upon a mouse.

“Have you lost your mind?” Daenera hissed in anger, her words sharp and meant to knock some sense into his head. “Do you want to lose your head and see it impaled on a spike?”

Aemond’s lips curled into a sinister smirk, his response dripping with audaciousness. “I prefer to keep my head firmly attached to my shoulders, just as I prefer to keep your head firmly on my-,”

“Stop! Just… Stop,” Daenera interrupted, her voice trembling with frustration. “I will not hesitate to call Fenrick, reputation be damned. I’m sure I could come up with a story. ‘The unsuspecting Princess, exposed and vulnerable in her bath, attacked by the one-eyed prince who emerged like a ghost from the shadows. Denied entry, yet he appeared nonetheless. How could he? Who knows? All that matters is that he sought to defile the innocent princess. Thankfully her trusted guard intercepted him in time and swiftly separated his head from his body’.”

Aemond raised an eyebrow, his tone laced with skepticism. “Did you just make that up?”

“I did. Now, leave before I have to resort to such measures,” Daenera retorted, glaring at him with determination.

Aemond leaned in closer, a mischievous glint in his eye. “And what if I were the one to separate a head from a body?” ‘The prince was invited into the princesses chambers, you see. They were lovers’.”

Daenera scoffed dismissively.

Aemond continued. “‘She was a seductress who lured the virtuous prince into depravity. Have you heard about the scandalous letter? How immoral she truly is?’”

“No one would believe that I lured you into anything,” Daenera insisted, rolling her eyes.

Aemond’s smirk grew. “Are you sure about that?”

“You have absolutely lost your mind,” Daenera declared, exasperation evident in her voice. She was tempted to bury her face in her hands, but the vulnerability of her current state prevented her from doing so. Her discarded robe lay out of reach on the settee. There was no other option than to remain in the bath.

“Oh, but it’s quite amusing to catch you off guard,” Aemond mused, seating himself on a stool beside the tub. His pale fingers railed along the surface of the water, his eye fixed solely on her. “Your vulnerability is an added perk.”

“You are just like your brother. A coward. A pervert,” Daenera spat in disdain.

Aemond’s eye narrowed, but the amusement in his gaze never wavered despite being compared to his brother. “If I were my brother, you would have called for your guard long ago.”

The insinuation hit its mark, causing Daenera to avert her gaze, eyes quickly fixating on the dancing flames of the fireplace. She felt a surge of frustration and annoyance with herself. After all, she had set this dangerous game in motion. Did she truly believe that what she had offered him would satisfy his desires? Was the humiliation she had inflicted upon herself for him not enough?

“I had hoped you’d take the victory and put an end to this charade,” Daenera remarked, then sighed.

Aemond’s fingers leisurely twirled a rose petal on the water’s surface, head tilting to the side as he studied her with a curious expression that made her skin heat up. She might as well be boiling in the water.

“I would have,” he admitted. “I would have used it to tarnish your reputation and send you on your way back to Dragonstone.”

For a brief moment, a surge of anger coursed through Daenera, and she contemplated reaching out to force his head under water and make him drown in her bathwater. But she remained still, leaning back in the tub, her eyes locked warily on him. His expression made her apprehensive with how sincere it seemed.

Aemond didn’t have a sincere bone in his body.

“But you wouldn’t have been entirely ruined,” Aemond continued, his voice holding the same familiar amusement his smirk always did. The smugness only fueled Daenera’s contempt.

“I told you, I won't surrender my maidenhead to you,” Daenera declared. “And you will not get anything else from me either.”

Aemond’s smile persisted, as if he possessed a certain knowledge about her that remained elusive even to herself. “You left so abruptly that day… So I thought I would come here to return the favor.”

“I don’t want you to return the favor,” Daenera dismissed with a disgusted curl to her lips.

Aemond’s eye gleamed, and his smirk grew a little wider. “Don’t you?”

“Why would I let you touch me?”

“Because you want me to,” Aemond replied simply, reaching for the sponge that rested on the side table. He dipped it into the tub, then directed it towards Daenera’s arm, which she wrapped a little tighter to her torso in a feeble attempt to preserve her modesty. His fingers closed around her wrist, gently urging her to release her grip and extending it out infront of her. He held her wrist and pressed the damp sponge against her skin.

Daenera wasn’t sure why she allowed him to do any of this. She felt frozen in place, watching him warily, waiting for this mask he wore to drop and his grip turn forceful and cruel as it always did. Perhaps, it was also a strange, twisted sort of curiosity that drow her to remain still.

As usual, Aemond got under her skin and made her disregard her own better judgment. That day when she was on her knees in front of him, every touch he had bestowed upon her had ignited something deep within, causing her stomach to twist and coil, and her heart to pound fiercely in her chest. And when she had touched him, she had felt the wetness between her thighs and an ache grow deep within.

Lust was a dangerous thing, and she knew all too well what the price would be.

Yet, she felt the claws of it were sinking into her skin, and with each of his touches she felt them sink in a little further.

“What do you know about returning favors?” Daenera taunted, grasping for any semblance of control. “You excel at holding grudges, but returning favors? Well, you don’t strike me as particularly capable on that front.”

What do animals do when they’re cornered and can’t escape? They lash out. Humans do the same. Daenera wasn’t above being cruel. And she certainly wasn't above reminding Aemond of his failures.

“Do you wish for me to demonstrate my ability to return favors? Perhaps I should present you with your brother's eyes?” Aemond murmured, filling the sponge with water and applying it to her shoulders, squeezing the warm water out of it, letting it stream down her arm, down the exposed part of her chest just below the collarbone. “He still owes a debt.”

“And here I was thinking that I was repaying that debt,” Daenera responded sarcastically and adopted a lower tone of voice to mimic Aemonds. “With my ruin.”

“No, you’re repaying your own debt,” Aemond corrected her, almost a laugh in his voice.

Daenera rolled her eyes and glowered, frustrated with how many debts Aemond seemed to collect. “And when will you be satisfied?”

“When you are utterly and completely ruined, of course,” Aemond replied casually.

Daenera let her head fall back in exasperation, tired of his theatrics. She peeled her other arm away from her chest, sinking further into the water. Modesty was futile in this situation. He was trying to intimidate her, but she refused to yield to fear.

“You know, this whole ‘ruination’ scheme is becoming rather tiresome,” she remarked, her tone more careless than she really felt. “And as I’ve told you, if I burn, you burn.”

“Hmm,” Aemond hummed contemplatively. “It seems to be that you’re the one who’s currently ablaze.”

His smile remained unyielding, as if he held a profound understanding of her that eluded her own awareness. The spine continued its deliberate ascent up her arm, and with each touch, a surge of heart coursed through her. Her breath quickened, becoming shallow and uneven, while her heart, once a fortress of composure, now hammered within her chest like a wild bird’s frantic wings.

“You should go,” she murmured quietly, voice breathy and strained.

“Do you want me to?” The words were spoken softly, his eye gleaming with mischief. The sponge glided up her shoulder, crossing over her collarbone, and then traced the same path back again, a tentative experiment testing how far she’d allow him to go. Could he feel the frantic rhythm of her pulse?

“Why are you doing this, truely?” Daenera questioned and swallowed thickly as the tip of his calloused fingers grazed her collarbone. Was it boredom with life at court? Boredom bred recklessness. It was, in part, what led her back to the capital, along with her mission of gathering allies.

Or fueled by something more primal, an intoxicating blend of lust and not hatred? Lust, the insidious force that rendered one blind, dangerous, and willing to throw caution to the wind.

Or was it as he said? Paying a debt she owed. A debt that needed to be paid in humiliation and flesh.

She wasn’t sure which she preferred.

“This debt you seem to think I owe, what will pay it off? My honor? My maidenhead?” She inquired defiantly.

Aemond’s eye caught the flickering flame of the hearth. “Will you give me your maidenhead?”

“If you give me your other eye, I might,” Daenera sneered.

She wasn’t about to give over something as important as her maidenhead. He had already besmirched her honor, he would not take the last sliver of self-respect she had. As she mulled over her options, she tapped a nail against the edge of the tub. Tap, tap, tapping.

Daenera let out a sigh. “Have you ever been told that you’re a man of few words?”

That earned her a smile. “Often.”

“It’s annoying,”Daenera said and grabbed the sponge from his hand, beginning to scrub her own arm. “And you’d make a terrible maid.”

“I would think you’d enjoy the company of a man of few words,” Aemond countered, watching her drag the sponge over her skin and the way the water gleamed on it, smelling of rose and jasmine.

“I usually do,” Daenera grumbled. “But you… are infuriating . Tell me, One-eye, will you ever answer my questions?”

Daenera scrubbed her skin red in annoyance. Aemond was the second most infuriating man she had ever known being just behind Daemon himself. And even then they weren’t in the same categories. If only it were acceptable to wring Aemond’s neck, she’d do it in a heartbeat.

Not understanding a person’s reason for doing something was what Daenera hated the most. She wanted to know why. Why had he started this? They could have been civil and stayed out of each other's way. And what made him play this game in this irritatingly inconsistent way? Things like this were usually about one thing, and that could either be sex, money, revenge or power. He seemed to have picked all of them.

Her fingers squeezed the sponge, wringing as much water from it as she could, before placing it on the tray on the side table. “The one-eyed prince… I pity your future wife, she’s sure to be disappointed in your ability to make conversation, as well as doing something so menial as scrubbing her skin with a sponge.”

Aemond let out a chuckle, a low sound that took Daenera by surprise. He laughed. He actually laughed.

“I pity your future husband,” Aemond said, trailing a finger up her arm, leaving a path of gooseflesh in its wake. The finger skimmed over her collarbone to the other side, then back again. It tickled but Daenera kept still, her grip on the sides of the tub tightening. She eyed him wearily.

His eye never left her face, drinking in every small change in her expression, noting the hitch in her breath. “He’ll find his wife far too clever for her own good… and yet so willing to shame herself.”

His finger traced a delicate bath along her breastbone, gliding down until it reached the gentle caress of the water’s surface. His gaze trailed the movement, fixating on her exposed nipples as they skimmed the waterline. They stood pert and erect, unabashedly on display, their plumpness and weight visible for all to see. Their hue matched that of her lips, a captivating shade that added to their allure.

Daenera’s voice wavered as she spoke, her words barely audible. “That is our duty. To endure husbands and wives.”

Aemond’s response was unequivocal. “Is that what you want? To endure husbands…”

Daenera’s duty, like her lineage of Targaryen and Velaryon, dictated that she marry and bear heirs. It was the predetermined fate of women. Her mother had fulfilled her duty by marrying Laenor, and though she found solace in Ser Harwin, she had still done what was required. She had been blessed to find love in and outside of marriage.

Love, however, was a rare commodity, and rarer still to have any say in the word of marriage and alliance. Daenera did not expect to experience such love in her own life. Duty took precedence over personal desire. It was her duty to marry a noble lord and secure alliances.

Aemond had to understand this. He, too, was bound by duty, even if he had not yet taken a wife.

“We are beholden to fulfill what is required of us,” Daenera replied. “You, above all others, should understand the weight of duty.”

Aemond’s finger gently grazed her breast, trailing a tantalizing bath around her nipple before encircling it completely in the cup of his hand. His thumb played with the sensitive bud, invoking a stifled gasp from Daenera as she bit down on her bottom lip, determined to suppress any sound that threatened to spill out. “If duty holds such importance for you, why do you allow me to touch you in this manner?”

A tumultuous mixture of anticipation and thrill surged through Daenera, permeating every fiber of her being. It was as if a cascade of tickles and pricks danced within her, stirring her insides and setting it ablaze. The fervor flowed through her veins, spreading fiery tendrils to every corner of her body, igniting a sensation that was both exhilarating and unnerving.

Unfazed by the consequences, Aemond’s hand dipped beneath the water’s surface, gliding along the expanse of her stomach. He paid no heed to the fact that his sleeve got soaked through, the fabric greedily drinking in the water. The sacrifice of his doublet held no significance as he explored the depths.

“Aemond,” Daenera warned, both apprehensive and wary.

A sly smirk etched across his lips. “I know what you long for.”

The ache between Daenera’s legs intensified with each descending movement of his fingers. She loathed herself for remaining motionless, for not swatting away his touch. Yet, deep down, a hidden longing whispered that she shouldn’t resist, that she should let him explore. It conflicted with her sense of propriety, with her sense of self knowledge.

