#That and well.💜💜💜💜 Windows 7. 💜💜💜💜

[blondechariot]

Hi! Could you write a wonwoo fic with a female reader in an university nonidol au? I would love it if it would be a slow burn where both leads are really shy. Up to you how much fluff, angst or smut there is. Just a uni girl struggling with socialisation and finding friends asking to break free from reality 🫠 THANK YOU 💜💜💜💜

~Quiet Hours~ (NonIdol!Wonwoo)

pairing: reader x Wonwoo

warning: none really, very shy reader and awkward Wonwoo

disclaimer: not my pic

i hope you like it!💋

🕓 4:07 PM — Tuesday, October 8

It’s always the same corner.

Back left of the third floor library, under the squeaky ceiling fan that never quite spins all the way. You’ve unofficially claimed this seat as yours since the first week of classes. It’s quiet. Hidden. Safe. The perfect place for someone like you—someone who isn’t good with... people.

That’s when he starts showing up.

🕠 5:30 PM

You don’t notice him at first, not really. Just a tall silhouette across the aisle with noise-canceling headphones and a perfectly organized desk setup. He types fast. Drinks black coffee. Always wears black or dark gray. And he never looks up. You name him Library Boy in your head, because you don’t know his name. You’re too shy to ask. Even though you’ve shared the same space every Tuesday and Thursday for three weeks now.

Today, he glances up. For half a second.

And your whole chest tightens.

🕖 7:01 PM

You’re stuffing your laptop into your bag when you hear it. A low voice, slightly hoarse from disuse. Like it doesn’t get much practice.

“Are you working on something for Lit 204?”

You freeze. Literally freeze, like someone hit pause on your existence. Then, very slowly, you turn.

He’s looking at you now—Library Boy. Close up, he’s... well, dangerous for someone with a weak heart. Dark-framed glasses. Clean, sharp jawline. Softly messy black hair that he keeps pushing back without realizing.

“Sorry,” he adds, “I just saw the Hemingway book. We’re reading that too.”

You blink. Then nod too fast. “Y-Yeah. Um. Fitzgerald next week.”

“Right. Professor Langford assigns way too much.” He gives a quiet smile. It’s barely there, but it makes you forget your own name.

“I’m Wonwoo.”

You clutch your bag tighter and try not to faint. “Y/N.”

You think you might have imagined the way his mouth twitches into something warmer.

🕚 11:12 AM — Friday, October 11

You find a note tucked inside your Hemingway book.

“If you want a better seat, there’s one near the window on the second floor. Less drafty. But I get it if you’re loyal to your corner. - Wonwoo”

You re-read it six times. Then you place it gently between pages 147 and 148, like a pressed flower.

🕕 6:03 PM — Thursday, October 17

You both sit in silence. Not awkward. Not tense. Just... quiet.

Once in a while, he pushes his glasses up and glances at you.

Once in a while, you pretend you don’t notice.

He doesn’t talk. Neither do you. But he slides a small coffee toward you when yours runs out. No words.

And your fingers tremble just a little when they brush his.

🕒 3:36 PM — Tuesday, October 22

“You always wear that hoodie.” Wonwoo says it like an observation, not a tease.

You tug the sleeves instinctively. “It’s... it’s comfy.”

“Looks warm.”

Pause. Then— “It suits you.”

You don’t remember how to breathe.

🕗 8:42 PM — Tuesday, October 29

You knew the weather was iffy. It said “20% chance of rain.” You took that gamble. You lost.

The downpour starts just as you step out of the library.

No warning.

Just cold, needle-like raindrops smacking your face and soaking through your hoodie within seconds. You squeak—a literal squeak—and turn to run back inside, but someone is already holding the door open behind you.

Wonwoo.

Of course it’s him.

He’s got one hand on the door and the other holding a black umbrella—not open yet. His hair is damp. His glasses fog slightly from the sudden cold.

“Hey,” he says calmly, like this isn’t a movie moment, like you’re not seconds away from dissolving into puddle form.

You mumble, “I... didn’t bring a jacket.”

“Yeah,” he nods. “I figured. Come on.”

You blink. “What?”

“I’ll walk you.” He lifts the umbrella between you. “You live in the dorms, right?”

Your mouth opens and closes like a confused goldfish. He takes your silence as a yes.

“I’m parked by the west lot. It’s on the way.”

You’re already moving before your brain catches up.

🕘 9:04 PM — West Path, Behind the Language Building

The rain sounds soft on the umbrella fabric—almost rhythmic. You’re walking too close to him, but you don’t know where else to go. He’s tall, so you’re partially under his arm, and your hands are shoved deep into your hoodie pockets, trying not to focus on the fact that you can feel the warmth of his side through his coat.

Neither of you speak for a long time.

Then, out of nowhere:

“You don’t like talking much, huh?”

You nearly trip.

“I—no—I mean, I do. I just... I’m not very good at it.”

He lets out a quiet breath. It’s not a laugh, but it’s close.

“You’re better than most people I know.”

You look up at him, surprised. He’s staring forward, raindrops flicking off his glasses, expression unreadable.

You swallow. “You don’t talk much either.”

“That’s true.” A pause. “But I like sitting near you. It’s not... noisy.”

You nearly choke on your own heartbeat.

🕤 9:17 PM — Dorm Entrance

He stops when you reach the side entrance of your building.

“You made it,” he says softly, half-smile curling on his lips. “Still dry?”

You look down. Your jeans are soaked. Your hoodie is a lost cause. You nod anyway.

“Thanks for the umbrella,” you murmur, shivering slightly.

He glances at you, and then—

“Here.” He peels off his jacket—his actual jacket, warm and heavy and lined with that fleece material that smells like laundry and maybe coffee.

You blink up at him. “I’m—I'm fine—”

“You’re shaking.”

You don’t argue again.

He settles it on your shoulders with the most careful touch, like you’ll flinch if he moves too fast. (You might.)

It covers your hands.

“Bring it back next week?”

You nod so fast you almost fall over.

He smiles again—just a flicker of it this time—and walks back into the rain, umbrella still up, leaving you standing on the steps like someone dropped a blanket of thunder over your head.

You pull the jacket closer.

It’s way too big.

And you’ve never felt safer.

🕓 4:52 PM — Thursday, November 7

You’ve been thinking about his jacket for days.

It’s still folded neatly at the end of your bed. You tried washing it but stopped halfway, worried it wouldn’t smell the same afterward. It still does—fresh, warm, faintly like peppermint and old paper.

And now you’re standing in the library entrance with your fingers curled tight around the sleeves, heart thudding loud enough to echo.

You spot him instantly.

Same desk. Same headphones around his neck. Same dark hoodie. He’s flipping through a battered copy of The Bell Jar. His brow furrows every so often like he’s in deep disagreement with Sylvia Plath.

You could leave the jacket on his desk and run.

You could.

But you walk toward him instead.

🕔 5:06 PM

You don’t sit in your usual seat across the aisle. You sit next to him.

His head turns slowly, a little surprised—but not in a bad way. There’s something soft in his eyes when he sees the jacket in your arms.

“Hey,” he says. Simple.

You nod and offer the folded jacket. “Thanks again... for that night. I didn’t get sick, so... mission accomplished.”

“You sure?” “You looked like a drowned squirrel.”

Your mouth drops open.

And then, to both of your shock, you laugh.

It’s a small sound. Shaky. But real.

“That’s cruel,” you whisper, covering your smile with your hand.

“It’s a little true.”

You look away before he sees the pink blooming in your cheeks.

🕠 5:44 PM

You both end up reading separately, but this time, your legs are crossed under the same table. His elbow is close. Closer than usual.

You notice something this time: He always turns the page with the same rhythm—tap, pause, flip. His handwriting is narrow and slanted. He chews the inside of his cheek when he’s deep in thought.

And he keeps looking over at you when he thinks you won’t notice.

So you say it. Quiet, but clear:

“I’m not always this quiet. I just... don’t know how to talk to people I like yet.”

He freezes mid-note.

Looks at you like you just broke the sound barrier.

“You like me, huh?”

Your whole body lights up like faulty Christmas lights. “I—uh—I meant—I like being around—”

“No,” he cuts in gently. “That’s... that’s good to know.”

You look up.

He’s smiling again. No flicker this time. Just soft and steady.

And then—

“Do you want to meet for coffee sometime?” “Not just library hours?”

It’s so unexpected you almost forget how breathing works.

But then you nod.

And this time, you’re the one who smiles first.

🕘 9:13 AM — Saturday, November 9

You’ve never been more aware of your outfit in your life.

It’s casual. You swear it’s casual. Just jeans, a simple knit sweater, and your hair pulled back the way you usually do when studying. But for some reason, it feels like every thread of fabric is holding its breath with you.

You arrive three minutes early. Not on purpose, of course. You just… like being punctual. Definitely not because you couldn’t sleep and ended up getting ready way too soon.

The café is small, tucked between a laundromat and a florist, with foggy windows and the faint smell of cinnamon drifting through the air. There’s a table by the window. He’s already there.

Wonwoo wears black again, but softer this time — a hoodie and a grey beanie pulled slightly down over his forehead. He looks up when you enter, and there’s that smile again — the one that’s only for you.

“You came,” he says like he was still half-expecting you wouldn’t.

You nod, heart jittering. “I almost didn’t. My nerves filed for early retirement.”

“Mine got stuck in traffic,” he replies dryly, and it makes you laugh.

You slide into the seat across from him.

🕤 9:38 AM

You sip your drink slowly. He likes americanos. You went for chai because it smells like safety.

The conversation starts clumsy, like shoes on the wrong feet.

But you both find rhythm again — just like the library. You talk about books. Classes. Favorite types of weather.

He surprises you by admitting he writes poetry sometimes. You surprise him by blurting out that you used to have a plant named Moby (as in Moby Dick) that you accidentally killed via overwatering.

He actually laughs. Like, full smile, head-tilted laugh.

You think you could listen to that sound for the rest of your life.

🕙 10:01 AM

You both watch the rain start outside the window.

Wonwoo leans forward on his elbows. “Do you come here often?”

You shake your head. “Never.”

“Then why here?”

You hesitate. Then, quietly: “Because you said you liked the window seat last week.”