The water seemed to lose its warmth, leaving her body ablaze as if she had sucked up all the heat it had to offer, leaving it chilled.

“And what is it I want?” She questioned, voice wavering.

Aemond’s smile broadened, reveling in the power he held over her. His fingers brushed through the delicate curls at her mound, eliciting a sharp intake of breath. By then, his arm had fully submerged, the water rising all the way to his armpit. “Do you truly wish for me to tell you what you want?”

“Yes,” she managed to grit out, her impatience mounting. “I want to hear what you can come up with.”

“Mmm,” Aemond purred, teasingly withholding his answer. “I don’t think that you do.”

“Aemond.” His name was spoken in both exasperation and annoyance.

“Ah, there you go, uttering my name,” he teased, his hand now firmly grasping the flesh of her inner thigh. “I quite enjoy the way you say my name.”

“You are insufferable.”

He strained to conceal the triumphant smile that spread across his face. He leaned in close to her ear, breath tickling over the shell of her ear. “The next time your lips part to utter my name, I shall claim you .”

Aemond’s hand withdrew abruptly, slipping away from the space between her thighs, leaving behind a torturous, unfulfilled ache, that thrummed in tandem with her pulse. Her brows scowled together, eyes boring into his smug face.

The sleeve of his doublet dripped with a steady stream of water, the once-light fabric now heavy and sticking to his arm. As he rose, he grabbed her face, curling his hand around her chin and boring his fingers into the flesh of her cheeks making her purse her lips. Droplets dripped onto her face, clinging to the flushed skin. He pressed a little harder on her cheeks, prying her jaws apart to alleviate the pressure.

Aemond spat into her mouth.

Daenera recoiled, slapping his arm away from her and prying her face out of his clutch, eyes widened in utter shock and fury. He spat into her mouth. She turned and spat onto the stone floor, the blob of mixed saliva landing on the stone near the hearth. She glared at him as he chuckled.

She picked up the sponge and hurled it at his head, the water splashing over the edge of the tub.

“You are disgusting.”

“I only followed your example,” Aemond drawled.

Daenera gritted her teeth. “Do you think I’m incapable of finishing what you started?”

“Oh, I’m quite certain you’re more than capable,” Aemond responded with a goading hum. “And it will bring me immense satisfaction to know that I am the reason behind your pleasure.”

Daenera shook her head in angry disbelief, refusing to meet his gaze. Instead, she turned her attention to the crackling flames in the heart, mentally cursing him for the torment he had unleashed upon her. “Get out.”

By the time she mustered the courage to look back, he had vanished, leaving behind only lingering shadows and an insatiable ache that resonated within her. With a frustrated groan, Daenera submerged herself beneath the surface of the water, disregarding that it was wetting her hair. The tranquility of the submerged world only lasted as long as she could hold her breath. Daenera screamed.

Aemond Targaryen was a menace, a tormentor specifically crafted by the gods to plague her existence. She would have to do something about him.

Aemond found himself standing in the narrow confines of the secret pathways, the lingering warmth of Daenera’s chambers seeping through the cracks of the hidden door. Leaning against the cool stone, he closed his eyes, his hand instinctively gravitating to the bulge in his trousers, gripping tightly around his pulsating arousal. A sharp intake of breath sounded, his jaw clenched with a mixture of desire and frustration.

The cold of the secret passageway chilled his sleeve, a stream of water still dripping steadily from the tip of his fingers. He swallowed, attempting to regain his composure amidst the maelstrom of conflicting emotions swirling within him. In truth, he had not anticipated the intensity of their encounter. His initial intention had been to catch her off guard, to humiliate her, but her response had awakened something primal within him.

Aemond tightened his hold on himself, desperately trying to alleviate the uncomfortable strain of his trousers. Daenere was the bane of his existence, a constant torment that seemed to exacerbate with every interaction.

She wanted him. Aemond was certain of it. And he vowed to make her the one who surrendered to him willingly. He was not his brother, he did not take what was not freely given. Though he pushed the boundaries, his waning sense of honor still held firm, despite the gradual erosion in the presence of her allure.

It all began on the day she arrived, an invisible thread weaving between them, binding their fates together. One of them had to break, and Aemond was determined to ensure it would be Daenera. The tension between them grew with each passing moment, driving him to the brink of madness, fueling his relentless pursuit to dominate her will.

#aemond targaryen #hotd #house of the dragon #aemond fanfiction #aemond x reader #hotd aemond #aemond one eye #aemond x oc #aemond fic #aemond smut #hotd fanfic #A Vow of Blood

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lifeofpriya · 15 days

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Could you write ,,giving you a massage,, with Jack please?

we're getting close to the finish line, y'all! we got a few more from the jack weekend 👍🏼

Cozy Night In

wc: 2.1k

You stand in the doorway, watching the rain tap dance on the cobblestone street. The sound is rhythmic, almost soothing. Inside, the scent of rosemary and thyme fills the air from the simmering pot of stew on the stove. You've been waiting for Jack to come back from his grueling practice. His footsteps echo through the hall, a familiar pattern of exhaustion and accomplishment.

Jack enters the room, his face a canvas of sweat and determination. His eyes lock onto yours, a silent plea for relief from the ache in his back. You nod, understanding his unspoken request. He's been pushing himself harder than ever lately, striving to climb the ranks in the tennis world. The towel slung around his neck is a stark contrast to the vibrant hazel of his eyes, which seem to have lost some of their usual sparkle.

"How was it today?" you ask, keeping your voice low, not wanting to shatter the quiet solitude that follows his intense sessions.

Jack's smile is weary but sincere. "Tough," he says, his shoulders dropping with the weight of his gear. "Trot had me running drills, really working on my backhand."

You guide him to the couch, gently taking his bag. "Let me help with that," you offer, placing it aside. His eyes light up in appreciation as he sighs, feeling the warmth of the room embrace him. The crackling fireplace adds a soft glow to the space, casting shadows that dance on the walls.

Jack winces as he lowers himself onto the plush cushions. His muscles are tight, a testament to the hours spent on the court. You move closer, your fingertips grazing his damp hair. "Where does it hurt?"

"Everywhere," he groans with a chuckle, "but mostly here." He points to a spot between his shoulder blades. You nod, knowing this is a common complaint after a day of relentless training.

"Dinner is almost ready," you say, moving to the kitchen, "but afterwards, I'll give you a proper massage."

Jack nods gratefully, his eyes closing as he inhales the savory aroma of the stew. The anticipation of relief is almost palpable. As you stir the pot, you consider the array of essential oils you have waiting. The calming scent of lavender might help him unwind, or perhaps the invigorating scent of peppermint to soothe the muscles.

Dinner is a quiet affair, the crackling fire and occasional clink of silverware against ceramic the only sounds breaking the silence. You both savor the meal, Jack devouring the stew with a hunger that comes from pushing his body to its limits. His eyes never leave yours, filled with gratitude for the simple comforts of home.

After dinner, you lead Jack to your shared bedroom, dimming the lights to create a serene atmosphere. "I'll go get the massage oil," you murmured under your breath, "just get comfortable."

Jack nodded his head and discarded his damp shirt, revealing the tapestry of muscles beneath. He laid face down on the bed, the sheets cool against his flushed skin. The room was bathed in a soft, golden light from the bedside lamp, casting a warm glow across the space.

You return with a bottle of almond-scented massage oil, the cap already loosened. You warm a generous amount in your palms, feeling the slickness of it as you rub them together. The scent fills the air, mixing with the faint remnants of his sweat and the lingering aroma of dinner.

"This might be cold," you warn, placing your hands on his back. His skin jumps at the sudden chill, but he relaxes almost immediately as you begin to work the oil into his muscles. Your thumbs press into the knots, applying firm, even pressure. You can feel the tension in his body start to dissolve, like sand slipping through your fingers.

You start at the base of his neck, working in slow, circular motions. His breathing deepens, and his body sags into the mattress. With each stroke, you feel the tautness of his muscles give way to your touch. You've learned his body's language over the months you've been together, the silent cues that indicate pain or pleasure, the spots that need extra attention.

The rain outside has turned into a gentle patter, the rhythm of the drops a soothing backdrop to the focused quiet of the room. You move down to his shoulders, applying more pressure, feeling the knots protest before they loosen. Jack lets out a sigh that's part relief, part contentment.

You glide your hands down his spine, spreading the warmth of the oil and your touch along the way. His breath hitches when you hit a particularly tight spot, but he remains still, trusting in your ability to bring him relief. Your thumbs dig in, kneading the tight muscles until they start to unravel. His skin is slick with the oil, making it easier to glide over the contours of his back.

As you work, Jack's breathing evens out, his body melting into the bed. The rain outside has become a soothing lullaby, complementing the rhythmic motions of your hands. You switch to long strokes, going from the base of his spine to the tips of his shoulders, feeling the tension dissipate with each pass. His back is a landscape of ridges and valleys, each one telling the story of the day's exertion.

You pause for a moment, taking in the scene. The warm light, the soft sounds of Jack's breathing, the scent of the massage oil blending with the rain-soaked air. It's a moment of quiet intimacy that you cherish, a reminder of why you're here, taking care of him. You resume your ministrations, applying gentle pressure to the small of his back, where the tension often hides.

"Does it hurt anywhere else?" you ask, your voice a soft whisper in the stillness.

Jack mumbles something unintelligible, his body now boneless under your touch. You interpret it as an invitation to continue. You glide your hands over his lower back, feeling the tension coil like a spring beneath your fingertips. With precision, you work on the tight muscles around his spine, the sound of his breathing guiding your movements.

As the minutes tick by, Jack's body relaxes further, the tightness in his muscles giving way to your persistent efforts. His legs twitch slightly, a sign that the tension is slowly seeping out of him. You switch to using your elbows, applying deeper pressure to the muscles along his spine, feeling the knots slowly dissolve.

The rain outside has become a gentle hum, the rhythm of the drops syncing with the rhythm of your movements. You can almost feel the stress of the day being washed away along with the rain. The room is warm and cozy, a cocoon of comfort for the both of you.

Jack's breathing slows, his body fully surrendering to the massage. You know he's close to falling asleep, but you want to ensure every inch of his back is attended to. You move down to his lower back, where the muscles are often the most neglected. Your hands glide over the contours, pressing firmly into the knots that remain. His legs twitch slightly in response, but he doesn't protest.

"Did that hurt, babe?" you ask, pausing as Jack's body tenses for a brief moment.

"A bit," he mumbles, his voice thick with sleep.

You apologize, but he waves it off with a lazy hand. "It's okay," he murmurs, his breathing already evening out again. You decide to be more cautious, using the flats of your palms to soothe the remaining tension in his lower back. The warmth of your hands seeps into his skin, and you can feel the last vestiges of his day's exertion slowly releasing.

As you continue to massage, Jack's body relaxes even further, his breaths deepening into the steady rhythm of sleep. You switch to lighter strokes, not wanting to disturb him. The tension in the room has shifted from one of pain and fatigue to one of peace and contentment. You take a moment to appreciate the feeling of his muscles relaxing beneath your touch, the trust he has in you to care for him.

The room is filled with the comforting scent of the massage oil, mingling with the faint aroma of rain that seeps through the windows. You can hear the distant sound of a car driving by, the wipers a metronome in the night. The warm lights sent softly glowed, sending a flicker of light across Jack's relaxed features. His forehead is smooth, no longer creased with pain.

You take a step back, admiring your handiwork. His body, once a battleground of tension, is now a canvas of tranquility. You gently squeeze his shoulder. "I'm all done now," you murmur.

Jack stirs, his eyes fluttering open. He turns his head to look at you, a sleepy smile gracing his lips. "Thanks," he whispers, his voice hoarse from the exertion of the day.

"You're welcome," you reply, your own smile mirroring his. "How do you feel?"

Jack stretches his arms over his head, arching his back. "So much better," he says, the tension in his voice replaced with a hint of satisfaction. "You have magic hands."

You laugh softly, the sound like a melody in the quiet room. "No magic, just a bit of TLC," you reply, taking the towel you've warmed and placing it over his lower back. The heat seeps into his skin, a gentle warmth that adds to his relaxation.

Jack groans in contentment as the warmth spreads, his eyes closing again. You take the opportunity to admire the defined muscles of his back, the way his body has transformed under the rigorous training regime. Each ridge and curve tells the story of his dedication, his passion for the sport that consumes his life. You feel a swell of pride, knowing that you're part of his support system, the one who helps him recover after each grueling day.

You lean down, placing a gentle kiss on his shoulder blade. "You should get some rest," you murmur, your breath fanning over his skin.

Jack nods, his eyes still closed. "Yeah," he agrees, his voice a rumble of satisfaction. "But don't go anywhere, okay?"

You sit on the edge of the bed, your hand resting on his back, feeling the rise and fall of his breaths. "I'm not going anywhere," you promise, stroking his skin lightly. The rain outside has turned into a steady pitter-patter, the sound of it a gentle lullaby.

Jack's eyes remain closed, his body fully relaxed under the warmth of the towel and your lingering touch. He rolls over onto his side, his eyes fluttering open to meet yours. The exhaustion has lifted, replaced by a softness that makes him look younger than his 22 years. "Thank you," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion.

You lean in closer, your foreheads touching. "It's nothing," you reply, feeling the warmth of his breath against your skin.

Jack's hand reaches up, cupping your cheek. "It's not nothing," he says, his eyes searching yours. "You always know what I need, even when I don't."

You blush, your heart swelling with affection. "It's just what we do for each other," you reply, your voice a whisper.

Jack nods, his eyes never leaving yours. He takes a deep breath, the tension in his body replaced by a newfound ease. "I'm lucky to have you," he says, his voice earnest.

You smile, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. "And I'm lucky to have you too," you reply, your hand resting on his chest. His heart beats steadily beneath your palm, a rhythm that matches the calming patter of the rain.

Jack's grip on your cheek tightens for a moment before he leans in and kisses you, a soft press of his lips that speaks volumes. The kiss is a gentle reminder of the connection you share, the unspoken understanding that goes beyond words.

Breaking away, he pulls you closer, wrapping his arm around your waist. "Stay with me," he whispers, his eyes pleading. You nod, curling up beside him, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. The bed shifts as he gets more comfortable, his arm pulling you tighter against him.

You lay there for a moment, listening to the rain, feeling his heartbeat against your chest. His breathing evens out, and you know he's close to sleep. But before he drifts off, he speaks again, his voice a soft rumble in the quiet. "I love you."

The words hang in the air, warm and tender, wrapping around you like a blanket. You lean in closer, pressing your nose to his neck, inhaling the scent of sweat and shampoo that is uniquely him. "I love you too," you murmur, your voice barely audible.

#jack draper #jack draper imagine #jack draper imagines #jack draper fic #jack draper fics #jack draper x reader #tennis imagine #tennis imagines #tennis fic #tennis fics

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notinthislife50 · 1 year

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Chapter 7

Previous Chapter

Next Chapter

The Captain and Tony came for you and Wade, unlocking your cell door he commanded “Follow us.” You and Wade jumped up at attention, saluting the man saying “Yes sir, right away sir,” before you looked at each other and laughed.

Before leaving the room you turned to Loki and curtsied “Little god,” smirking you turned on your heel and walked away.

You and Wade were seated at the top of a table, while the members of the Avengers and Shield surrounded you,

Natasha sitting on the top of the table asked “So who are you?”

“Well Dorothy I’m half shapeshifter and this big red condom is Wade”

“Hey “Wade protested “You promised you wouldn’t call me that in front of the ladies.” He mumbled.

“Yes I did, I’m sorry I promise I won’t do it again” you apologized patting his arm.

“What do you mean half-shapeshifter?" Natasha asked.

“Well, I’m half shape shifter I can turn into any living creature. Hence the lion,” you confirmed.

“And the other half? " Tony asked slowly.

“Well, my other half is a demon," you confirmed looking at the captain.

“Demon?” asked Clint “like demon demon?”

“Yes” you sighed “demon demon, like from hell demon”

“Oh yea, ” Wade jumped in "She is Rosemary herself“ he snickered.

“Like Rosemary’s baby?” Tony questioned.

“Ding ding ding” Wade smiled in response.

“Wade shut up,” you hissed.

“So?” Captain America said.

You looked at Wade with a raised eyebrow letting him know here we go

“So?” Captain America continued " If you’re a demon then there is actually a god?”

“Yes,” you sighed rolling your eyes.

“And what’s he like?” Captain America questioned.

Before you could answer Wade jumped in.

“She’s a demon, what on earth makes you think she has seen god? " he questioned.

With that statement, Captain America stepped away from you, and again you rolled your eyes. Thinking to yourself always judged before they get to know me.

“So?” Natasha asked, “I can’t help but notice you two are close, are you a couple?"

You and Wade looked at her waiting for her to finish. But when she didn’t you asked “A couple of what?” you asked confusingly.

“A c.o.u.p.l.e” she enunciated.

This time it was Wade’s turn to say " You don’t have to speak slowly, we heard what you said but what are you asking, are we a couple of what?”

Clint came over to Natasha’s shoulder asking “a couple couple like together boyfriend and girlfriend,”

“Ewwwwwww” you both exclaimed in unison “That is foul.”

“Well you seem quite close,” Stark stated.

“Yea we would be we are best friends," you huffed.

“So what is it you do?” Natasha asked curiously

“Well we do what you do,” Wade confirmed “We fight the bad guys,”

Growing tired of the conversation you turned to Wade asking “When was the last time we were in Vietnam, I miss Noir. We should definitely go back.”

“Hell yes,” Wade agreed enthusiastically “After all this inconvenience is done, let’s go.”

As you and Wade began to formulate your plans.

Tony smacked the desk “Hey dumb and dumber, you know this is an interrogation?”

You pointed at Tony up and down “Okay rude, and if this is an interrogation, you guys really need more training."

“Are you guys always this frustrating?” Bruce asked rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“We like to think of it as endearing," Wade stated.

Again getting bored you turned to Wade.

“Hey Wade, if I lick you with my lion tongue, is it my tongue or is it a lion tongue?”

“Oh not sure, I want to say it’s your tongue as you turned yourself into a lion but I don’t know as you are a different species, plus thinking of you licking me with your tongue is a bit gross.”

“I agree.” you nodded.

“Hey” Natasha snapped her fingers in front of you “Can we take this seriously?”

“Okay Dorothy, whatever you say” You smirked.

@fraidoftedark

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huramuna · 7 months

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banshee's lament - chapter 3.

aemond targaryen x stark ofc minor jacaerys velaryon x stark ofc masterlist prev | next

a former ward of alicent hightower and aemond's childhood companion, shera stark, returns to king's landing after ten years. ten years after the incident at driftmark that left her and aemond permanently disfigured. after so many years apart, shera and aemond are almost strangers. almost.

shera's voice sounds like blue diamond in this clip. a soft, dreamy whisper.

wordcount: 4.3k

@huramuna-fics - follow & turn on notifications for just my fic postings! no taglists right now, sorry.

content: smut, angst, fluff, disabled ofc, aemond being delulu & obsessive, major canon divergence, ofc has a service direwolf, i'm taking canon rules and putting them in a blender and taking a shot, arranged marriage, graphic depictions of violence

story playlist

Shera didn’t waste much time getting back to her chambers. She was overwhelmed, confused and overall exhausted— and the day wasn’t even over yet. She chewed on the inside of her cheek as she padded the stone to her rooms, hoping to the Gods, the old and the new, that someone wouldn’t stop and speak to her.

“A bath, please,” Shera asked the chambermaids hastily once she reached her solar. “Scorching, as hot as possible. And… my oils, from my chest— if you please…”

They brought in the large copper tub and filled it with hot water, all the way near the top until Shera could see the wisps of steam billowing from it. The maids poured in vials of oil that she brought with her from Winterfell— lavender oil, rosemary oil and sweet honeysuckle oil. The concoction swirled into a lovely light purple color.

“Will you need help undressing, miss?” one of the maids asked.

“N-no,” she murmured. “Thank you— you may go. Return just before sunset.”

Then she was alone. She could finally breathe. Wasting no time undressing, she shed her veil and choker and outer layers until she met the hard exterior of her corset. Fuck. Mayhaps she should’ve asked for help. Unwilling to call them back in, she grabbed a cheese knife from the small dining table near the balcony, slitting through the bindings of the corset like a lovely aged bleu.

Moongeist nosed the latch to the balcony, prompting Shera to open it and let in the breeze from the sea. Nude at last, she all but jumped into the bath, which to her delight, was still scorching. She watched as the wolf sat on the terrace, nose poking out through the stone barrier. He took in the scent of the sea, the salty spray and lingering aroma of toiling waves— and of course, barked at a few seagulls.

Her bones relaxed as she unpinned her hair, tossing the pins astray into the room— to either be stepped on later, or never found again. Shera let out an audible sigh, feeling her skin soften from the oils. This was the pinnacle of her days— she was very fond of baths and made her own bath oils. She loved the warmth, the enveloping heat of the water soothing her worry. It was like the most comfortable of blankets and she loved to get clean, to be clean. It was a ritual and a must for her to have a bath at least every other day.

Her love for baths started because of Helaena, she supposed. When Shera arrived in King’s Landing all those years ago for the first time, she was a grimy and dirty child, wild to the bone, and detested baths. The maids didn’t know what to do with her, until they bathed Helaena and Shera together. They weren’t far apart in age at the time, Helaena being the polar opposite of Shera— but somehow she reeled her into normalcy. The princess would bring her wooden toys into the bath, much to the chagrin of her mother, and play with Shera, blow bubbles and tell stories. It was odd to everyone around them, as the two seemingly switched personalities when they bathed together. Helaena, usually a quiet child, would tell grandiose stories, while Shera would sit quietly, giving her complete and rapt attention to the princess.

The girls bathed together until they were both eight and ten years of age respectively, but even then, they would be in the room with one another while they did— reading books out loud, gossiping, or just sitting in silence, enjoying one another’s presence.

Shera’s undoubted companion in the Keep was Aemond, but she had a very close and special friendship with Helaena— a friendship that the both of them very much missed, subconsciously. It wasn’t as huge of a blow to Shera as losing Aemond, as the Lady of Winterfell and the Princess frequently wrote one another throughout the ten years apart. It was one of the only reasons Shera wasn’t completely mad. But, even so, letters can only do so much, can’t they?

As much as she loathed this marriage and the ramifications of it… she would still be closer to her family, her real family, upon Dragonstone than in Winterfell. She laid in the bath until the water went cool, her mind wandering back to the encounter in the Godswood. Why would Daemon speak to her and with such a… driven attitude? What did he want?

Her thoughts continued to flow, a finger tracing patterns in the mingling oils that lived atop the water. Did Helaena still like baths? If she so asked, would they be able to bathe together like old times?

No– that would require… forgoing her veil and choker. Even if it was Helaena– she doesn’t know if she could truly bare herself to her– to anyone.

—

The hours stretched on until dinner, Shera pacing back and forth, working herself up to a point where Moongeist tugged on her sleeve with his teeth as an indication to calm down.

The maids who’d been assigned to her flittered around her like a flock of ptarmigan hens, pleading with her to let them dress her. She shied away from their touch, only allowing them to dress her in a new corset and skirts.

She stayed in her veil, accentuating it with a few strings of pearls so mayhaps she wouldn’t look so haunting– a hope that always went unfounded, people found her so very terrifying either way.

Shera preferred to wear dark, muted colors and always had on some item of fur upon her; tonight’s being a gorgeous black and white mink stole, which Cregan had gifted her for her seventeenth name day four years ago. It was accompanied with one of her newly tailored dresses, one she sewed herself just a few moons ago and making some last minute alterations on the journey to King’s Landing. It was black lace, falling down to her feet and dragging behind her like a ghostly shadow. Coupled with a laced black veil, she looked in the mirror.

The maid behind her glanced at her warily. “Are… are you in mourning, Lady Stark?” she asked timidly.

“... no?” Shera blinked, taking in her appearance from her reflection. Ah. So, this is why people consist with the ‘Banshee’ title. Shrugging her shoulders, she wrapped the stole around her snugly

Letting Moongeist guide her to the dining hall, to which he followed the smell of roasting meats, she mentally prepared herself. Princess Rhaenyra was to attend, and with Rhaenyra was her brood of children and her rogue husband and the extended clutch of hatchlings– Baela and Rhaena amongst them. She felt sickly at the fact that she would be seeing the twins again, the former of whom was who disfigured her.

Walking into the chamber, the music was in full swing and everyone was already seated. Had she really been so late? All eyes turned to her and Shera scanned them with a bowed head, the tips of her fingers shaking as she locked gazes with Baela. A reminder of the pain that she’d caused, how she wielded the knife that cut Shera’s throat and blinded her in one eye.