His eyebrows lift slightly.

“You remembered that?”

You nod. “I remember… most things you say.”

He’s quiet for a long beat. Then:

“Me too.”

🕥 10:31 AM

You’re walking side by side now, both of you heading nowhere in particular. It’s still drizzling, but neither of you care.

And then it happens.

A split second. A breath of courage.

You reach out and hook your pinky with his. Not his whole hand. Just the smallest touch. Barely there.

He stiffens for half a second—like he wasn’t expecting it—but then?

He curls his pinky around yours.

Neither of you say a word.

But your heart says plenty.

🕑 2:17 PM — Sunday, November 17

It’s the first time he’s been in your room.

You spent the entire morning cleaning it even though it’s always tidy. You lit a candle. Then panicked and blew it out because it felt too much. Now your hands smell like vanilla smoke and your brain hasn’t stopped buzzing since he texted “On my way :)” forty minutes ago.

Wonwoo sits cross-legged on your floor, laptop on his thighs, back against your bed. You’re on the other side, curled in your desk chair, trying to look like you’re reading—but you haven’t absorbed a single word in the last fifteen minutes.

You can see the veins on his forearms from here.

The way his sleeves are pushed up. The way his eyes narrow a little when he’s thinking. The way his hair falls over his temple and you want so badly to brush it back but your hands are glued to your highlighter like it’s a lifeline.

You’re not concentrating.

You’re surviving.

“This project’s gonna kill me,” he murmurs, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles.

You hum in agreement, then nearly fall out of your chair when he looks at you suddenly.

“You okay?”

You nod—too fast, too small. “Just… tired.”

Not a lie. Just not the truth either.

🕝 2:32 PM

He stretches with a groan and shifts, leaning back on one hand, the other adjusting his glasses.

“Why are dorm floors so damn uncomfortable?”

“You could sit on the bed,” you say before you can stop yourself.

Silence.

He looks at you. Slow blink. Like he’s making sure he heard you right.

You panic.

“I mean—only if you want! It’s not a big deal. You’d have more space, and—”

“You sure?”

You nod. Pretend to go back to reading. Your heart is not pretending. It’s slamming against your ribs like a prisoner with a spoon.

He stands, crosses the space in two slow steps, and sits next to you.

Not far.

Not touching.

But close enough that you feel the warmth of his thigh near yours through two layers of fabric.

🕞 2:46 PM

You don’t know how to act normal anymore.

You’ve read the same sentence six times. You’re hyper-aware of everything: your breath, your posture, the fact that your sweater is slightly askew and your bra strap might be peeking out and oh god what if he notices and—

“You’re really quiet today,” he says softly.

You glance at him. He’s not teasing. He looks... thoughtful.

“I’m just... distracted,” you admit, voice small.

“Anything I can help with?”

Yes. But not in a way either of us is ready for.

You give a tiny smile and shake your head. “It’s fine.”

He watches you a moment longer. Then:

“You know you don’t have to say ‘I’m fine’ all the time, right?”

That one hits harder than you expect.

You swallow. “I know.”

Another silence. Not awkward.

Just heavy.

🕒 3:02 PM

His shoulder brushes yours when he shifts slightly.

It’s nothing.

But it’s everything.

You stiffen, then force yourself to stay still. You want to lean into it. You want to tilt your head and rest it there. You want—

But you don’t.

Because you’re still shy. Still afraid. And he’s still Wonwoo.

Perfect, patient, unreadable Wonwoo.

You grip your pen tighter.

And then, softly—so softly—you whisper:

“Do you ever feel like something’s... just about to happen?”

He looks at you slowly. And for the first time today, something flickers in his gaze.

“Yeah,” he says, voice low.

🕓 4:03 PM — Sunday, November 17

The room is silent.

Not the kind of silence filled with studying or shy small talk.

This silence is alive. Breathing. Trembling between you both like an unspoken question that neither of you dares to ask.

You’re still sitting side by side on your bed.

Wonwoo hasn’t moved away since his shoulder brushed yours. In fact, now your knees are almost touching. Almost. And you can feel it — the way his body is angled ever so slightly toward you, the way his hand rests near yours, palm open on the blanket like it’s waiting.

Your heart is a storm.

You should say something. You should breathe. You should—

“Y/N,” he says quietly. So quietly.

You glance at him, and this time... he’s already looking at you.

His gaze doesn’t waver. And it’s not unreadable this time. It’s warm. Intense. Like he’s finally letting you see something he’s been holding back for weeks.

“I keep thinking about what you said earlier. About something about to happen.”

You nod, throat dry. “Me too.”

There’s a pause. Then—he shifts closer. Just slightly. His knee brushes yours now. His hand, still open on the bed, inches toward yours until your pinkies are touching again.

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t push.

But his voice drops lower, softer.

“I want to try something. But only if you’re okay with it.”

You know exactly what he means.

And you want it too.

You can’t speak, so you nod.

He leans in—slowly—eyes flickering to your lips, then back to your eyes.

You feel everything.

The heat.

The closeness.

The possibility.

Your heart stutters.

And then—

📱 BUZZZZZZZ

The sound shatters the moment like glass on tile.

Wonwoo curses under his breath—barely audible—but pulls back just enough to fumble for his phone.

“Sorry,” he mutters, glancing at the screen. “It’s my roommate.”

He answers.

“Yeah?” A pause. Then: “Dude. Seriously?” Another pause. A sigh. “Fine. I’ll be right there.”

He hangs up slowly.

“He locked himself out. Again.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

You nod, trying to keep your face neutral.

“That’s okay.”

But it’s not really. Not completely. Because you were so close.

He stands, reluctantly. Grabs his bag. Looks at you again—hesitating.

“I… I didn’t mean to ruin the moment.”

You shake your head fast. “You didn’t. It’s okay. Really.”

He looks down at you—eyes searching, unsure—then does something unexpected.

He leans forward and presses his forehead gently to yours. Just for a second. No kiss. No promises. Just warmth.

“I’ll call you later?”

You nod. Whisper, “Okay.”

And then he’s gone.

The room feels colder without him. But your fingers are still tingling from where his touched yours.

🕓 4:08 PM — Monday, November 18

The library feels... different today.

Not louder. Not busier. Just charged, like the air is made of static and someone’s holding their breath waiting for lightning to strike.

You’re in your usual seat. So ist er.

But neither of you has spoken yet.

You tap your pen against your notes, eyes locked on a page you haven’t actually read. Your mind keeps flickering back to yesterday—his voice, his nearness, the almost. And then that forehead touch. Like he wanted to say more but didn’t have the time.

Now he’s here. Right next to you again.

And it’s so much worse.

Because you know what his mouth almost tasted like.

And now you can’t stop wondering.

Wonwoo keeps shifting in his seat. His pen hasn’t moved in minutes. Once in a while, you catch him looking at you—but when you glance over, he looks away again. Fast. Too fast.

Neither of you knows how to start again.

🕠 5:02 PM

You close your book and mumble, “I’m gonna grab something else. Be right back.”

He stands, too. “I’ll come.”

You both move toward the back shelves in awkward silence, feet padding softly against the old carpet, surrounded by towering books and too many unspoken thoughts.

Your fingers trail along the spines. “It’s up there,” you say, pointing to the top shelf.

He follows your gaze. “One sec.”

He steps in front of you, reaching high above—his body stretching, hoodie riding up slightly at the back. His arm grazes yours. Then his chest.

Then—

He shifts, leaning just slightly over you to steady himself as he grabs the book.

His scent is close. So close.

You look up—

And there it is.

His jaw. The curve of his throat. The slight parting of his lips as he breathes.

You don’t think. You can’t think.

You just do.

You lift your face—

And press the lightest kiss to the edge of his jaw.

The second it happens, your brain catches up.

Your whole body seizes.

“Oh my god—” You pull back instantly, eyes wide in horror, your voice shaking. “I— I’m so sorry, I don’t know why I— I didn’t mean to—”

You step back, heart racing, heat flooding your face. You can’t even look at him.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat again, softer. “That was stupid—”

But he doesn’t say anything.

Not at first.

He just sets the book down gently on the nearby shelf.

And then turns to face you.

And in one fluid, sure motion—

he steps forward, grabs your waist, and pulls you to him.

And kisses you.

Not gently. Not questioningly.

Like he’s been waiting.

His hands grip you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. His lips find yours like they already know the shape. There’s nothing hesitant about it—just warmth and need and finally.

You don’t move at first—frozen in disbelief.

But then your hands find his hoodie. And your body leans in. And you kiss him back.

And it feels like every unfinished sentence has finally been said.

🕠 5:09 PM

He pulls away just slightly. His forehead rests against yours again. Just like yesterday.

Only this time, you’re both smiling.

“So,” he whispers, breath still uneven. “That happened.”

You nod, stunned.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” you say softly. “It was... impulse.”

He lets out a short laugh.

“Good impulse.”

Then he kisses you again—quieter this time. Slower.

And nothing about it feels accidental anymore.

[millimononym]

I think I'm the only person who says no to "we should get a new computer" when the old computer I'm using is at least 13 years old

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 2: Choose Love Or Sympathy]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra's wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook's Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother's life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting...

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, extreme babygirl energy, violence, serious injury, Larys Strong, alcoholism/addiction, references to sexual content (18+), Crab Family lore.

Series title is a lyric from: "7 Minutes in Heaven" by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: "XO" by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 5.5k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Let me know if you'd like to be tagged! 🥰💜

A moment of clarity, something he’s having more of lately: eyes glassy but open, voice husky, words slow. His vast bedchamber in the Red Keep always smells like honey and rose oil and the brackish golden air that blows in off the ocean. Sounds float weightlessly through the open windows like feathers on waves, music and shouts and creaking wagon wheels, gull cries and sails cracking in the wind. Late-morning daylight is an aisle across the stone floor, a river, a channel. Aegon’s bed has been moved away from the windows; when his wounds are uncovered, direct sunlight can ravage him in minutes, fresh blisters, thickening scars.

Aegon winces as you sit behind him and knead warm rose oil into his back and shoulders. His flesh is a grisly mosaic: pink and crimson and white, knots of burgeoning scar tissue, spots that are still raw and weeping. “It itches like hell, does that mean it’s infected?”