The wolf to Shera’s side let out the tiniest of whines, pushing Shera towards the table, and her seat between Helaena and Alicent– thank the Gods for small mercies. Although, she was directly across from Aemond, who hadn’t even blinked since she entered the room.

“Oh, it's so good to have you here again, my dear,” Alicent hummed, taking one of Shera’s hands into her own. The queen was so warm, where Shera was cold. “It is just like old times, hm?”

“Beautiful pup, Shera,” Helaena whispered to her, a hand outstretched to Moongeist. “You see so well through him.” she cooed, a smile plastering upon her lips as the wolf licked her open palm.

“Yes… old times,” Shera responded softly, adjusting her veil. She looked to Helaena, who returned with a knowing gaze. “Hel?” she murmured, lower than usual.

“Yes, dovey?”

“… I’ve missed you dearly.” Shera whispered, offering her hand to the princess— to which they interlocked fingers. The two separately were considered touch-averse, with Shera shying away from touch and Helaena cringing at it. But the two had a deeper understanding of one another, it seemed. They always had, their bond only outshined by Shera and Aemond’s.

But now, it’d be different, wouldn’t it? Aemond was a hot and cold mess to Shera— but Helaena welcomed her like no time had passed. It made her chest ache in a nostalgic way, tears threatening to spill. The good thing about her veil is that no one could see her cry. The whole day had been terribly overwhelming, taut with too many people wanting something from her, needing her to be someone she didn’t wish to be— is this how Helaena felt when she was married to Aegon?

Tears did fall and Shera let them drip down her face, sinking and sliding from the mink stole to her legs. Helaena tugged on her hand. “Don’t cry, dragonfly,” she hummed. “Dance with me?”

Shera blinked the tears away, even though they were replaced by new ones right away. “I… would love to. I will not be the most coordinated, though— will you guide me?”

“Always.” the princess replied, pulling Shera from her chair and guiding her with a gentle hand to the space in the hall set aside for dancing. The music was lively and jaunty, with a lovely tune strummed from a fiddle, accompanied with a wooden flute. Helaena placed a hand on Shera’s waist, then kept their other hands interlocked. “Put your hand on my shoulder. I will lead— you can pretend I’m a gallant knight.”

Shera snorted a giggle. “I do not want to dance with a gallant knight,” she mused as they began to sway. Helaena kept her upright and indeed took the lead, allowing Shera to stay close and follow her movements. “I want to dance with the butterfly princess.”

“Ah, the butterfly princess!” Helaena cooed. “I suppose that can be arranged. What will that make you? Oh— my little wolf spider.” she giggled in return.

It was the first time the entire day, mayhaps the entire fortnight, that Shera felt… happy. She felt weightless dancing with Helaena and felt like crying again— damn the emotions. “Please don’t leave me, Hela,” she murmured, almost silently through garbled tears. “I’ve been so alone.”

Helaena led the dance off to the further corner of the room where they would have more privacy to speak, still swaying. “I wouldn’t leave you, Shera. The wolf spider’s been so alone— so alone in the cold,” she hushed. “Now you’ve come back to play with the dragonflies and the butterflies— but we must watch out for the birds, the black tailed magpies, and oh, the hawks and gulls, my sweet.”

“May I steal Lady Stark for a dance, sister?” Aemond suddenly cut in, so silent in his approach that Shera hadn’t even heard him at all.

“I don’t know,” Helaena looked to Shera. “Say the word, and I shall release a clutch of spiders into his bedchamber.” she whispered lowly, as if telling a secret.

Shera cracked a smile. “It’s alright, Hela. If he is untoward, Moongeist shall bite him.”

Helaena embraced her once more before giving her brother a mock threatening glance. Aemond swiftly replaced her, putting his hands on Shera’s waist. It felt… different. Different from how Helaena had them, and how Daemon had touched her earlier in the Godswood. It wasn’t friendly, nor slimy— it made her want to turn tail and run away, but it also made her chest warm, heart thumping like a rabbit’s.

“My lady.” he greeted, putting one hand on her lower back to help her posture. “I do hope you won’t sic your dog upon me– yet.”

“My prince,” Shera responded, looking up at him. “Mayhaps I won’t, we shall see.”

“Does it haunt you? That they’re all here in one room?” he leaned down to whisper, swaying back and forth to the music, albeit a bit rigidly. He wasn’t nearly as good of a dancer as Helaena.

“I am always haunted,” she echoed, blinking slowly. She wondered if he could really see her face under her veil. He was looking so intensely at her and she was unsure if he was putting her together or picking her apart in his mind. “Are you?”

“It’s an agitation, like a brood of mosquitoes.” Aemond answered gruffly, looking away from her now. He wasn’t telling the whole truth, she noted. His lone pupil wavered, looking everywhere but at her.

“Do you have nightmares about it?” she asked, fingers prickling under one of the buckles of his doublet absentmindedly. “I haven’t outgrown them. Not even after this long.”

He scoffed. “Nightmares? I’m not a child.”

Liar. Liar. Liar.

The servers interrupted as they began to serve the first course— Aemond helped guide Shera back to her seat.

“Thank you for the dance.” she murmured as he pushed in her seat.

“Hm.”

The dinner continued, Shera staying quiet while she prodded at her food. She preferred to eat alone and only ate enough, slipping it under her veil to not seem rude. Cregan was having a jolly time down the table, talking the ear off of Jacaerys. Baela and Rhaena were whispering to one another, as were Rhaenyra and Daemon. Shera’s skin crawled as she stole looks at the four of them– the twins hadn’t said a word to her, nor did it seem they would, merely whispering like mice. Aegon had excused himself after the first course was served and did not return. Aemond remained staring at Shera the entire time.

Blinking, Shera stared back at him finally, raising her head to lock gazes with him. The subtle shift of her veil indicated she had cocked her brow, as if to say ‘Why are you staring?’

The motion wasn’t lost on Aemond, as they fell back into their own silent communications that they were so well versed in as children. He cracked his knuckles and rolled his shoulders, responding in kind, ‘You know why.’

Alicent stood up, “I would like to propose a toast– to the return of our beloved Shera, as well as the visit of her brother and warden of the North, Cregan Stark. I cannot imagine it was an easy journey, but we are so blessed that you’ve made it, especially to finalize something that has… been in the making for a few years,” she held up her cup of wine, to which everyone else held up theirs, including Aemond. “Princess Rhaenyra, Cregan and I have been in much talk of betrothals and the like. I would like to announce, formally, the betrothal of Shera Stark,” she paused, taking a breath, “And Jacaerys Velaryon.”

Shera’s breath caught in her throat, her nails sinking into the soft of her palm. She focused solely on Alicent, even if she could feel the searing brand of Aemond’s stare on her. She refused to look, she couldn’t—

But her sole eye betrayed her, her head turning ever so slightly to gauge Aemond’s reaction. He looked like a statue, his lone pupil narrowed to a slit, like a dragon’s. His hands were placed together dutifully, but the veins near his knuckles were bulging with strain, the fervor of what could only be described as fury coursed through him. The look in his violet iris scared the hells out of Shera. ‘Twas only a moment they locked gazes, but she felt, she saw the barely contained rage, the burning of the city and beyond from Vhagar’s back—

And then it was gone, as if the candle of ferocity had been snuffed out. He sat up straight, giving Shera one last eyebrow raise before turning his attention solely to his mother. It terrified her how quickly he was able to turn it off, to bury deep as if it never existed at all.

Perhaps she had imagined it. Surely she did– he didn’t have such a volatile temper as a child, if she could remember correctly.

Clearing her throat, she raised her glass higher as Alicent finished the announcement, gesturing in Jacaerys’ direction, who did the same in return to her. She wasn’t thrilled about the prospect of living upon Dragonstone, nor did she feel she was fit to be the wife of Rhaenyra’s heir. But, ‘twas the way of things.

She thought Jace, as he had insisted she call him, was well and fine. He was a bit taller than she with a boyish charm and curled brown locks. Their few meetings as adults, where he had so gallantly rode all the way up to Winterfell upon his dragon, he always kissed her hand and smiled at her. It was easy to forget that he was a part of her and Aemond’s maiming when she turned her mind off and became the little puppet Lady that she was supposed to be— but then she would wake up crying in the middle of the night, begging for them not to kill her—

“I would like to propose a toast,” Aemond’s voice cut through Shera’s thoughts like a sharpened blade, the horrid screeching of his swiftly kicked out chair causing her to cringe. “A toast— to our lovely banshee, and her strong husband-to-be. I do hope that Jacaerys is keen on sleeping on the floor whilst a dog warms his wife’s furs– and let us pray for Shera’s health once they ruminate over Dragonstone. Do you still get sea sick, my lady? I cannot imagine a wolf gaining sea legs any time soon.”

“It’s none of your business, uncle–,” Jace countered, pushing back from his chair to stand.

“Aemond, don’t,” Alicent hissed quietly, gripping her goblet with an iron fist.

“I’m merely expressing my joy for their coming union, mother. Seems the issue is a bit touchy, hm, Jacaerys?” Aemond’s mouth twitched into a toothy smile, but it was nothing of joy. It was like the open maw of a dragon, daring anyone to walk near, lest they be snapped into smithereens.

Jacaerys walked a bit closer to Aemond, his hackles equally raised in a challenge. Shera��s observation of the two was quickly surmised; Jace was soft where Aemond was razor-edged. A fight between them would be of little challenge. The underlying rage in Aemond was apparent once more, simmering and bubbling in the pot, threatening to boil over and scald everyone within his reach. His words didn’t sound like he was about to fly off the handle– he was in complete control of every carefully placed barb, every pause in his speech was intentional for added dramatics, to piss off Jace– and Shera, it seemed.

“Do you really expect your nuptials to be fruitful, nephew? Have you ever seen her without her veil? I must say,” Aemond nodded his head toward Shera’s direction as he got closer to Jace, whispering in his ear as if not to let anyone else in on their conversation– Shera heard, though. “I’m quite curious myself– do you think that our dear cousin’s blade,” his lone eye looked to Baela, who was arm-in-arm with Rhaena, Daemon looming behind them like the Dragonmont itself, “Was sharp enough, for a clean cut? Mayhaps it’s a mangled mess under there. Best to keep the covering on for your wedding night, hm?”

“I dare you to say that again,” Jacaerys growled, his hand itching as he flexed and unflexed his fist. “You can say what you’d like about me, but you shall hold your tongue before my betrothed.”

“Jace,” Shera murmured lowly, feeling for Moongeist as she got up from her own chair, shaking. The wolf pressed to her leg, guiding her to where Jacaerys was at arm's length. She put a gentle hand on his shoulder, whilst trying to quell the quiver of her bones, while keeping her eye upon Aemond. “‘Twas merely a jest– in poor taste… but a jest.” she had her head lowered diminutively, biting the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood. Sure, the ‘jest’, as it was, hurt immensely to her already fragile psyche– but she had to keep a level head, especially here.

Still holding his own goblet, Aemond’s nostrils flared as he watched Shera caress Jace, as if they were truly close. The tip of his brow twitched as he hardened his jaw, lowering his cup and proverbial feathers, remembering himself, remembering where he was. “A jest— of course. Though, I never was the jester of our group, was I? Once upon a time, it’d been you, Jacaerys.” the second son exhaled, eye still trained on Shera. But he approached Jace, hand outstretched. “Congratulations.” he said, his voice clipped. Once again, the rage had been shoved deep down and quelled for the time being.

Jace tentatively took his hand, nodding slowly. “Thank you, uncle,” he squeezed Aemond’s hand before pulling back. “You’re better with a blade than a joke, that is for certain.”

“Mayhaps we shall spar sometime, then?” Aemond suggested. Everyone in the room knew it was a chance for him to kick Jace into the dirt like he desperately wished to do presently.

“Yes– on the morrow, uncle,” Jacaerys nodded. “Lord Stark should join us, yes? Let’s make a proper gauntlet out of it, then.”

Shera’s hand, in turn, retreated from Jace’s shoulder as she rested a hand on Moongeist’s head. Turning to Alicent, who looked on the edge of an anxious breakdown. “Thank you for the dinner, your grace. I am… feeling quite faint, so I fear I must retire,” Shera whispered, curtsying as best she could. Turning to Rhaenyra and Daemon, she bowed her head. “Princess, prince.”

Rhaenyra gave a wry smile. “Feel better soon, dear.”

Daemon said nothing, just nodding his head as his finger traced the rim of his cup.

“Allow me to escort you, sister,” Cregan was at her side in an instant.