“That means it’s healing. Do you want more?” You mean the goblet of pearlescent milk of the poppy on his bedside table. It’s always there, and refilled frequently.

Aegon shakes his head, groggy, slumped, white-blond hair loose and disheveled. “I should probably be sentient on occasion. You haven’t been helping me piss into chamber pots or anything, have you?”

You smile. “No. You’ve got servants for that.” Although they report their findings to you; Maester Arthur of Claw Isle once taught you that organ failure is a common cause of death for burn victims, even if they survive the risks of shock and festering. All appears well enough on the outside, and then they start pissing blood or their skin goes yellow as their innards lose their secretive divine cadence, that vital rhythm, and then the poor soul is gone within days.

“Thank the gods,” Aegon says. “A speck of dignity remains. It’s tragic enough that I now closely resemble an overcooked meat pie.”

You chuckle as you massage rose oil into his wounds, keeping the scars moist and supple so they do not split open when he moves, so his joints are not locked in place. He will need them when he is out of bed again. He will need them if he truly is the king. “I don’t think you look that bad.”

“Because you’re used to sifting through guts and corpses all day. I’m an improvement. I’m only half dead.” And just weeks ago, he was pleading to be all the way dead. He glances back at you, brow knitted into thoughtful furrows; you can see it between the messy locks of hair that shag over his face. “What made you want to study something like this? It’s gruesome. It’s miserable, thankless work.”

“I was never good at anything,” you tell him. “My sisters were, but I wasn’t. I couldn’t dance, couldn’t sing, couldn’t embroider patterns unless they were humiliatingly simple, and even then I loathed it. My father grew so desperate he encouraged me to try archery with my brothers. I accidentally put an arrow in the foot of a squire and that was the end of my bowwoman career.”

Aegon laughs, then groans at the pain it causes him. He turns around so he can look at you, clumsily repositioning himself on the feather mattress, propping himself up on his palms. He squints down at his left hand where his ring should be: gold wings, jade eyes. You will have to remind Aemond to give it back to him. “I was never good at anything either.”

You can’t imagine that to be true, and yet it’s what you’ve always been told, that he was gifted at drinking and whoring and nothing else. You cannot reconcile those stories with the man in front of you. You keep trying, keep failing. You slather your palms in rose oil again the then begin massaging it into his chest. Aegon watches you with muzzy, drugged interest, eyes like cold ocean currents. “Then, five years ago, my brother…” You hesitate. A real name, an imagined one? You decide there is no harm in this small truth. Aegon will not remember the name of a younger son of a Crownlands house; he barely recalls the men of his own Kingsguard, who now spend their days trotting around the castle after Aemond. “My brother Everett was burned very badly, just like you were, although his wounds were mostly to his legs. And we all thought he would die. People advised us to show mercy by giving him enough milk of the poppy to kill him. They said it would be a sin to let him suffer so terribly. Yet our maester believed he could save him. My father and eldest brother had other responsibilities to attend to, and my mother and sisters could not bear the sight of Everett’s injuries. But I watched the way the maester worked on him, and I just…I thought it was the most captivating, beautiful thing I’d ever seen. The way a body can be taken apart or put back together like stones in a wall. Place one here, remove one there, and then like magic you’ve changed the course of someone’s life. Our maester taught me how to clean burns and change bandages, and when Everett was well again, he taught me about broken bones, fevers, childbirth, wolf bites, dry drowning. I read every book on the subject of healing in my father’s library. He kept having to order me more from the Citadel. I think I would have liked to be a maester myself, but…”

Aegon grins. “You have to go marry your mystery nobleman.”

“And women can’t be maesters.”

“They made me king of the Seven Kingdoms but you can’t be a maester? Fucking ridiculous.” He studies you as your fingers—tenderly, carefully—press rose oil into the red scar that creeps up over his right cheek. “Why won’t you tell me who he is?”

He means your betrothed. Aegon keeps asking about him in his moments of lucidity. You quip: “I don’t want you to have him murdered.”

“That would solve your problem.”

“I preserve life, I don’t take it.”

“I’ve noticed,” Aegon says with a soft, tired smile. Very slowly, he reaches up with one hand to pat at his silvery hair. “Can you give me my braid back? It seems to have been washed out again.”

“Of course.”

“Why did you start doing that?”

What is the truth? Something you can’t tell Aegon. No matter how often I touch him, I want more. “It’s a war braid. You’re a warrior. You’ve earned it.”

“So I am good at something after all,” he murmurs. You rebandage Aegon’s wounds and help him lie back down again. You give him a sip of milk of the poppy, which by now is badly needed; Aegon’s face is sweated and pale and agonized. Then you clean the rose oil from your hands and begin weaving a small braid into his hair. He gazes vacantly towards the open window, bright warm light he cannot walk into. “I assume Aemond is…handling things.”

“Yes, he’s…” How will Aegon take this? Is it a relief, or a slight? There was a great ceremony. You did not attend; you were here tending to the Greens’ broken king. It’s where you spend most of your time. “He’s been made Prince Regent and Protector of the Realm.”

Aegon nods, his expression unreadable. “How’s Sunfyre?”

“Still at Rook’s Rest and gaining strength. He was climbing the cliffs as of a few days ago. But I’ll ask Aemond when I see him today.”

Now Aegon smiles again. “Sunfyre is fierce. He is extraordinary.”

“You both are,” you say as you fashion his silver braid; and Aegon stares as if he couldn’t have heard you correctly.

Her steps are so light that at first you aren’t aware she’s entered the room. You see her out of the corner of your eye and immediately stand, moving away from the bed, from Aegon. You feel strange touching him this way—unnecessarily, self-indulgently, greedily—in her presence. She is his wife, after all.

“Your Grace,” you greet Helaena, bowing. She does not look at you. She looks vaguely in Aegon’s direction instead. She is wearing a turquoise blue dress and her long hair pulled back from her face. The servants have dressed her, or Alicent; she cannot do it herself anymore. In her hands she holds a large glass jar of sticks and leaves.

“Hello, Helaena,” Aegon says, more like a sigh than a welcome.

She scurries towards him and sets the jar down on his bedside table with a clunk, right next to the goblet of milk of the poppy and a number of other drinks, things you ply Aegon with to keep him hydrated. Then Helaena speaks, her eyes on the contents of the jar. There is something else in there, you see now: a fat wriggling green creature, a caterpillar inching along the length of an upright stick. "For you."

“It’s very nice,” Aegon tells her, in a tone like a parent losing patience with their child.

“It takes nourishment and then rests,” Helaena says. “It is wrapped in a cocoon and stays there for a long while. But when it emerges, it is not just well again. It is greater than it was before. And it can fly.”

“Oh, I understand now.” Aegon makes no attempt to touch her—not even her hand, not even for a moment—but his words are kinder. “I am the worm. Thank you, Helaena. This comforts me.”

She is satisfied. She turns to leave.

“Your Grace,” you begin, and hold out your hands to her. She does not take them. She does not meet your eyes; she stares instead into the golden luminescence of the open window behind you. You can hear crashing waves and the screeches of swooping gulls. “I wanted to express…I cannot even begin to tell you…I am so, so sorry for your suffering—”

She spins away from you and sweeps out of the bedchamber. You are left looking at the empty place where she stood, heartsick and sorry. What did I do wrong? What should I have said?

Aegon offers you an apologetic smirk, but his eyes are sad. “It’s not personal. She doesn’t really like touching anybody.” This is an irony, and one that must read on your face. A king and queen—by definition, by necessity—do an inordinate amount of touching. He invades, she endures, they knit heirs together out of threads of blood and sweat. “What we have between us, it’s not…romantic. It never was.”

This is not something he should be telling you. It is not a jest but a spilling of deep, sacred truths. “I didn’t ask.”

“No. But you were wondering.”

You were. You return to the bed and sit down beside Aegon, finishing his braid. You choose your words precisely before you speak. “I don’t believe I have a right to know certain things, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about what you’re thinking.”

“Then let me unburden myself so there is no confusion,” Aegon insists, drowsy but fighting sleep. “There was no joy in it for me or Helaena. I tried to make it as quick and painless as I could, but still, her disdain for the task was obvious. It happened just often enough to conceive the children. And we haven’t even tried in months, not since…” He doesn’t need to say it. Everyone knows, Greens and Blacks alike. A son for a son. The murder of Jaehaerys, six years old and utterly powerless, in exchange for Aemond slaying Luke.

Do you think such a thing was just? No, of course not, how could anyone? Very few things that happen in this world are just. They come with passionate defenses but no mercy, no vision for a less violent future. The wheel goes around and around, and everyone takes their turn being crushed. “Aegon, I’m so sorry,” you tell him softly.

He shakes his head. He will not discuss it. Aegon’s remaining children, Jaehaera and Maelor, do not ask about him; on the rare occasion that Alicent brings them to his bedchamber, they do not seem to know who he is. In fairness, Aegon does not seem to know them either; he regards them with a dull sort of bewilderment, like one might peer down at a page written in a foreign language. In the hallways of the Red Keep, the children clutch at Alicent and Otto, and sometimes Aemond will take a few minutes to play with them, stacking wooden blocks or arranging cloth dolls in a miniature castle. But if ‘mother’ and ‘father’ are words the children know, you’ve never heard them spoken aloud. “Can I have some wine, please?”

“Did you finish your goat milk?”

“Resentfully.”

“Then yes. I’ll get it for you.” You pour Aegon a cup of red wine and then tilt it against his lips. He slurps the cup dry before his eyes dip closed. You set the empty cup on the bedside table, feel his forehead for fever—longer than you need to—and then rise to leave him. You are almost to the door when you hear him say: “Thank you for changing my mind.”

You turn back to Aegon, puzzled. “About what?”

“About wanting to be dead.” He grins and waves, a weak miniscule motion of his left hand. “Come back soon, angel.”

“I will,” you promise.

And only then does he surrender to blessedly numb unconsciousness, the only place in the world that doesn’t hurt.

~~~~~~~~~~

You find Aemond in his own rooms. He is sitting in front of the large circular mirror on his vanity. His hair is long and straight and painstakingly neat, his tunic made of black leather. He is wearing the crown of Aegon the Conqueror. Rubies fracture the sunlight and scatter it against the walls; Valyrian steel glints.

Aemond marvels, knowing that you’re here: “It looks better on me than it ever did on him.”

“I need more rose oil.”

In the mirror’s reflection, his lone blue eye darts to you. “You always ask so politely.”

“I didn’t want to waste your valuable time. I can be more loquacious, if you prefer.”

“That won’t be necessary.” He stands, taking off the crown and placing it—gingerly, with both hands—on his vanity. “I’ll see that you have everything you require.”

“I am eternally appreciative.”

Then he does something that he thinks is amusing, a little joke you share. He grabs for your arm and you yank it away just before his fingers can close around your wrist. This makes him smile; it’s one of the only things that does. “Now follow me,” he orders, striding past you and through the doorway.

You hurry after Aemond, dashing through corridors and archways. You know where he is going; this has happened before. As you ascend a staircase, Alicent is leading Jaehaera and Maelor down to the gardens. She has one tiny hand gripped in each of hers; the hem of her emerald green dress drags on the stone steps. She keeps losing weight. You stop to scoop Maelor up and hug him—he giggles, squeezing at your cheeks as you smack kisses onto his face—and then turn your attention to Jaehaera. She has just learned the rules of curtsying and loves to practice. You bow to her, and then she does the same to you, and while her head is bent low you ruffle her silvery hair until it is in hopeless disarray and Jaehaera is laughing hysterically. Then you kneel down so she can sabotage your hair however she sees fit. She pulls strands out of your sensible low bun until you give up and shake it all loose. Alicent—large dark eyes, demurely veiled auburn hair, somber and suffering—gives you a grave, grateful smile. Aemond has waited at the apex of the stairs for you. When you rejoin him he continues onward to the council chamber.

Inside men are taking their seats and already beginning to quarrel: Criston Cole, Otto Hightower, Grand Maester Orwyle, Tyland Lannister, Jasper Wylde, Larys Strong, the knights of the Kingsguard. Sir Rickard Thorne pays no attention to you. Aemond once mentioned off-handedly: ‘Sir Rickard, I believe our healer is a distant relation of yours.’ The knight had glanced at you and produced some noncommittal reply, oh, indeed, sure, is that so. You had met before, you realized when you saw his face, years ago, at some event that brought together the houses of the Crownlands, a wedding or a funeral or a feast. He has a hazy recollection of you, but he cannot pin it down; he spent the evening with boisterous young men like your eldest brother Clement, while you had spent it with other noblewomen. Sir Rickard’s mother or sisters could probably identify you as a Celtigar. To Rickard himself, you can masquerade as some unimportant cousin he is ashamed to have forgotten. You assume your usual place in the council chamber: standing in a corner, trying not to be noticed, only there in case specific questions involving Aegon’s medical treatment arise.

“Is he dying?” Otto asks Aemond. “He must be. He has no interest in whores.”

Aemond raises his eyebrow at you. “Actually, I’ve been informed he is improving.”

Maester Orwyle beams at you. Upon your arrival in King’s Landing, he had confirmed to Aemond and Criston what you already knew: that while the Citadel’s guidance several decades ago was indeed pork lard or cow dung to treat burns, now there is a growing consensus that vinegar, honey, and oil for scar tissue are the best available remedies. You nod back. You are natural allies; the Greens’ king is under your joint care. You both have much to lose if he dies.

Now Otto Hightower addresses you. He is a stern, weathered, shrewd man. He reminds you of your father, though far more humorless. “When will he be able to fight again?”

“Fight?” you echo, stunned. “In battle? Months at least, my lord. Perhaps a year.”

“A year!” Otto bellows, then turns his wrath on Criston and Aemond. “I told you, I told you! I urged him to exercise caution, over and over again I warned him of the danger, and while I was penning letters to every possible ally you were pouring poison into his ears, convincing him that I wasn’t doing enough. Now look at him! Look at this goddamn fucking mess!”

“How fares the dragon?” Tyland Lannister says.

“I received a raven from Rook’s Rest today,” Aemond replies. “Sunfyre is eating well and ambulatory.”

“Useless,” Otto hisses. “Can’t fly. Can’t be moved. A waste of the livestock he’s being fed.”

“We may yet find a purpose for him,” Aemond says.

“Two dragons!” Otto explodes. “Can you count them?! We have two dragons capable of combat, and one of them is ridden by a fifteen-year-old. The Blacks still have Syrax, Caraxes, Vermax, Tyraxes, and Moondancer. And gods help us if they find someone to ride any of the other unclaimed beasts on Dragonstone. Seasmoke, Vermithor, Silverwing, Grey Ghost, the Cannibal…”

“I hope they try to tame the Cannibal,” Criston mutters. “If we’re lucky, he’ll eat them all.”

“My lord,” Larys Strong says to Otto, clutching his cane; he has a habit of lacing his fingers overtop the handle and resting his chin on them. Larys is a watchful, quiet man who speaks rarely yet with great consequence. He is the Master of Whisperers, he is the Lord of Harrenhal, and aside from that he is an enigma to you. “I hate to be the bearer of unfortunate tidings, however I must speak plainly. I have just obtained reports that the Blacks are pursuing precisely the course of action that you fear. Jacaerys Velaryon is offering land and knighthood to any man who can mount a dragon and join their cause. The realm is littered with Targaryen bastards, I’m certain it is only a matter of time until they find at least a few candidates suited to the task.”

Otto slams his fist down on the table. You startle at the noise; Aemond glances over at you. “No king. No Sunfyre. Dreamfyre in the Dragonpit, who Helaena cannot fly into battle. A fucking disaster.”

“We have Vhagar,” Aemond says confidently.

“She is worth two full-grown dragons,” Otto pitches back. “Not four or five.”

“Daemon is the real threat. If I can eliminate him, the war is over.”

“Daeron should be prepared for combat,” Jasper Wylde says. “He is travelling with Lord Ormund Hightower’s army in the Reach, but he can easily be called back to King’s Landing. He could assist Prince Aemond in his pursuit of Daemon and Caraxes.”

“I don’t need his help,” Aemond replies darkly.

“Then perhaps he could safeguard the city once you’ve gone.”

“We cannot sacrifice military strategy on the altar of personal vendettas,” Criston says. “Dragons are best used on the battlefield against soldiers and castles, not on meandering quests to find one lone enemy, that’s a needle in a haystack, it’s a misallocation of precious resources.”

Aemond counters: “But if I can kill Daemon, nothing else matters—”

“It does matter, Aemond!” Criston roars. “I matter, the armies matter, winning the confidence of the houses you hope to rule matters!”

“How is Corlys Velaryon handling all of this?” Otto asks Larys. “The defeat at Rook’s Rest, the death of his wife?”

Larys answers: “He blames Rhaenyra for the losses. He has taken it badly. It is my understanding that he intended to withdraw his support from the Blacks, and was brought back only by Jacaerys giving him the title of Hand of the Queen. I am under the impression that Corlys may be willing to reconsider his allegiance if the circumstances were right—”

There is a knock at the council chamber door, not a knock but a pounding, not a pounding but a frantic drumming like the marching of soldiers’ boots. Sir Criston Cole unlocks and opens the door. Alicent stands there with her face flushed and shiny with tears. Instantly, Criston is at her side asking what is wrong, one hand resting protectively her shoulder, the other on the hilt of the sword he wears everywhere he goes.

“Come quickly,” Alicent begs you, only you. “Please. It’s Aegon.”

You race with her to Aegon’s bedchamber, hearing the screams long before you reach him. This doesn’t make sense; he shouldn’t be in pain this severe, not yet, not for hours. You are aware that there are footsteps thundering behind you, Aemond and Criston rushing to see if the king really is dying this time. In his bed, Aegon thrashes and moans. He needs to stop moving so violently; he will split his scar tissue like burst seams. Already you can see blooms of crimson appearing on his bandages where the wounds beneath have reopened: his neck, his waist, his ribcage. He is out of his mind. He is destroying himself.

He is shouting for Sunfyre, for Aemond, for Criston. He is back at Rook’s Rest being roasted alive in his own armor. Not dying, then; just having a nightmare. You kneel at his bedside and smooth his hair back, his braid threading through your fingers, and whisper to him that it’s alright, that he’s safe, that he needs to wake up now. Alicent is weeping, both hands covering her mouth. Aemond and Criston are watching you, mesmerized, transfixed.

Aegon’s oceanic eyes fly open, wide and panicked. “Where am I?”

And you smile down at him, your palm cradling his unburned left cheek. “The end of the world.”

He blinks. He remembers. His lips stretch into a grin. “There you are,” he tells you, voice gravelly and low. “I dreamed everyone was gone and you were too.”

“I’m here.”

“You aren’t in a hurry to abandon me for your burly betrothed?”

Cregan Stark must think I’m dead. “No, Aegon.”

“You can’t leave without telling me.”

Everett, Clement, my father, my mother, Piper, Petra, Penelope, they must all think I was burned to ash on the battlefield or murdered and tossed into the sea. “I know. I won’t.”

“You can’t leave,” he says again, a half-awake whimper as he sinks back into unconsciousness. You give him more milk of the poppy, enough to make his sleep deep and black and dreamless.

You reclean and rebandage Aegon’s wounds. It takes hours. Aemond fetches Maester Orwyle to assist you. Criston comforts Alicent, wanting to do and say far more than he can. When it is done, only Alicent remains in the bedchamber with you. She visits Aegon frequently, but she does not know how to speak to him; she always stands there clasping her own hands together, praying and stalling, desperate to show him love and yet incapable of it.

“Thank you for what you’ve done for him,” Alicent says, tears glistening in her umber eyes. “Not just the hours, not just the medicine. For everything that you’ve done.” And she embraces you, and when she does you hold her like she wishes her own daughter could.

~~~~~~~~~~

In the night you see it repeating like a chorus of a song in the shadows that crawl across the ceiling: one year ago, stray snowflakes in your hair, stars in a black sky and air like metal.