“It’s not nec—,”

“I insist.”

It wasn’t a lie— Shera did feel quite faint from the events and excitement. Letting Moongeist guide her, she escaped the dining hall mostly unscathed, despite feeling a gnawing pain in the pit of her stomach.

Keep the covering on during your wedding night– mayhaps it's a mangled mess under there.

“O-okay,” she responded monotonously, as if she wasn’t even in control of her own body, her own words.

Cregan held her in his steady grip, guiding her out of the hall. He was quiet until they entered Maegor’s holdfast. “Dragons are quite tempestuous, aren’t they?” he began.

“… yes.”

“Your childhood companion— the prince— he certainly had a lot of great things to say about you, didn’t he?”

“… Cregan.”

“Listen to me, Shera,” he said as they entered her chambers. “They’re not your friends— not anymore. They’re strangers to you.”

“But—,”

“They don’t know you anymore, they only knew who you used to be.”

And you’re a shell of who you used to be. But that was left unsaid.

“You shan’t waste your tears any longer on them, on him,” he continued. “And do not give me that look, don’t think I don’t hear you crying at night.”

“Mayhaps I cry at night because you shoved me into something I am unfit for!” Shera shouted, her voice cracking, followed by a hiss of pain. Something I do not wish for. Jacaerys helped make me this way, Cregan. Don’t you care? Does it matter more than your fucking oath?

Cregan wanted to bite back, but instead furrowed his brow. “Are you alright? Shall I fetch a maester?”

“N-no…” she whimpered, her voice broken and full of gravel. She pressed a hand to her throat, swallowing a cough. “… tea.”

“Of course,” Cregan murmured, guiding his sister to sit on the loveseat near the fire. “I’ll get a maid… and… and the tea.”

Shera nodded, watching him leave. She didn’t care for the pain, even if it felt like someone was dragging a brush of thorns inside of her throat— she felt like she was falling apart at the seams mentally, akin to her old mended dresses, the threads wilting and falling away.

She felt lost. Lost in the fact that… she wasn’t sure she belonged anywhere. They thought her not cut out for Northern life from her delicate sensibilities— and she wasn’t cut out for King’s Landing for the same reason, except it wasn’t the physical environment, but the barbed tongues, the venomed words, the games of the mind.

She didn’t belong.

Would it even matter if she wasn’t part of the equation? Rhaenyra would get her alliance with the North somehow, Cregan would fulfill his oath, Jacaerys would have a number of other betrothal options.

It mattered not that she was here.

Didn’t it?

Keep the covering on during your wedding night– mayhaps it's a mangled mess under there.

Her jaw clenched all night as she nursed her tea to soothe her throat– but every other part of her was purely on fire. The one person in the entirety of this Gods forsaken world who knew what she felt, what she went through– the one other person who was there, who was on her side, who she… she lost everything for– was keen to jest at her disfigurement.

She stood up from her chair, hours after Cregan had left her, throwing the porcelain at the wall. The teacup smashed into bits and pieces and she sunk her teeth into her own lip until she tasted copper. The kettle was next, hocked upon the mantle of the fireplace as it too, split apart.

I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home.

Her damaged vocal cords mustered her wails they best they could, forlorn and haunting and low–

Where was home? She wanted to go home, home– but she didn’t belong anywhere. Where was her home?

The banshee yowled like a creature with a broken leg, echoing against the walls, ever enclosing.

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saintsenara · 14 days

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scylla and charybdis - a snippet

severus snape/lord voldemort explicit graphic depictions of violence | major character death

I'm procrastinating something i need to do for a fest by writing more scylla and charybdis. featuring lord voldemort really getting into the swing of his organ harvesting era and snape being... into it.

The Dark Lord glided down the stairs, Severus at his heels.

The workbench which had been apportioned to him was even more elegantly equipped than it had been in December. A solid gold cauldron stood on a trivet, bluebell flames already flickering beneath it. Ingredients sat, already perfectly measured out, in small pewter dishes. The same magnificent knife he’d sliced and diced with last time lay, the jet cabochon embedded in the hilt gleaming dully in the cellar’s sepulchral gloom, on top of a piece of parchment. The Dark Lord’s looping handwriting was stark in black ink upon it.

There was an enormous porcelain jug - bearing a cheery blue-and-white pastoral scene, a buxom witch chasing after a nogtail which had stolen her hat - in the middle of the table. It was filled to the brim with a thick, viscous substance, the deep, heavy burgundy of expensive wine.

Severus approached the table and read the recipe. The Dark Lord swept - saying nothing - into the shadows.

The instructions he had been issued made no mention of what the potion was supposed to do, but it was easy enough to work out if you knew the theory (and Severus, unlike so many of the morons with whom he was forced to share a classroom, who just chopped-and-chucked and produced passable brews by sheer luck, knew the theory). The dittany would contradict with the rue, reversing its properties as a coagulant. The tansy would contradict with the rosemary, rendering its purgative effects useless. The foxglove essence would be near-negated by the kava root. The hawthorne and the garlic and the cloves and the copper sulphate and the leeches all made blood flow and vomit rush from the body. The shepherd’s purse and the ginger and the spiders’ webs and the oak leaves and the ajwain all prevented this.

The base of the potion was a perfect balance, designed to ensure a perfect stasis.

[One of the Dark Lord’s crueller inventions, Severus would reflect, years in the future.]

The liquid in the jug would be the thing that disrupted this stasis.

[A potion - one which tasted as harmless and nourishing as beef stock.]

The liquid in the jug which was - the Dark Lord had written with a careless flourish, the way pick up milk might be scrawled on a scrap of paper stuck to the door of a fridge - human blood.

[A potion which the wasted men and women, chained and degraded in the Dark Lord’s various dungeons, would gulp down, with the desperate immoderation the starving have for hydration and salt.]

[A potion which then kept them alive as their bodies were slit down the middle. A potion which held them in stasis - purging and retaining, bleeding and clotting; the gallons of blood which lurked - untasteable - in the liquid triggering a constant loop of haematic production, bone marrow working overtime to nullify what was being lost - as the Dark Lord tortured his prisoner with the slow unravelling of their viscera.]

[He would set up a table before them, deck it with ostentatious chintz - linens in pink gingham, plates with cherry blossoms painted upon them - and begin his interrogation, taking something away with each answer that displeased him. He would question them, and they would attempt to remain defiant, and he would simply smile and place their bowel, then their intestines, then their liver, then their stomach, then their lungs on the twee, willow-patterned cake stand on the table - a macabre afternoon tea made of glistening offal - until - at the exact moment that the potion wore off - he would wrap his long fingers around their heart and hold it - still beating - in a bloodied hand, watching in lazy pleasure as their brain caught up to the fact that its owner had been slowly exsanguinated and collapsed them into death like a veal calf.]

Not that this disturbed Severus.

[He should have run.]

He was simply excited - and, in being excited, able to remain unbothered by any sort of ethical conundrum - to be let loose on some interesting ingredients.

And - of course - he’d worked with plenty of blood before; all Hogwarts students did. They dropped salamander blood into a Strengthening Solution. They stirred sheep’s blood into a Deflating Draught. It would be a bit bloody hypocritical for him to have a conniption about using human blood in something when he didn’t bat an eyelid about using animal.

And a bit bloody stupid. If he wanted to study potioneering further - and the Dark Lord had intimated that he would encourage him in this aim - he’d have to use plenty of esoteric oozings daily. Dragon’s blood, unicorn blood, tiger blood…

And human blood as well. Human blood was used in plenty of perfectly legal things - healing potions, to prevent haemorrhage in childbirth or to cauterise lost limbs; forensic potions, which swept crime scenes for the minute flecks of a perpetrator’s identity; potions which stopped nightmares; potions which kept bank vaults secure.

Veritaserum could be resisted by tainting the vial with a small pin-prick of blood. An overdose of Draught of Living Death could be reversed with a blood transfusion.

[A Horcrux is created by drinking the victim’s blood, with eucharistic reverence, while the air around you glitters gold with an enveloping matrix of magic.]

The blood of someone who’d taken Felix Felicis had the power to bestow residual luck on anyone who came into contact with it.

[The blood of someone whose mother died for them, whose mother refused to stand aside, has the power to repel death itself.]

‘It has been sieved,’ the Dark Lord said, benignly, from his shroud of shadows. ‘To filter out any clots.’

‘Great. Thanks.’

‘And any mud.’

#asenora fics #writing snippet #snapemort #severus snape #lord voldemort #scylla and charybdis

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gothcsz · 4 months

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𝑻𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒇𝒂𝒓𝒆 / Chapter X.

PAIRING: Javier Peña x Original Female Character

SUMMARY: The aftermath of their heated hook up drives our MC into the arms of another man.

WORD COUNT: ~8.7k

RATING: 18+ Explicit topics such as sex, drugs, murder, the occult, religion, cannibalism and other triggering matters will be explored in this body of work. Minors DNI.

CHAPTER SPECIFIC TAGS: discussions of religion, javi being an asshole, angst, crime talk (if it's not accurate don't @ me), talk of violence against women, substance use (weed), slut shaming(?), jealous!javi, other things that I'm probably forgetting.

DISCLAIMER/WARNINGS: The Javier Peña referenced in this body of work is solely based off of the character that appears in Netflix’s Narcos and not the actual person. Very canon divergent and I will tweak things as I see fit to compliment the narrative of this story. While efforts have been made to be accurate in terms of canon timeline, a lot of details will be fictionalized.

A/N: getting down and dirty with the occult aspect of this intricate ass plotline, lol ! i took a lot of inspiration from some of my favorite horror movies (rosemary's baby, immaculate, the first omen) so if you're into that i def rec watching the movies listed! also javi why are you so bothered?! this is literally what you wanted idk what to tell u... as always feel free to drop any type of feedback/support on this blog or ao3. i'd really appreciate it <3

♰ read on ao3. ♰

♰ playlist | pinterest | series masterlist ♰

Paloma feels the excruciating fallout with Javier for the next three days, confined to her bed as if shackled by her heartbreak. Unable to escape the anguish, she seeks refuge in her favorite movies, hoping their familiar narratives might provide a distraction.

She’s also been listening to Olivia Newton-John’s “Hopelessly Devoted to You” on repeat, finding solace in the familiar melody and heartfelt lyrics. Initially, the song’s sweet sorrow seemed to echo her own emotions perfectly, providing a cathartic release as she quietly sang along in the comfort of her sheets, lost in the melancholy tune.

However, by the twelfth listen, the song’s lamenting tones only deepened her sense of despair.

To avoid her father’s concern, she lies, claiming she got food poisoning from the party. He doesn’t question her, fulfilling his fatherly duties with unwavering dedication, bringing her medicine and even attempting to cook her a comforting meal; which says a lot considering he’s a shit cook.

Romeo’s care and concern provide a small comfort, and she doesn’t have to exert much effort to feign her illness. She genuinely feels sick to her stomach as memories of that fateful night with Javier replay in her mind incessantly; a relentless loop she can’t seem to escape.

What she despises most is the lingering evidence of their hook-up that still clings to her skin. The persistent bite mark on her shoulder serves as a stubborn reminder of their intimacy, refusing to fade like a scar upon her flesh. And though the throbbing ache between her legs has dulled somewhat, it’s still there like a faint echo of the pleasure he once bestowed upon her—a cruel reminder of what once was and what now lies shattered.

But none of this negates the venomous words he spat at her, each syllable dripping with malice. He had called her a whore, desperate, and accused her of giving it up for free. How could he? That question has been circulating in her mind for the entirety of these three agonizing days.

How could he say those things to her? Has Javier always been this much of an asshole, and had her rose-colored glasses blinded her to his true nature all this time? No, that couldn’t be it. Everyone adores him. The private, intimate moments they shared stand in stark contrast to the vicious side of him she witnessed at the party.

He played you, Paloma. Did all the right things, said all the right words until he got what he wanted. A spot between your legs. Now that he’s fucked you, you mean nothing to him.

This bitter realization gnaws at her, a relentless ache worse than any physical pain. She replays all their encounters in her mind, dissecting every word and gesture, searching for signs she might have missed. The warmth of his touch, the sweetness of his whispers, all now feel like part of an elaborate ruse.

He had seemed so genuine, so caring, but perhaps that was all part of his act.

The thought that she was nothing more than a conquest to him is unbearable. She grapples with the harsh truth, feeling a mix of anger and self-loathing. How could she have been so blind? As she lies in bed, these questions torment her, turning her once cherished memories into a source of endless pain.