The Celtigar fortune is older than the Targaryens’ conquering of Westeros, older than the Doom of Valyria. Where did the money come from? Friends of the Celtigars would say distinctively cunning maritime trade; their enemies would say piracy. Perhaps the two are not always so different. Is there any mechanism of accumulating great wealth that does not involve stealing in one form or another, of wringing out some other soul like a wet cloth until every drop of them disappears down your throat? Your ancestors did not tame dragons, but they had a different sort of gift: for every coin, they could find a way to make two or six or ten. Repeat that process for centuries and there are vaults filled to the ceiling with gold coins like pieces of the midday sun.

When Daenys the Dreamer had a vision of the Doom over a decade before it left Valyria a smoldering, fragmented wasteland haunted by demons and plague, only three Valyrian houses heeded the warning. Her own family, the Targaryens, relocated to Dragonstone. The Velaryons, having already long occupied Driftmark, resolved to stay there. And the Celtigars—merchants to some, pirates to others—crossed the Narrow Sea to settled on Claw Isle.

Crispian Celtigar served as Master of Coin to Aegon the Conqueror. Alton Celtigar was his Hand of the King. Edwell Celtigar was chosen to be Hand of the King to Maegor I, and later Master of Coin to Jaehaerys I during his minority. The Celtigars have never been far from the Iron Throne…though perhaps none were ever as close as you are now.

One year ago, your father embarked upon a trade mission to White Harbor. Never a man to squander an opportunity for new business, he added stops in Oldcastle, Cerwyn, and Winterfell, and brought along his four maiden daughters to stoke the desires of Northerner lords. Piper fancied a son of Lord Manderly, Petra caught the attention of a Cerwyn boy. But no offer was advantageous enough for Bartimos Celtigar’s liking; no deal could be struck.

In Winterfell, Lord Cregan Stark was already married. His wife, a childhood friend before she was a bedmate, trudged around the castle heavily pregnant and dragging layer upon layer of furs to guard her against the cold, often biting even in summer. Lord Cregan took little notice of your giggling, gossiping sisters, and even less of you…until he broke his sparring partner's arm in the castle courtyard. As the other women fled with nauseated faces back to their needlework, you asked Winterfell’s maester if you could watch how he set the fracture and managed the man’s pain. The maester was delighted—Northerners, as a rule, lack intellectual curiosity—and even allowed you to help bandage the wound once the split bone had been popped back into place. And it was only then, as you knelt there with your forehead creased with determination and blood coating your hands to the knuckles, that Lord Cregan Stark began to see you.

You have a fear of marriage, not a general aversion but a specific and powerful dread. When you were fourteen, you asked your mother if she enjoyed lying with her husband, and you had known as soon as she spoke with a careful sort of reticence—‘I enjoy feeling close to him, I suppose’—that the answer was no. When you were sixteen and your cousin Theodora married into House Bar Emmon, you went with the other noblewomen to inspect her bedsheets the next morning, and were horrified by how they chuckled at the large rust-like stain and recalled their own initiations into sex, this unavoidable rite of passage, this ultimate surrender. At breakfast, the men toasted wine and hooted and sang, while Theodora stared down with glazed eyes at her untouched bacon and duck eggs and said when Piper asked how the night went: ‘He wanted me three times. Is there anything I can do to make him stop?’ And you had thought: Aren’t unions like this supposed to be holy? What the hell do the gods have to do with it? Are they in the sweat, in the bleak resignation, in the linen of the sheets? Do they fill the man with blind lust like an animal’s, do they help hold the woman down?

Your eyes close as you lie in bed in the Red Keep, your room adjoining Aegon’s, and suddenly you are back in Winterfell again. You are making notes as the maester shows you the herbs growing in the Glass Gardens when Cregan finds you. He is tall and broad, made more so by the furs that engulf him like mist drapes the stony cliffs of Claw Isle. His voice is booming, thunderous, cataclysmically formidable. He is used to being listened to. He has never been expected to sit quietly as other men charted out his life like the route of a trade ship: here you will go, here you will be emptied of every scrap of value. He says he will give you a tour of the Library Tower. It is not an invitation; an invitation can be declined.

You walk together through the Godswood—dark water, blackberry bushes, crows squawking, gods you do not believe in—and Cregan tells you fond memories of his childhood. He likes hunting and archery. He spars in the courtyard for hours each day. He never stays still, he never goes quiet. He wants to know where you learned to marvel at the ghastly art of piecing broken bodies back together again. He wants to know why you are so different from other women. And he inquires with great fascination about the legendary treasures of your house, not just gold but rubies, jeweled cups, Myrish carpets and Volantene glass, a horn said to summon krakens from the sea, an axe made of Valyrian steel.

Winterfell’s library is sparse and dusty, cobwebs in shadowy alcoves. Cregan Stark thinks you will not notice. As he slips books about anatomy and herbology off the shelves to show you, you cannot help studying his hands, large and calloused and always stained with black patches of ink or soil or soot. They make yours look tiny and defenseless, skin of silk and bones like glass. You picture him claiming you, owning you, climbing into the marital bed knowing that you cannot refuse anything he asks for. You envision him forcing your thighs apart with those huge filthy hands, leaving smudges like ash. You imagine him tearing his way into a part of you that feels so small, so vulnerable; you imagine the suffocating burden of his interminable weight.

A moment of clarity, in the library beathing dust and Cregan’s scent, a woodsmoke musk, a wolflike wildness: I don’t know this man. I don’t trust this man. I’m glad he’s not free to marry me.

This was before the war began, before Cregan’s wife Arra Norrey died birthing their son Rickon, before Jace Velaryon arrived in Winterfell to forge the Pact of Ice and Fire. And when Cregan agreed to support Rhaenyra’s claim to the Iron Throne, and Jace pledged to marry his firstborn daughter to Rickon, the Warden of the North decided there was one last thing he wanted inked into the covenant. He wanted an ally in the South, bottomless wealth, his future children to have Valyrian ancestry. He wanted a woman with vigilant, unflinching eyes and blood on her hands.

He wanted you.

[rikiislvr]

💜party (2) - nishimura riki

read part one first (or not! it won’t really effect the story TOO much but i’ll still recommend)

@ to remind @riksaes ! <3

niki held the door open for you to go inside the slightly empty restaurant, “wow? gentlemen for once hm?” you giggled and he just shook his head with a slight smile.

“i don’t know what this look you have on me but, it’s not true.” he followed behind you, you just stared at him, he furrowed his eyebrows at your ‘answer’ and licked his lips out of awkwardness.

you two got your seat at a mini booth, the waiter taking your orders, leaving you and niki in a empty restaurant in front of each other.

“so.” he says to you and you turned from the window to look at him, “why do you hate me so much? besides the fact of how i act in school?” he asks.

“you surround yourself around the wrong people, and they influence you. i truly believe you are a civil human if you aren’t around the people you are.” you say, niki listens to your words carefully,

“jake?” he asked, “no! jake’s not too bad. i’m talking about.. the others.”

he nods with a low ‘ahh’. “i see.” he says and you just stared at him. “well. i don’t hate you.” he smiled, you furrowed your eyebrows before a giggle slipped out, making him chuckle.

“really? why not? what if im horrible?” you rest your hand on your palm, “because i’ve been noticing you more often. you seem so—“ he cut himself off,

“soo?” you push him, “so sweet. you’re nice to everyone and you stay in your zone. really good at kicking a damn ball, which i don’t understand— soccer is so hard..” he shook his head.

“basketball is hard? soccer is just running and kicking?!” you defend your sport and he scoffed, “nah. basketballs ways easy, just run— and shoot the ball!” he smiled, as if it was that easy.

“whatever.” you turn to the window and giggled to yourself, niki began to realize how much he liked staring at you, you were truly so so beautiful and he wondered if you knew that.

he cleared his throat to prepare himself for what he was gonna do, he lifted his arm and grabbed your chin softly, turning it back to him, your eyes widened and stared at him, “oh..” you shift in your seat.

“you’re really pretty, did you know?” he asked you, you were taken back on the sudden compliment, but you.. surprisingly weren’t complaining. “thank you niki.” you shot him a smile, and he swore he felt his heart melt.

see— many girls liked niki. it was normal. he didn’t like to admit that but it was true, he walked a foot into school and suddenly has like 100 girls on his ass asking for his number or something.

and he tried giving some of try, taking them on dates but he just.. didn’t feel the spark. not because they weren’t his type, he doesn’t even have one. they just weren’t the one for him.

and he really believed in love and soulmates, he just had to find his.

so when he felt that spark when you smiled at him, he knew something. it’s something he never felt before anyways. he’s always had his eye on you, he just didn’t wanna bother you with his popularity.

because once you’re seen with niki, you’re stuck to his name.

before you could open your mouth to say anything the waiter came over with your pancakes, you cut yourself off with a nervous chuckle as you two thanked her and began to eat.

niki loves pancakes, he immediately cut into them and shoved some in his mouth, his cheeks stuffed as he has syrup in the corner of his mouth.

“dude! you look so cool 24/7 but as soon as you eat pancakes you look like a baby.” you giggled and reached over and wiped his lip with a napkin, he stuffed back a chuckled since his mouth was full.

you giggled and began to your pancakes as you two shared a comforting silence, just the sound of the forks hitting the plates softly, you checked your phone, it was 1am.

“we should hurry.. it’s really late and i’m supposed to be staying over at karina’s.” you say, niki couldn’t speak so he just nod and continued chewing.

-

you two finished eating and niki paid for you, and you two were back to walking on the silent quiet rodes as he was walking you to karina’s first.

“thanks for paying for me.” you break the silence as you two finally arrived at karina’s house, he just nods softly staring at you, maybe he wasn’t so bad. when he isn’t trying to show off 24/7.

you cleared your throat. what now? do you just.. walk away or?

i guess so. you dipped your head and began to turn until niki grabbed your arm making you stop, “i really hope this isn’t our last time hanging out like this. i enjoy your presence more than i could admit.” he chuckled looking down at the floor.

you tilt your head, “yeah.. me too.” you smiled, you two just stared at each other, not wanting this night to end yet. not knowing what to say, scared if one of you said the wrong thing, the whole night would be over too soon.

niki felt his heart beating, he stared into your beautiful eyes, and this next move was straight out of nervousness.

he lifted his hands to cup your face, you jumped a little but, you let him. you wanted him too.

you melted in his touch, and he smiled at you. “goodnight, y/n.” he whispered as he continued to stare at you, small smile and his hands cupping your face.

“goodnight niki.” you blink slowly, he chuckled softly before slowly letting go, and began to take small steps backwards until he was fully turned around and down the street.

you stood there and watched him, you could still feel the warmth of his hands on your face.

you couldn’t believe you basically went on a date with one of the most popular kids at school. you just hoped it wasn’t the end, which it wouldn’t be.

maybe you’ll ditch parties more often hm?

a/n: this is so cute ok wtf. hope u liked :)

tl: @certified-ni-ki-lover @noblub-4ulolz @yourmyst4r @vixialuvs @ni-ki-ismyluv @judeduartewannabe @soobs-things @en-chantedtomeetyou @definitelynotherr @heyniki @wntersm @geniejunn @pkjay @baevsxii @k1ttylvr

[goodgirlofglory]

Hiya doll! 👋 Finals month is still in motion, so I’ve been pretty quiet on the asks. But today I was feeling some sort of way, and I wanted to know if you’re open to this request.

“Bucky with a reader who is insecure about her body”

Basically, I see a lot of representation for plus size girlies on tumblr ( and this is no hate to anyone) but I wish there was also more representation for midsize girlies. Also for girls who are on the taller side, I’m talking 5”7 and up. I’m 5”7 myself, and wearing any shoe that gives me extra inches makes me feel like I tower over my friends or others.

Another thing is, if you do write for this ask, I was thinking that even though reader does have a low self-esteem, she puts on a front and seems like she has a majorrrrrr ego or god complex. So maybe, Bucky see through that, gets her down from there, and fucks her in front of a mirror 🫣🥵

And I oop-

Anyways, regardless to everything, have a fantastic day/night and rest of your week! I appreciate you 💜💜💜

Bestie!!!!🦋

I hope your finals went well!🫶🫶🫶

I am soooo sorry this took so long! It needed to sit with me for a while before I felt I could do it justice, and then life happened in the meantime ya'know.

Anyways I so dearly hope you like this🙏🙏 I resonated a lot with your prompt as a midsize girlie myself and channeled some of my own experience into it (though I have sadly never been fucked in front of a mirror by Bucky Barnes)💖

Anyway, hope you're having a good day or night wherever you are, you are a true gem 🫶✨️🫶✨️🫶

(Also can’t wait to hear what you think of this so lmk😘)

Just perfect / One-shot

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x secretlyinsecure!taller!midsize!reader

Word count: 7,8k

Warnings: explicit sexual content, explicit language, SMUT, bathroom sex, fucking in front of a mirror, dom!Bucky, unprotected p in v (be safe my sweet darlings), a split second of oral (f receiving), reader is insecure and has some harmful thoughts about her own body.

Summary: A rather dreadful Christmas party at S.H.I.E.L.D takes a turn for the better (and frankly therapeutical) when Bucky Barnes shows you that your self-deprecating thoughts about your body might not be as objective as you thought.

“Mid,” you muttered to yourself as you looked over your outfit one more time in the mirror, fighting down the nagging notion of not feeling entirely satisfied with the reflection. The little, black dress fit you perfectly, hugging your upper body like a second skin before flaring out in the shimmering, silk fabric of the skirt that reached just below your knees. Appropriate for a work party, while the hidden slit in the side of the skirt was just a little something extra cheeky for those who’d pay attention. You doubted anyone would. It fit your persona as a ruthless man repeller perfectly too. No flashy colors, no risque shapes, no cutouts and not too short. No fun either, but that wasn’t important here. The cleavage even appeared modest with the average size of your breasts. 

“Fucking mandatory Christmas party,” you muttered as you grabbed your bag and left your apartment to head to the Avengers compound for the second time that day. How is it even allowed to make an after hours social event mandatory, you wondered angrily as you got in the waiting cab. You kept adjusting your dress as the city slowly flashed by outside the cab window, second guessing everything about your outfit from the dress to the shoes to the bag to the red lipstick you’d dared yourself to put on, afraid it was too much and too basic at the same time. 

You knew it was ridiculous to feel so self conscious about yourself and your body. For all intents and purposes, you were perfectly and quite uninterestingly average, neither plus size nor skinny. You knew your plus size girlies had a way harder time being judged and disrespected for their size, and you didn’t want to be too skinny either, like malnourished. You were perfectly midsize, eating healthy and exercising for your body's sake, eating chocolate and pasta and drinking beer for your mental health’s sake. You were perfectly. average. midsize.

It was just that, the lack of appreciation and attention over the years has slowly chipped away at your confidence, and then your self-image, and then your self-esteem, to a point that it was difficult to even rouse any positive thoughts about yourself that didn’t feel half-hearted or mandatory for the girlboss-affirmation of the day. 

The one thing you had going for you, the one thing you felt unequivocally confident about, was your job. Working as one of the high level secretaries for Fury himself, you actually had quite the high seat in the house, with clearance, authority and trust from the big man on top himself. It also meant saying no to quite a lot of things and people on a daily basis, to stop people from charging into the director's office in anger, to be authoritative enough to make people listen and actually do whatever orders you delivered on the director’s behalf (and your own sometimes). The job, which you loved and had worked hard to get, was just a tad challenging to splice with a lack of self-image.

So you’ve built a ruthless, badass, girlboss, gatekeep, gaslight persona for yourself, known for being resistant to all flattery, all bribes, all flirting and all begging. Nothing got past you and everyone seemed just a little afraid of you. It was true, you’d garnered the nickname “the other she-hulk” among your peers. And though you embodied this persona like the most natural thing in the world, it was also a front really, for your honest to God lack of confidence in your everything average.

Oh yeah, except for your height, you realized as you got out of the cab at your destination and was hailed over by the other female colleagues in your department waiting outside the compound - the shoes you wore turned out to give you several inches of height on the other girls, even as they also wore stiletto-like heels. In the height department, you were just above average, which did not make you feel any better necessarily. 

Fuck. You looked like their fucking body guard, looming behind them like a giraffe as you made your way inside, them smiling and laughing, you affecting your haughty mask, the one that protected you the best when you were feeling a bit off-kilter. Better to deem everyone here below your interest before they even had a chance to assess you, right?  

The party was nice. They’d somehow managed to make the compound not feel like a concrete bunker, decorating almost every surface with some fabric or other, flashy reds and silvers and greens and blues, giant trees everywhere overloaded with decorations. Maximalism galore.

“It looks like Santa exploded in here,” you joked to your colleagues, receiving a bout of wild laughter in return. It hadn’t really been that funny, but hey, maybe you could be known as the “other deadpool” in the future if you worked hard enough on your comedy. 

As usual, the lovelier girls of your department got swarmed pretty quickly by guys. Recruits, officers, cadets, other secretaries - they all flocked to your group. You didn’t blame them, your colleagues were beautiful, witty, smiling brightly and exuding a sort of light that could only be rivaled by the sun. They were nice to everyone too, unlike you. 

You stayed and chatted for a bit. No one commented on your dress and certainly not the split at the side, and you tried not to let that get to you. This was a work event, after all, it would be inappropriate if they did come on to you or something. Your self-esteem whimpered quietly even so. 

It didn’t take long for the rest to get tipsy, and someone started blasting music somewhere, effectively switching from corporate mingling-mode to drunken tomfoolery-mode. You easily resisted getting dragged to the dancefloor, effecting a disinterested, above-it-all mask as your work friends pouted and dragged your arm in a petulant, though surprisingly endearing way. 

“I’m not debasing myself tonight, thank you very much,” you said, knowing it was harsh but only gaining a playfully scolding look before the whole gang bounced off to dance without you. 

You made your way over to the bar instead. A half-hour or so more and then you could safely leave without breaking any social codes, you thought with relief as you ordered another glass of champagne. 

Turning from the bar, glass in hand, you suddenly bumped into someone, champagne sloshing around the rim, a few drops spilling over your hand. 

“Hey, watch where-” you started, words dying in your mouth as you looked up…and up a broad chest, a thick neck and then came face to face with Bucky Barnes aka the Winter Soldier himself. 

B-big, your brain supplemented eloquently as you stopped speaking all together. 

How was he so tall? Okay, so you knew he was tall, you’d encountered him regularly over the years and had always felt dwarfed by the tree-trunk size of the man, but you were in four inch heels, god damnit, and you still had to crane your neck to look into his eyes. They glinted as he looked down on you, and for a moment you forgot who you were supposed to be and nearly shrank in on yourself, feeling uncharacteristically small. 

“Sorry,” he simply said, giving you a once-over so quick you weren’t sure it’d happened at all, and then he leaned around you to grab a few napkins from the bar. He made quick work of taking the glass from your hand and wiping the stray drops of champagne from it, set it on the bar and then gently took your hand in his and wiped it as well. 

You could only stare in astonishment at the size of his hands, rough and calloused, but with neatly trimmed nails, engulfing yours and being so exquisitely gentle. He put the glass back in your hand and looked down at you with a pleased smile. 

You quickly amassed your indifferent mask, raising a haughty eyebrow at him, and stepped aside so he could order whatever he wanted. He’d at least apologized and cleaned up the mess he (and you together, admittedly) had caused. You supposed it was the best outcome, both for your pride and confidence. You didn’t step far from the bar, sure you would be back soon enough for another glass, and looked out on the burgeoning dance floor in front of you. 

“Why don’t you join?” a deep voice asked from the side. 

Looking over, Bucky had come up to stand at your side, looking out over the crowd as well, whiskey glass in hand. His strong profile was illuminated by the flashing lights of the dance floor, reflected in those baby blue eyes, and his hair was tucked back into a bun at the back of his head. His suit must have been tailored by sorcery or something, because it hugged him in all the right places, press neat and crisp, making him look both perfectly put together and indecently so.   

Okay, so maybe you had a little something of a crush on the guy. He was fine as hell, and always put this old school New York charm on you whenever you met. He was the only one who still tried to charm and flirt with you whenever he came to Fury’s office, and though you put on your unimpressed and uninterested mask, thoroughly shutting him down each time, you secretly appreciated those moments more than you would ever admit out loud. It felt nice that he at least treated you the same as all the other secretaries - he was the only one who still did. 