Tears well up in her eyes and she buries her face in her pillow, sobbing quietly as the overwhelming feeling of being used crashes over her.

She hates this, hates him. Hates that he wields so much power over her. Javier Peña has found a way to break her completely, shattering her self-confidence and making her feel utterly worthless. All those times she fantasized about sleeping with him, imagining him as a worthy lover who would shower her with praises and kisses, making her feel like the Roman goddess Venus, now seem like cruel jokes.

Instead, she had let him take her against a gazebo. His whispered words a mix of seduction and degradation. At the time, those filthy whispers had ignited something primal deep within her, spurring her deeper into their heated passion. Yet now, in the cold light of reflection, those same words make her feel cheap.

She had believed in his charm, convinced herself that their connection was special, that he saw her as more than just another one of his girls. But his cruel words and dismissive attitude revealed the painful truth. She feels like a fool for ever believing in him, for letting herself be swept away by his charisma.

The phone rings but she ignores it since her father is still home so she just lets him handle it.

She wishes her mother were here. She’s certain that she would know exactly what to say, providing the comfort and wisdom she desperately needs. She had always been a guiding light, someone who could soothe any hurt and offer perspective on even the most absurd situations. This heartbreak is more intense and consuming than anything she has ever endured romantically, including George’s abandonment.

In her mind, she can almost hear her mother’s voice, gentle yet firm, offering comfort and encouragement. She would remind her that her worth is not defined by the actions of others, that she deserves to be loved and cherished for who she is. She would tell Paloma that heartbreak is a part of life, a painful but necessary step towards finding true love and happiness.

A knock sounds at her bedroom door, but she doesn’t move, her face still buried in the soft cushion.

“Can I come in?” Her father’s voice filters through the wooden door. She sighs heavily, lifting herself from the pillow and wiping away stray tears.

“Y-Yeah.”

He enters the room hesitantly, taking in the scene. Her room is a mess, more so than its usual manageable chaos. The black dress she wore that night lies in a crumpled heap at the foot of her bed. He can see she has been crying—the puffiness of her eyes and the red tint on her nose give it away.

“Feelin’ any better, baby?” He asks tentatively, slowly making his way to her side of the bed. He sits down beside her, his presence a quiet comfort.

She shakes her head, laying back down and glancing up at her father. Worry is etched clearly in his eyes.

“Do I need to get you an appointment with Dr. Hughes? She’s not so busy nowadays.”

Daddy, the sickness I’m experiencing can’t be cured with medicine. It can only be cured by a certain someone with beautiful brown eyes and a cruel, unforgiving heart.

“No, I’ll be fine. I promise. It’s just a little stomach bug. I’ll get over it in no time.”

Romeo sighs softly, his hand moving to gently stroke her back. “Alright, little miss stomach bug. I’ll pick up some more medicine on my way back from work. Your friend Slo is on the line again. That’s why I came in here. Just had to check on ya first.”

She feels a pang of guilt. She’s been avoiding Sloane’s calls ever since the heartbreak took hold, too engulfed in her sorrow to face anyone but her father. It’s ironic, given how she often complains about how overbearing he can be, yet now finds comfort only in his presence.

Her father’s touch is warm and soothing, but it doesn’t erase the ache in her chest. She knows Sloane means well, but the thought of explaining her feelings, of reliving the pain with every word, is too much to bear. She nuzzles into her pillow, trying to hide from the world a little longer.

“Guess I should finally talk to her. Thanks, Daddy,” She murmurs, her voice muffled by the cushion.

Her father’s hand continues its gentle motion on her back, providing a rhythm that almost lulls her into a sense of temporary peace.

“You need anythin’, you call me, alright? I’ll be at the station all night. If ya can’t get ahold of me for whatever reason—call Javier.”

At the mention of his name, her breath catches in her throat, her body tensing involuntarily. She hopes her father doesn’t notice the visceral reaction that sweeps through her.

“O-okay,” she manages to choke out, her voice barely above a whisper.

A look of concern lingers in his eyes as he leans in to place a tender kiss to the side of her head.

As he gets up to leave, Paloma turns her head slightly, watching him. She wishes she could open up more, let him know just how deep her wounds go, but the words fail her. For now, she takes comfort in the fact that he’s there for her.

Now, guilt settles atop the heap of unwanted feelings that plague her. How could she ever bitch so much about her father, who has been nothing but supportive and caring toward her? Sure, his protectiveness sometimes feels suffocating, but deep down, she knows it stems from the earnestness of his heart. He just wants to ensure her safety and happiness, especially since she’s the only family he has left.

Once the door closes softly behind him, she lets out a shaky breath. The thought of reaching out to Javier, of exposing herself to the pain of his betrayal once again, fills her with a sense of dread. Yet, beneath the fear and uncertainty, there’s a small flicker of longing, a desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, he might backtrack on all he said and apologize to her— make things right between them.

But she buries that thought deep beneath the layers of hurt and anger that consume her. For now, she’ll remain cocooned in her solitude, grappling with the aftermath of his cruel words and callous actions, unsure of how—or if—she’ll ever find the strength to confront him again.

She shifts in bed, her hand reaching out to grasp the receiver from her bedside table, the plastic cool against her fingertips.

“Hello.”

“About fuckin’ time!” Sloane’s chirpy twang rings out, a sharp contrast to the heaviness in her heart. Surprisingly, the sound elicits a small smile, a flicker of warmth amidst her turmoil.

“Sorry— haven’t really been feelin’ like myself as of late.”

“I thought you died. Had half a mind to stop by your place, but your daddy assured me you were alive and well… well, not well. Heard you got sick. Need me to bring you anythin’?”

She takes a moment, gathering her thoughts before responding. “M’not really sick…” she begins, her words trailing off as she absentmindedly twists the cord attached to the receiver around her finger.

“Um… okay… you’re losin’ me here, doll face.”

And so she begins to unravel the tangled web of her conflict, spilling all the details to her best friend. She recounts every moment of her affair with Javier, from the innocent flirtations at the beginning to the raw intensity of their fight at the party three nights ago.

Each word spoke is a painful reminder of the betrayal she has endured. Yet, there’s a sense of relief in sharing her burden, of finally letting someone else into the depths of her pain.

Sloane reacts just as Paloma had anticipated, her familiar blend of humor and unwavering support providing a much-needed anchor in the storm of her current love life. As she pours out her heart, Slo interjects with witty jokes, each one a lifeline tossed into the turbulent sea of her despair. But amidst the laughter, her words carry a burden of truth, her fierce loyalty shining through in the advice she offers.

“You deserve so much better,” Sloane declares, her voice brimming with conviction. “Don’t matter if he’s got the best cock in the world—he should’ve never talked to you like that or treated you the way he did.”

She feels a fresh wave of tears threaten to spill over, the rawness of her words striking a chord deep in her wounded heart. She blinks them away quickly, refusing to shed another tear over him, determined to reclaim her strength and dignity.

“Yeah, I know,” she murmur, “I just want to get over it. Get over him.”

Sloane’s response is swift after a brief pause. “Your daddy workin’ tonight?”

“...Yes.”

“Perfect,” Slo declares, her tone brightening with mischief. “Me and Gabriel will come get you, and you can ride around with us… I can ask August to tag along if you want.”

She can’t help but smile at the teasing lilt in her friend’s voice. This is Sloane’s not-so-subtle way of playing wingwoman, a role she’s embraced since the moment they met. Despite the pain and heartache, she finds consolation in the unwavering support of her friend, grateful for the chance to escape her troubles, if only for a little while.

What’s the harm in inviting August along? After all, isn’t the saying that the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else? He’s already expressed his interest in her, sparked her curiosity and filled her mind with newfound knowledge that she still pores over during her shifts at the library.

August is smart, handsome, newly rich, and most importantly— he doesn’t treat her like she’s disposable. He sees her for who she truly is, beyond the physical, beyond anything else.

“Earth to Paloma? Hello?”

She snaps out of her thoughts, returning to the present conversation.

“Yeah, that sounds fun. Now I gotta get off my ass and take a shower,” she replies, a hint of self-deprecation in her voice as she realizes how much she’s let herself go during this bout of sadness.

“Alright, stinky girl, be there in like an hour,” Sloane teases, the warmth of her laughter echoing through the phone.

She chuckles softly before saying goodbye and hanging up, feeling a renewed sense of energy after the phone call. She throws off the duvet and rises from her bed, stretching her limbs as she hears a few satisfying pops.

She needs this. To go out, do something, feel like herself again.

After her much-needed and rejuvenating shower, she tidies up her room, the act of putting things in order helping to calm the chaos in her mind. With a sense of purpose, she bounces down the stairs, the anticipation of the evening ahead putting a spring in her step. She waits on the porch for her friends to arrive, the warm evening air wrapping around her like a comforting embrace.

She’s forced to forego her go-to halter top, opting instead for a simple t-shirt to hide Javier's unmistakable fucking mark. It’s a small sacrifice to make for the chance to reclaim a sense of normalcy, a reminder that she’s more than just a pawn in someone else’s game.

The distant headlights announce their arrival and her face breaks out into a wide grin as she stands.

“Hop into the back!” Sloane calls out from the passenger side window, her voice filled with cheerful enthusiasm as she leans out, beckoning her over. Without hesitation, she happily complies, her heart lifting at the prospect of spending time with her friends.

As the vehicle comes to a stop, the girls exchange kisses on the cheek in passing, a gesture of affection and camaraderie that feels like a balm to her soul. She climbs into the bed of the truck, where August awaits, his relaxed posture exuding a casual confidence. A joint dangles from his lips, the smoke swirling lazily in the summer night air, and she can’t help but feel a flutter of excitement at the sight of him.

“Hey, little dove,” He greets her, his voice warm and inviting. “Heard you were sick. Feelin’ any better?”

She settles beside him, the cool metal of the truck bed beneath her, and brings her knees up to her chest as she gazes up at him with soft, grateful eyes.

“A lot better now,” she confesses, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. She’s determined to throw herself into whatever this is, to embrace the warmth and companionship offered by her friends, if only to keep herself from sinking back into the depths of despair that have haunted her for the past few nights.

He smiles at her, a glint of amusement dancing in his eyes as he blows out a plume of smoke, the truck beginning its descent down the elongated driveway. “Good. So I guess you’re up for that date. Finally,” he remarks, extending the joint towards her.

She hesitates, her mind momentarily grappling with the decision. She’s recently taken on a vow to swear off drugs and alcohol, a decision prompted by Javier’s disappointment when he picked her up at the sunflower field. But now, with August’s expectant gaze upon her, she wonders if maintaining that vow is worth it.

“I dunno— you gonna ditch me halfway through it?” she quips, accepting the joint from him and bringing it to her lips, her resolve wavering.

August watches intently, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “Sorry about that, pretty girl. Some of the guys got into it and I had to go deal with that shit. Being the so-called leader ain’t all sunshine and rainbows.”

She exhales slowly, the smoke billowing around her before dissipating into the air. She passes the joint back to him, a small smile playing on her lips as she recalls their interrupted plans.

The truck hits a pothole, causing Paloma to clumsily stumble into August’s side with a small yelp of surprise. They share a moment of laughter as August throws his arm over her shoulders, drawing her close.

“Fine, I guess I’ll let it slide… but don’t ditch me like that again. The whole thing got busted by the cops, and I was this close to goin’ to jail,” she exaggerates, her tone tinged with mock indignation as she leans further into August’s embrace. The darkness of the backroads envelops them as they continue their leisurely drive through the quiet town.

“Nah, they wouldn’t have laid a finger on you, baby. You’re the sheriff’s daughter—practically immune to everythin’,” August reassures her, his voice carrying a hint of confidence.

He’s right and they both know it. Paloma’s status as the sheriff’s daughter affords her a certain level of protection, a shield against the consequences that ordinary citizens might face. If she had been caught by her father or any of his deputies, they wouldn’t have pressed charges. At most, she would have received a stern lecture.

She tries to knock thoughts of Javier aside, but they stubbornly persist, creeping into her mind like shadows in the night. She can’t help but recall the way Javier had taken care of her, buying her food and opening up about his romantic past. She remembers how he had held her close when the snake brushed up against her leg, how he had hidden them in the shadows when her father awoke in the midst of her sneaking back in.

And she remembers, vividly, how he had kissed her back.

Fuck him, she thinks bitterly, pushing the memories away with a forceful mental shove.