You raised your eyebrow, securing a bored look even as you wanted to ask with you?

“Not exactly my crowd,” you said instead, taking a swig at your drink. 

“No? Didn’t think you cared about things like that,” he said, smoothly challenging you. 

“Not exactly my music, then,” you said. Arrogance and low energy usually got people to leave you alone when you felt fragile. You turned to give him a fake, sarcastically apologetic smile. 

“Ah, I see. Too bad, would’ve loved to see how wide that split goes while you twirl,” he said, leaning closer to you, and in your shock the mask you’d held on so tight cracked, and you whipped to look at him. He’d noticed it?

You saw the pleased victory shining in his eyes. Cheeky bastard was trying to break you, trying to make you drop the haughty exterior, like he knew you were only putting up a front. And you’d let your mask slip and showed him he was right. And like you suspected he knew, it was the exact sort of thing you deeply, secretly craved someone to do. 

But it wouldn’t be that easy. Bucky could just be fucking with you, or making easy conversation. But he’d noticed the split in your dress, so he must’ve been looking, right? Just a little harder than everybody else. Still, it was out of the question to just drop every defense and wall you had now, in this room, just because of one comment from him. You quickly affected an unimpressed, almost fatigued mask, raising your glass to your lips. 

“Too bad, Barnes, I’ve already had my high school prom,” you said, delivering the line with just the perfect amount of arrogance and judgment. 

You felt his eyes lingering on your face for long moments as you stared into the crowd, refusing to meet his eyes and potentially let more slip. This shit was exhausting enough when people didn’t clock on to your farce. Still, a small part of you didn’t want him to stop looking, to stop showering you in this undivided attention that sizzled like carbonic bubbles on your skin. 

You immediately shut down your disappointment when he left without another word, telling yourself to be proud you didn’t beg or flirt or plead for his attention like everyone else did. You didn’t need anyone but yourself, you needed to remember that. 

The music shifted from some mainstream pop song to some very old jazz, and the sudden shift only had a second to register before Bucky appeared as from thin air, took your glass from you, downed the rest of your drink in one gulp (eyes shining with mischief as you gawked a little at him), ditched the glass on the nearby table and then promptly took you by the hands and hauled you out on the dance floor. 

“W-wait, I -” your words cut off to a little squeal as the soldier wrapped a strong arm around your waist and twirled you so your feet lifted off the ground, the skirt of your dress flying out. Your arms clung around his neck and shoulders as the world spun in a flurry of bright, flickering lights, and your feet didn’t touch the ground for ten solid seconds as Bucky turned and turned. 

When he eventually put you down, his arms didn’t let up much, keeping you firmly tucked to the hard planes of his stomach and chest with a hand that went around your back and held your waist on the other side. 

You schooled your expression down even as nerves and excitement and a fair share of actual, fucking excitement filled you from the unexpected dancing. You actually did like to dance a lot. You looked up and found Bucky’s eyes on your face, glimmering in the bright lights as he easily led you in some old timey couple’s dance that he apparently knew perfectly.

“This music more to your liking?” he asked, challenging and genuine at the same time, and you couldn’t for the life of you understand his angle. Why was he doing this? 

You knew people were watching, even as the dance floor was still full of other dancers making due with their modern dance moves to the old music. And though you did feel kinda nervous being so exposed, you couldn’t very well cut off this dance and leave - that would only make you look even more insecure than you felt.

So you soldiered through, putting on a mildly entertained, smug look and looking Bucky in the eyes. 

“It’s certainly something else,” you said, and watched as his eyes flared over with a sort of playful frustration, shaking his head a little at you, but smiling despite himself. 

“Drop the act, sweetheart,” he said then, low enough for no one else to hear, but it still made you bristle. 

“What act?” you said, making it sound nonchalant and innocent at the same time. “Just because you remember one dance from 70 years ago, I’m supposed to swoon?” you challenged, knowing the words were harsh but goddamnit, he was getting too close. 

A groan escaped him then, one you felt more than heard from the way your bodies were pressed together, and you flushed, not expecting that kind of response. 

He leaned down and murmured in your ear.

“I like it when you’re mean, but I’d like it more if you were honest,” he said, and your breath caught, the physical sensation of his hot breath on your ear distracting you to the point of stumbling a bit on your heels. His arm around your waist didn’t let you so much as twist an ankle, which made you feel even more heated. 

Before you could come up with a retort, Bucky flung you out in a twirl, making your skirt fly around you. He led you perfectly even as he almost threw you around like a ragdoll, and you had to admit you were amazed by how graceful you were even as every move and twist were orchestrated and led by Bucky. The crowd disappeared as you moved to the music, coming back to Bucky, being swung out again, your back to his front at one point, his breath hot on your neck, swinging out again and stepping past each other in swoops only connected by your hand in his. 

You met his eyes and saw the flash over with an intensity that made your skin prickle, with a hunger you could scarcely believe was meant for you, eyes raking over your body, lingering on the leg peaking out through the split in your skirt, your chest heaving in the low cut neckline of your dress, your face flushed and no doubt looking as amazed as you felt on the inside. 

The dance ended in a perfectly timed dip, Bucky holding you down and cradling your neck and the small of your back in capable arms, face so close you could feel his breath fan across your face, smelling of whiskey and spearmint. 

You smiled, couldn’t help it, you hadn’t had this much fun at a work event in years. Bucky’s eyes flitted about your face as he echoed your smile with a brilliant flash of teeth himself. Your heart thudded in your chest, and your eyes flicked down to his lips, those luscious, plump lips and oh holy fuck did you want to kiss him at that moment. A desperation you couldn’t quell seized you by your fucking guts and you positively throbbed. Your smile faltered, and you saw his fall too. Daring to look up into his eyes, you saw the same hunger reflected there, nearly engulfing you in its heat. 

Then the crowd returned, cheering, the music went back to some pop song from last year and reality dumped back in on your head so fast you almost made the mistake of scrambling out of Bucky’s hold. 

No, no, no, way too exposed, this was not how you planned this night…

You were actually proud of the way you managed to slowly extract yourself from Bucky’s arms, give a slow, bored “thank you,” and then calmly leave the room all together to escape to the ladies room. 

You had to admit, they hadn’t neglected the bathrooms in the compound, you thought as you occupied the space alone. They were kinda nice, big and spacious, marble and polished steel making the space comfortable and with an air of luxury compared to the practical, brutalist vibe of the rest of the building. 

You touched up on your lipstick, hands shaking a little from the excursion of the dancing. Okay, you needed to leave, you thought to yourself as you felt your skin still sizzling faintly wherever Bucky’s hands had touched you. Your nerves seemed newly awakened as if from a deep slumber, and it would not do to develop an even deeper crush on him. 

As if summoned, the door to the bathroom opened and Bucky stepped through, eyes finding yours in the mirror immediately. 

“I think you’re supposed to be in the next room over Barnes,” you drawled even as your heart picked up speed. 

He didn’t answer as he slowly crossed the room. 

You couldn’t help shifting in your skin as your body thrummed with an exhausting amount of nervous excitement. His gaze was level,possessing your attention like an iron grip. It was like he saw right through every mask and facade you tried to put on, right in to the very center, the very truth inside you. It lulled you and provoked you at the same time. 

“You’re in the wrong restroom, Barnes,” you said, even harsher, when he was about halfway across to you. He still didn’t answer. 

You spun to face him, anger welling higher. Who did he think he was, coming in here and stripping away the only scraps of protection you had, looking at you like he could read the thoughts as they appeared in your mind?

“I’m exactly where I need to be,” he answered as you glared at him, coming to stop directly in front of you, only inches between you, and the air there sparked with energy you just couldn’t deny you were affected by. 

You scoffed, fighting against the crumbling of your exterior. Fuck, fuck, fuck, you wanted him. Couldn’t deny it, couldn’t help yourself as your muscles ached to reach for him, to press yourself against him and let him wrap his strong, safe arms around you again. To tuck yourself away into him and shut your mind off and just feel taken care of - in any way - by someone other than yourself.

A desperate thought occurred to you; maybe you could do this without losing face. If you went on the offensive, you could still hold control over the situation while still letting whatever was sizzling between you and Bucky explode, you thought a bit desperately as you held his stare, his eyes darkening as the seconds ticked by. Maybe you didn’t have to bare your soul for him in order to get a taste of what you wanted. You could just make it out to be a hookup at a party, something carnal but detached. Give your body to him while still guarding your mind and soul. 

Not giving yourself a moment more to stall, you surged forward, grabbed his neck and kissed him. He wasn’t as surprised as you’d liked by your sudden call to action. In fact, he seemed to come unleashed the moment your lips met his, a grunt sounding in his throat as he instantly wrapped one arm around your waist, his other going into your hair to keep your head firmly put where he wanted it. 

Yes

The kiss was filthy, hot breaths and open mouths and tongue on tongue almost immediately, like a dam of pent up lust had just erupted at that first touch for the both of you. He pushed you back so the marble counter dug into your ass, and plastered himself against you, groaning as your hands moved to map out his back. 

You fumbled to reach for the lapels on his jacket and he let up his hold just long enough for you to wrench his suit jacket off him before both pair of hands went on frantically groping and gripping and touching, and you couldn’t seem to draw breath into your aching lungs for all the burning desire that flooded your body. 

Bucky broke out of your heady kiss, gasping as he leaned his forehead to yours, hands gripping your hip and the back of your neck so tight it almost pinched you, and you relished the feeling. 

“Fuck,” he groaned between pants, and you liked the sound of that very much. 

You gave him a sultry and cocky “mhm” as you kissed him again, nipping at his bottom lip. When you opened your eyes again, he was still looking at you, his stare so fucking intense. 

“You’re beautiful,” he said, and that…was stepping into a territory you were not too keen on. You couldn’t have sentimentality at that moment. You couldn’t control your tiny wince either, trying to move on with another kiss, your hands dragging down the hard planes of his chest to entice him to move along. 