“Not everythin’… just enough,” She quips, a giggle bubbling up her throat as she takes the joint from August once more. This time, she inhales deeply, allowing the smoke to fill her lungs, a fleeting distraction from the tangled mess she's involved in.

The four of them spend the remainder of the night weaving through the darkened streets, their laughter and chatter filling the air as they embark on their impromptu adventure. They stop here and there, finding amusement in open fields or exploring the eerie confines of the town’s abandoned buildings. She feels a sense of exhilaration coursing through her veins, her broken heart mending as she loses herself in the company of her friends. High as hell, she revels in the freedom of the moment, carefree and unburdened by the troubles that had plagued her earlier.

As the night wears on, they find themselves at the graveyard, the moon casting an ethereal glow over the rows of weathered headstones. Amidst the quiet stillness of the night, they swap ghost stories, each tale more outlandish than the last. Despite their best efforts to spook each other, the atmosphere is more comical than terrifying, the shared laughter echoing through the darkness.

“We’re all hangin’ out at the creek tomorrow. You should come with,” Slo suggests, reclining on her back in the patch of grass between two gravestones.

“Can’t. I work at the library all day,” She responds, a hint of regret coloring her voice.

“So? Call out. It’s not like they need you there,” Slo counters, her tone brimming with nonchalance.

She bites her lip, her hesitation evident. “I’ve already been out this week due to ‘being sick’. Olsen relies on me. I’m surprised that place hasn’t gone up in flames.”

“Oh, don’t be lame. Just call in sick again,” Slo urges, dismissing Paloma’s concerns with a wave of her hand.

“And when someone sees me takin’ my happy ass down to the creek—what then?”

“No one worth hiding from goes there anyways.”

“Okay, and what about my daddy?”

“Ugh, you and your daddy issues. Swear I ain’t ever met anyone with a good father figure have the issues that you do,” Slo remarks, her tone bordering on exasperation.

“Fuck off.”

“Let Slo be your cover. Tell him you two are hangin’ out for the day now that you’re feelin’ better. S’not a complete lie. C’mon, little dove, it’s summertime. We’re supposed to be enjoyin’ it,” August interjects, his voice calm and reassuring amidst the back and forth between her and Sloane.

Her mind whirls with differing thoughts as she weighs their offer. It’s not the worst thing she could do, she rationalizes, and it’s certainly harmless. After all, she had only promised Olsen that she’d let him know whether or not she could work the shift the following morning; there’s no outright commitment binding her to the library.

Moreover, she considers her father’s perspective. He’d likely prefer her to be out with Slo, especially now that she’s in higher spirits.

With a sigh, she nods, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips as she agrees. “Fine,” she says, her voice carrying a hint of amusement. “I guess I can make some time to go out there with y’all.”

Their cheers ring out, a chorus of excitement that lifts her spirits even higher. As she looks around at her friends, their faces illuminated by the soft glow of the moonlight, she realizes that, in this moment, she’s exactly where she’s meant to be.

Javier leans back in his chair, exhaustion weighing heavy on his eyelids as he drifts in and out of sleep. The sterile hum of the overhead lights provides a steady backdrop, a monotonous rhythm that lulls him into a drowsy stupor.

True to his word, he’s wholeheartedly been focusing on the cases, his attention shifting from the victims to the enigmatic symbol that Jessica Valdez had ingested. It’s become an obsession of sorts, his starting point in a labyrinth of clues that he hopes will lead to justice.

To aid in his investigation, Javier reached out to some of the acquaintances he made during his time in Quantico, specifically those who were involved in the infamous Tate–LaBianca murders and the occult subculture that gripped the west coast in the late ‘60s. They possessed a wealth of knowledge about the inner workings of occult groups, their insights invaluable in deciphering the tangled web of motives and allegiances.

After catching up with them over the phone, they promised to connect him with an occult professor at UCLA who could potentially shed light on the mysterious symbol. It’s a glimmer of hope in the darkness, a chance to glean some semblance of understanding from the chaos that lurks over these cases.

The clock is ticking, and with each passing day, the trail grows colder. He isn’t sure if they’re dealing with a lone individual or a larger organization, but he’s determined to leave no stone unturned in his pursuit of the truth.

“Jesus— you’re still here?” Romeo’s voice breaks through the quiet of the office, his tired eyes glancing down at the silver watch adorning his wrist. It’s almost midnight, and yet Javier remains steadfast at his desk, his presence a testament to his dedication.

Javier sits up, rolling his shoulders back with a quiet groan as he reaches for his pack of cigarettes. With practiced ease, he goes through the motions of lighting one, the smoke curling lazily around him.

“Waiting on a call from someone in California. They’re taking their fucking time, though,” He explains, frustration evident in his tone. He should have just given them his home number, he thinks, where he could lounge around in his own space instead of camping out here in the office.

“California? Got a west coast girl I don’t know about?” Romeo teases, his lips quirking up in a knowing smile as he approaches the counter where the coffee maker sits, beginning to make himself a cup.

Javier snorts, exhaling smoke as he shakes his head. “No, just a professor that I’m hoping will give me more information about that tattoo on the scrap of flesh.” His thoughts briefly flicker to Paloma at the mention of having a girl, but the thought diminishes as fast as it came— he can’t let himself think about her for too long.

Since the mayor’s party, Javier has made a conscious effort to rid his mind of anything concerning her. It’s been a challenge, to say the least, since he could still feel the way she had clenched around him when she came undone on his cock; soaking him with her release and letting out the prettiest moans he’s ever heard.

He could also still vividly recall the pain etched across her face, the tears streaming down her cheeks in response to his brutal words. The memory clear as day in his conscience, a constant reminder of the hurt he had caused.

But Javier refuses to dwell on it. Instead, he threw himself into anything and everything that would serve as a distraction. He busied himself in the minutiae of each case with a dedicated fervor. When work became too much, he sought solace in physical exertion, pushing himself to the limit in grueling workouts that left him physically spent but mentally numb.

Yet despite his best efforts, her memory continues to haunt him, a specter that lingered at the edges of his consciousness. It has only been three days since their encounter, but to Javier, it feels like an eternity. Each passing moment seemed to stretch on indefinitely, his actions bearing down on him with suffocating intensity.

“I see, good thinkin’ Peña. This shit just keeps on gettin’ more and more convoluted. Been thinkin’ of enforcin’ a curfew but that’s only gonna spark more fear and unnecessary rumors. Ain’t got a damn clue how to keep this shit from happenin’ again. Need to at least make an announcement warnin’ all the young girls ‘round here,” Romeo muses, his frustration evident in the furrow of his brow.

Javier nods thoughtfully, ashing his cigarette against the overfilled ashtray before leaning back in his chair, the uncomfortable leather creaking beneath him. “Don’t think a curfew is going to do much like you said. It’s just gonna rattle these folks up. We have consistent victimology now. I’m not against spreading the word and raising awareness. Could give the gazette a statement—have ‘em print it on the front page.”

The two men engage in a spirited exchange of ideas, each offering insights and perspectives born from years of experience in law enforcement. Romeo, ever the pragmatic thinker, voices his concerns while Javier, with his keen analytical mind, suggests alternative approaches. Despite the weight of the situation, there’s a sense of camaraderie between them, a shared determination to tackle the challenges head-on.

Romeo places a steaming mug of coffee at Javier’s desk. The gesture is small, but it speaks volumes about the bond between them, forged through countless late nights and shared struggles. With caffeine-fueled determination, Javier braces himself to stay up longer in anticipation of the phone call with the professor.

“Gotta stop by the pharmacy before I leave in the mornin’. Paloma’s been sick as a dog these past few days,” Romeo announces with a hint of concern.

Javier’s grip on the mug tightens imperceptibly at the mention of her name, a flicker of discomfort crossing his features before he schools his expression into one of casual indifference. He can’t afford to let his true feelings show, not when the sheriff is watching him like a hawk.

It’s not like I fucked her good and hard in the middle of the party then completely shattered her afterwards.

“She okay?” Javier inquires, his tone carefully neutral.

Romeo lets out a heavy sigh as he settles into the corner of Javier’s desk, weariness etched into the lines of his face. “I honestly don’t know. Said she got food poisonin’ from the party, but we both ate the same things and m’perfectly fine. When I went to check on her today, it was clear that she’d been crying. I even offered to take her to the doctor, but she brushed me off. Hasn’t left her bed in three days. Should see the state of her room—s’like a fuckin’ tornado tore right through it.”

Javier finishes his cigarette in silence, the familiar and bitter taste of regret lingering on his tongue. The image of her bedridden and in tears plagues his conscience, a painful reminder of the havoc he’s wrought. This is what he wanted, isn’t it? To hurt her so profoundly that she would finally break free from him. It’s the only way to definitively end their affair, but the realization offers little support amidst the guilt that gnaws at his insides.

“I’m sure she’s fine. Give her a few days to recover,” Javier offers, his tone carefully measured to convey a semblance of concern.

As if on cue, the phone rings, the shrill sound piercing the quiet of the office. Romeo takes it as his cue to leave, offering a nod of acknowledgment to Javier before disappearing back into his own office.

Javier reaches for the receiver, bringing the phone to his ear and he hears the smooth voice of a woman on the other end.

“Agent Peña, this is Dr. Vivianne Serrano. I apologize for calling so late. My last class ran a little late and then I had a meeting with a student afterwards. You’re in Texas so it’s what—almost midnight? Gosh, I feel terrible,” the woman rambles earnestly.

He rubs at his tired eyes, the strain of exhaustion evident in every movement. His jaw clenches as he scratches at his roughening jawline, ready to get this over with. And yet, despite his weariness, the sound of her sweet voice on the other end of the line draws him in, offering a strange sense of comfort amidst the drama. It must be the exhaustion, he tells himself.

“No worries. I’m more interested in what information you can give me— even if I have to stay up late to get it.”

She laughs, the sound light and melodic, and for some inexplicable reason, a small smile quirks at the corners of his lips in response.

“Right—one of the agents faxed me the photo evidence. It’s pretty brutal. I didn’t recognize the marking at first, but I did some digging and that led me to reach out to a colleague in Rome.”

Javier’s brow furrows at the revelation, his interest piqued by the mention of the city overseas. “Rome?”

“Yes, Rome,” she confirms, “I hope you’re sitting down because I have quite a bit of information to relay to you.”

Spurred on by the prospect of finally making some progress, Javier leans forward in his chair, his eyes intent on the empty page of his memo pad as he waits for her to continue.

As her voice fills the line, painting a picture of a dark and sinister history, Javier’s hand moves almost automatically, his pen poised to capture every word she utters.

“L’Ordine di Eurinomo— The Order of Eurynomos, was a sacrilegious group that masked itself as a Catholic convent in Rome during the 70s,” She begins, her tone grave with solemnity. “This group worshiped the mysterious deity Eurynomos, a flesh-eating demon, prophesying the return of their god in human form. Their quest for a suitable vessel led them to seek out a woman of purity and strength, intertwining her fate with their divine ambitions. They believed that the flesh reincarnation of the deity would bring a new age of power and world domination.”

Javier’s pen halts in its tracks, his brows furrowing in disbelief as he processes the fantastical information unfolding before him. It all sounds too surreal to be true, like the plot of some twisted horror movie or fictional novel. He fights the urge to scoff, reminding himself to maintain his professionalism even in the face of such outlandish claims.

“I know. It’s a lot to take in. Believe it or not, it’s not the craziest thing out there,” Dr. Serrano continues, her voice steady despite the incredulity in Javier’s silence. “They searched for this suitor all over the world, inviting devoted women to their convent. When these women failed to give them what they wanted, their prophesied baby, they were killed. It wasn’t until they had a whistleblower that their atrocities were exposed—an anonymous tip that led authorities to the convent and uncovered everything. No identifying names of any members, just files detailing the women they had taken over the years and records of their rituals. The tattooed symbol was their symbol.”

He lets out a heavy sigh, the intensity of the information taking a moment to process. His hand instinctively rises to massage his tense shoulder, fingers digging into the knotted muscles in an attempt to alleviate some of the tension.

“No arrests were ever made, and the case went cold. So many bodies were pulled from the catacombs beneath the church. None of them identified. All women,” She explains, “That’s as far as it all goes. There hasn’t ever been an indication that this group kept operating after... well, not until now. Where did you say you were located?”

“Seminary, Texas,” he replies, the name of the town feeling heavy on his tongue as he considers the implications of Dr. Serrano’s revelations. “You sure this isn’t just some obsessed person who read about this damn group and decided to indulge in the fantasy too?”

“Could be. Isn’t it your job to figure that out?” Dr. Serrano’s response carries a flirtatious undertone, a playful tease that momentarily distracts Javier from the gravity of their conversation. If he hadn’t been so consumed by the web of information and conflicting emotions surrounding a certain someone else, he might have reciprocated the flirtation without hesitation.

“Suppose it is. Thanks for digging around and finding this out for me,” Javier acknowledges with genuine gratitude for the professor’s efforts.

“No problem. It was quite interesting getting this information. I’ll have my colleague in Rome send you all that they have on this. Is there a time limit on this case? I don’t anticipate you receiving the files for a hot minute,” She inquires, her voice carrying a hint of curiosity.

Javier considers her question for a moment, his mind already racing with the possibilities presented by the newfound information. “Not necessarily, but the quicker I figure this shit out, the quicker we can get some answers and bring justice to the victims and their families,” he replies, his determination evident in his tone. He longs to put an end to the suffering and finally bring closure to those affected.

“That’s all that matters. We’ll be in contact, Agent Peña. Again, I apologize for calling so late. Have a great night,” she concludes, her words soft with a sense of finality.

Javier hangs up the phone, the conversation lingering in the air around him. Despite the late hour and the exhaustion hanging over him, there’s a restless energy coursing through him.

As he sits alone in the dimly lit office, his thoughts drift briefly to Dr. Serrano and the fleeting temptation to ask for her personal number. But he quickly dismisses the notion, refocusing his attention on the task at hand. There’s work to be done, and distractions— no matter how enticing— will have to wait.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” Paloma comments as she rides along with Gabriel, the engine of the truck humming steadily beneath them as they make their way to the local convenience store. They’ve been tasked with buying some more beer for the gathering at the creek, and she finds herself curious about her companion.

Gabriel glances at her, his expression unreadable. “Don’t got a lot to say,” he replies simply, his attention returning to the road ahead as he maneuvers the vehicle into a parking spot at the gas station.

She sighs inwardly, feeling a pang of disappointment at the lack of conversation. She had hoped to get to know Gabriel better considering how close he is to both Sloane and August. However, she understands that not everyone is as forthcoming with their friendship as she is.

Exiting the truck, Paloma shields her face from the afternoon sun, the warmth enveloping her like a comforting embrace. Dressed in a tube top and tight shorts, she feels the heat seeping into her skin deliciously, momentarily distracting her from the lingering discomfort of the bite mark. She had fabricated a story about its origins when they picked her up earlier, claiming it was from a hookup with a random guy at the bar.

It’s not entirely a lie, she reflects, knowing that Sloane is the only one to know the truth about the bite’s origin. However, she’s not eager to divulge the details of her… encounter with the deputy sheriff to her new friend group.

As she strolls through the aisles of the small convenience store, Gabriel excuses himself to take a piss, leaving her to browse alone. She runs her fingers over the various snacks and drinks on display, considering her options for something to bring back with her.

The soft chime of the bell above the door draws her attention, signaling the arrival of a new customer. Without looking up, she continues her perusal until she senses a shift in the air—a subtle change that prompts her to glance in the direction of the entrance.

There, standing in the doorway, is Javier Peña, the star of her all her current struggles. Despite her internal turmoil, she can’t help but be drawn in by his presence. His shirt is unbuttoned at the top (like always) revealing a hint of skin adorned with a glinting gold chain. Aviator sunglasses rest effortlessly on the bridge of his nose, his hair is tousled yet impeccably styled, and his choice of jeans and boots only serves to enhance his rugged allure.

She knows what he feels like inside of her. How big he is. How good he can fuck.

Her heart quickens at the sight of him. Despite the anger and resentment she feels towards him, there’s an undeniable attraction that pulses within her. She quickly averts her gaze, hoping to avoid detection.

To no avail since he noticed her the second he stepped in.

Her eyes drift downward, her focus settling on the colorful array of snacks that line the aisle. She tries to steady her breathing, to maintain an air of composure as Javier traverses the aisle opposite hers. Despite their deliberate avoidance of each other’s gaze, the palpable awareness of their proximity remains in the air.

A subtle smirk plays at the corners of Javier’s lips as he observes her. The flimsy top stretches obscenely over the swell of her tits, her nipples stiff due to the chilly air of the store. Though his gaze fixates on the tousled locks cascading over her shoulder, revealing the evidence of when they fucked. The memory paired with this tantalizing visual stir something in his chest, despite his attempts to remain aloof.

“Don’t look very sick to me,” he remarks casually, his voice cutting through the tense silence between them.

Paloma’s eyes shoot up to meet his, a mixture of frustration and defiance flickering in her gaze. She bristles at his audacity, the resentment bubbling beneath the surface threatening to spill over.

Of course her father had told him about her being sick. Of-fucking-course.

“None of your damn business,” she retorts sharply, her words laced with an edge as she maneuvers away from him, putting distance between them.

Javier merely shrugs in response, feigning casual indifference as he continues to peruse the shelves, his nonchalant facade belying the underlying tension that simmers beneath the surface.

“Got your pops stressin’ the hell out at the station over you being a bedridden mess yet here you are… out and barely clothed. S’not enough to distract me from the job so you had to pull a stunt for your father, too. Are you really that desperate for attention?”

Every fiber of his being screams for him to let go, to relinquish his hold on the frayed threads of their tumultuous relationship and pretend she doesn’t even exist. Yet, the magnetic pull of their shared history, both bitter and sweet, proves to be an irresistible force.

Javier’s words hit with calculated precision, each syllable laden with a mixture of accusation and disdain. Paloma’s jaw clenches in response, a surge of anger coursing through her as she struggles to contain the torrent of emotion that threatens to engulf her.

The audacity of his presumption— that her actions are merely a ploy for attention— stings like a slap to the face. It’s infuriating the way he casually reduces her actions to nothing more than a petty cry for validation.

For a fleeting moment, a pang of concern flits through her mind, a gnawing worry that he might disclose her whereabouts to her father. But the prospect of facing her father’s wrath pales in comparison to the seething resentment she harbors towards Javier.

“Why the hell do you care about what I’m doing?” she fires back, her voice dripping with hostility. “You made it crystal fuckin’ clear where we stand. I want nothin’ to do with you.”

As Gabriel emerges from the bathroom, the tension between them persists. She shoots a pointed glare at Javier before sidling up to the guy she came here with, her movements deliberate as they proceed to gather the items they came here for.

His eyes follow them the entire time, that pesky jealousy rising up his throat like hot bile. It doesn’t help that she’s got on the thinnest pair of shorts, and she’s clearly not wearing underwear as her ass bounces with each step she takes. If she bent over just slightly, he’d be able to see the outline of her cunt.

She’s such a fucking tease— and now she’s out and about with Gabriel? Is August out of the picture too? Had he hurt her the same way Javier had?

Together, Paloma and Gabe make their way to the register, the atmosphere heavy with unspoken animosity. She remains acutely aware of Javier’s presence, the weight of his gaze lingering on her like an oppressive force as they conclude their errand and leave the small store.

She doesn’t even bother looking in his direction again.

As Javier strolls to the counter, the hum of the convenience store provides a backdrop to his turbulent thoughts. His gaze drifts to the window, where her departure sends a pang of longing coursing through him.

The urge to follow her tugs at him, an instinctual reaction fueled by envy and skepticism. But he forces himself to resist, recognizing the folly of succumbing to base impulses driven by sentiments he can scarcely afford to indulge.

His thoughts drift to the enigmatic group of youths led by August. There’s a nagging suspicion that refuses to be ignored, a sense that their presence in Seminary may be more than mere coincidence.

With a determined set to his jaw, Javier resolves to tail August and his cohorts, his instincts sharpened by the unsettling convergence of events. Yet, even as he prepares to pursue this lead, a lingering doubt nags at the edges of his consciousness.

Two things can be completely true yet unrelated at the same time.

Is he allowing his personal biases to cloud his judgment, grasping at straws in a desperate bid for answers? Or is there truly a connection waiting to be uncovered, hidden beneath the surface of the cryptic symbols and stories that haunt his investigation?

He takes his cigarettes from the clerk after paying, stepping outside to make quick use of one. The acrid smoke curls upwards in lazy tendrils and he finds himself grappling with the uncertainty that looms on the horizon. With each step forward, he plunges deeper into the murky depths of the unknown, unsure of what revelations await him in the shadows.

Paloma’s laughter dances through the warm afternoon air, a melody of joy that mingles with the gentle burble of the creek and the distant hum of cicadas. With a mischievous glint in her eye, she creeps up behind August, water sloshing playfully in her hands as she readies herself for the perfect sneak attack.

In one swift motion, she douses him with a cascade of cool water, a triumphant grin spreading across her face as she revels in her victorious prank. But her victory is short-lived as August retaliates with equal fervor, lunging forward to catch her before she can dart away.

Their laughter intertwines, a symphony of shared amusement that echoes off the surrounding trees, punctuated by the playful splashes of their impromptu water fight. The carefree atmosphere of the creek is a sanctuary of youthful exuberance where worries and troubles are cast aside in favor of simple, unadulterated joy.

As August pulls her close, her heart dances with exhilaration, her cheeks flushed with the thrill of their playful antics and she throws her arms around his neck.

“You’ve got the prettiest laugh I’ve ever heard, baby. Can’t get enough of it.”

His words, whispered against her ear, are a sweet melody that sends her heart aflutter, filling her with a warmth that eclipses the summer sun.

“Then don’t stop makin’ me laugh.”

His hands fall on her waist and she craves for him to move lower, to cup her backside in his big hands.

“I won’t. I’m finally free to take you out Friday. Still got time for little ‘ol me or has this bar hookup already swept you off your feet?” August’s playful words carry a hint of teasing as he gazes at her shoulder, his expression inscrutable.

She feels a brief pang of irritation at the mention of Javier (though August doesn’t know), the man who seems to hover over her thoughts like an unwelcome specter.

As if. He wants nothing to do with me except to chastise me any chance he gets.

“You tell me… whose arms am I in right now?”

His response is a charming smile, loving how she replied. His fingers tighten ever so slightly around her hips as if to reassure himself of her presence. “Friday night I’m taking you out on that date I’ve been promisin’,” he declares with a hint of excitement, his gaze locking with hers.

But her smile wavers at the realization. “I have a show Friday night…” she starts, a note of disappointment creeping into her voice.

August’s response is immediate. “So cancel it,” he suggests, his tone firm yet persuasive, his hands beginning to explore her body in ways that send shivers down her spine.

Paloma’s initial resistance melts away, “First you have me call out of work, now you have me canceling my shows?” she counters with a playful shake of her head, though her heart races at the thought of spending a night with him. “You’re a bad influence, Dixon.”

But August’s response is smooth and reassuring, his voice a seductive murmur that sets her pulse racing. “Oh, don’t be like that, little dove. You perform every weekend. Just take one night off, I promise to make it worth your while,” he murmurs, his hands now moving lower and gripping her ass how she had just been wanting him to.

She lets out a gentle hum, pressing herself closer to him as her eyes darken with lust and intrigue.

“Mmm okay, I’ll cancel.” Her eyes drop to his lips as the overwhelming urge to kiss him washes over her.

Sensing this, he tilts his head down, brushing his nose against hers. Feeling his warm breath against her skin, she shivers slightly, her heart racing at his proximity.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, the praise having her pussy clench around nothing, sending a flutter through her chest, and she can’t help but lean into his touch, savoring the tender moment between them.

As he leans in to place a kiss on her cheek, she turns her head, her lips meeting his in their first, official kiss. She melts into the embrace, her senses overwhelmed by the sensation of his lips moving against hers.

Lost in the moment, she revels in the feeling of his fuller lips. She pulls him closer and one of his hands comes up to grope at her breast, her sensitive nipples reacting to his touch.

“Hey lovebirds, get a room!” Their moment of intimacy is interrupted by a raucous call from nearby, accompanied by laughter and crude remarks. Blushing furiously, she pulls away, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“Sorry, got lost in the moment,” she mumbles, feeling a rush of self-consciousness.

“Don’t apologize, darlin’,” August reassures her, his voice warm and affectionate. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while now.” With a gentle squeeze of her backside, he pulls back and takes her hand, leading her towards the deeper side of the creek.

As they wade through the cool water together, Paloma can’t help but feel a sense of excitement. She knows that this date with August is just the beginning of something special.

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