Bucky didn’t grant you that mercy. He apparently saw your wince as well as he saw the split in your skirt, and scrutinized you with a piercing stare as he reiterated between kisses. 

“So gorgeous,” he murmured and you tried your damndest to ignore it, kissing him more intently, hands moving a bit desperately to his belt, but an uncomfortable laughter escaped you either way. 

Bucky stopped your hands, grabbing them and putting them on the counter at your side before cradling your face firmly in his hands. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck, what is he doing, you lamented as you looked everywhere but his eyes. 

“I mean it, you’re a gorgeous woman,” he said and you whined softly, not at all capable of hearing that. Whether out of a misguided sense of pity or because he wanted to get in your panties, you didn’t want him to tell you that shit just to placate you. You were already dying to get fucked, false flattery was of no need. You were practically soaking your panties already just from his kisses and his hands, one warm and one slightly colder, moving over your body like he couldn’t get to all of it quick enough.

“You don’t have to-” you started exasperated, squirming to get away from the intimacy of his proximity, the way he looked at you and the way he was cradling your face. 

“You see, this is what I mean. I think you’re hiding, doll. You don’t realise how fucking amazing you are, and you hide it behind a bitchy face and even bitchier words,” he said.

Words failed you then. The fucking audacity of this man to call you out like that. You were not prepared to be laid out like that, and you didn’t know whether to fight back with teeth and claws or to flee in your humiliation. 

Bucky must have seen your warring thoughts on your face, the simmering rage at being cornered and confronted like this, like an animal frantic with self preservation. 

“You don’t believe me?” he asked, and you could see a fierce competitive glint light on fire in his eyes, pouncing on the challenge.

In a flash, he’d turned you around and you met your own expression in the mirror above the sink. Bucky stepped flush against you again, and nestled the hard bulge in his pants right against your ass. You squirmed and whined a little. You wanted that inside you already. But Bucky held you tightly pinned between himself and the counter, his metal hand coming around to splay on your stomach, shining metal against the black silk fabric, effectively giving you no room to move. His hand was so huge, it covered nearly the whole area between your belly button and the underside of your heaving breasts. He propped his chin on your shoulder and captured your eyes through the reflection in the mirror. 

“You’re exquisite, doll” he whispered, his other hand landing lightly on your waist. This time you saw your own wince of disbelief in the mirror, instantly embarrassed at how revealing you were. Heat bloomed on your cheeks, both from his words and the way his eyes were just eating your body up in the mirror. 

“I’m nothing special,” you heard yourself murmur. 

“Oh, on the contrary, doll, you’re as rare as they come,” Bucky said, flesh hand moving to grab your hips appreciatively. “Swinging these hips all around the compound, your walk so sweet compared to that barking mouth you’ve got on ya,” he said, drawled a bit, his Brooklyn accent coming forth, kneading your hips and pulling you back to grind your ass on his hard bulge. 

Your breath hitched on a gasp, and your heart fluttered in your chest. He’d been watching the way you walked? And he liked it?

His hands came up to cup one of your heaving breasts. 

“Such elegant lines, perfect, round tits,” he murmured into the skin below your ears, and you trembled in his arms as his fingers teased a nipple through the thin fabric of your dress. 

“A neck that’s just begging to be sucked on and marked,” he continued before his lips sealed itself to that sensitive spot right below the hinge of your jaw and you gasped raggedly as sparks flew through your body. 

You were positively high on the novelty of his praise, but you just couldn’t quite believe it. 

“I’ve…a-always just thought I was so average,” you admitted, voice timid, nothing short of a whisper, and you berated yourself for revealing your insecurity so openly, even as Bucky’s lips let go of your skin and he nuzzled the hair behind your ear. 

“God, no,” he sighed, hand coming down to your hip again, guiding you to grind back on his bulge again, and fuck, he was hard, “I don’t get how you could even think that,” he said, and the genuine astonishment in his voice had to be real, or else he was a brilliant fucking actor. 

Your hips had started moving on their own now, steadily grinding between his metal hand on your stomach and the hard cock at your ass, sizzling sparks of heat traveling your body from the friction. You could feel Bucky nodding into the crook of your neck, encouraging and praising at the same time. 

“But I’m…kinda tall…surely y-you’d want someone shorter, m-more petite?” you heard yourself whisper, and you just had to ask him right out, to give voice to those incessant, nagging insecurities. 

He actually laughed then, a breathy chuckle against the exposed skin of your shoulder. 

“Are you kidding? You nearly gave me a heart attack in these heels tonight, baby,” he said easily, calm and honest and straightforward and it was like he wasn't even trying to convince you of anything, he was just speaking honestly. “And when you danced with me? How sexy and smooth and fucking alive you were as you let me spin you? Couldn’t take my fucking eyes of you, fuck, I haven’t been this hard in ages. Plus, you’re just perfect for me to fuck like this. Can’t you feel how perfectly your ass fits against my cock when you grind like that, huh? Can’t have that with a shorter girl, you were made for me, darling,” he said, breath growing puffy and you were almost shaking, both from his words and the blazing fucking heat they stoked.

A needy, whimpering sort of whine escaped you at that. It was perfect, your height to his. Perfect for you to nudge your ass against his pelvis and feel his hot lips and a sliver of tongue on the heated skin of your neck at the same time. 

“Do you believe me, now, sweetheart? Or do you need me to fuck it into you?” he asked then, a teasing lilt to his voice even as it dropped a fucking octave, rumbling over you skin, making you ache. 

You turned your head to graze your lips against his, recognising when he was posing a challenge by now, when his competitive side came out to play. You waited just a few seconds, letting your mingling, ragged breaths fill the silence, before answering, looking him straight in his eyes.

“I don’t believe you,” you whispered against his mouth. 

His reaction was almost instant. His metal hand came up to cradle your throat, pinning you close to him as his flesh hand had the skirt of your dress bunched up around your hips in a split second. His hand was between your legs in the next second, brazen and possessive and you fucking loved it, knees nearly buckling in your stilettos as his warm flesh palm cupped you there. A filthy groan sounded in your ear. 

“Fucking perfect pussy already soaked for me, huh?” he downright growled, fingers moving up and down your clothed slit, feeling just how wet you were through the flimsy fabric of your lace panties. “This pussy aching, huh? Hasn’t been fucked right in ages, I reckon? Some bastard left you feeling like less than just perfect?” he babbled as he began rubbing tight circles on your clit, making you keen at both his words and ministrations, mind floating up to the fucking skies on a cloud of endorphins and arousal. “You give me their names, honey, and I’ll make sure they never bother you again,” he said, dark intentions in an even darker, gruffer voice and you couldn���t stand still for the way you needed him. 

“Fuuuck, please, Bucky,” you whined, grinding your pussy down on his hand, soaking his fingers. 

“That’s right, baby, you take what you deserve, you take what this perfect body deserves,” he encouraged. 

“I need…I need,” you breathed, eyes closing as you rode the sensation of being touched like this, so expertly, too much one second and not enough the next. 

“What do you need, baby? Tell me,” he groaned into the skin of your neck. 

“I need…your…please, your cock,” you whimpered. 

His hands pulled back and gave your pussy a playful little slap, making you jolt and yelp in his arms, and the slight sting felt so fucking good. 

“That’s right,” he said, giving you a few precious seconds to collect your frayed, jumbled, melting mind as he frantically undid his belt and fly, pulling his cock out and pulling your soiled panties to the side to notch his cock at your weeping hole. 

He didn’t give you anymore time to beg before he pushed his hips forward and you both gasped raggedly as his cock slid in, perfectly to the hilt, your pussy sucking him in like it had a mind of its own. His whole frame, massive and rugged as it was, shuddered as he stood there with his cock buried inside you, and you opened your eyes to watch in astonished fascination through the reflection in the mirror as he took a moment to get a hold of himself. One hand flexed its grip around your throat, the other on your hip, grip so tight and you hoped it would leave bruises. 

He didn’t wait long until he started thrusting, pulling out almost completely before thrusting in again, forgoing any buildup and going straight to the main fucking course and you were so ridiculously relieved he wasn’t teasing you anymore. 

His hands let go of you and you fell forward, draping yourself over the counter so you could just feel the way his cock, thick and ridged and so fucking hard, dragged against your walls, yielding nothing as he speared you. 

“Need to see you,” Bucky breathed between pants as he kept fucking you. 

You felt the bodice of your dress loosen and realized he had undone the zipper at the back of your dress, peeling it off your arms and then hauling you the meat of your shoulder to straighten against him again, completely naked from the waist up. 

His hands were on your exposed skin immediately, mapping out your ribcage, squeezing the pouch beneath your belly button and coming up to knead your breasts, pulling on your nipples. He was like a man starved, all the while his cock was steadily pumping into you, pushing you higher and higher, the sounds from where you were joined filtering in through your haze of lust and pleasure like a sinful symphony. 

You opened your eyes to find his in your reflection, pools of incendiary desire following every minute twitch of your face. Your eyes flicked over your own face and saw the crimson flush, the sweat on your brow, hair ruffled, the scrunched up expression and heavy-lidded, drugged eyes. You looked a downright, embarrassing mess, your deepest pleasure so plainly written on your face, exposing you to the point of pain and you squeezed your eyes shut, trying to lean back to hide in the crook of his neck. 

Bucky did not let you. 

“Oh no, no, no, don’t hide from me now, sugar,” he said, one hand coming up to pull your face forward, “look at me,” he ordered and you opened your eyes to his again. 

“See how exquisite you are?” he asked, hips slapping against your ass. “See how beautiful you look, taking my cock?” he asked, watching you watch him in the mirror. “Look at yourself,” he ordered, and you whimpered as you met your own gaze in the mirror again. 

There was an almost lascivious tilt to his voice as he kissed your neck sloppily and murmured. 

“Tell her she looks beautiful,” he said. 

You thrashed as much as you could in your pinned position, the counter digging into your hips, high heeled shoes barely touching the floor. 

“Bucky,” you whined petulantly. There was no way. 

“Say it, darling,” he warned before his hips slowed down to an almost complete stop, and that only made you thrash harder. “Oh, you want to come baby? Then look at yourself in the mirror and say ‘I’m beautiful,” he said, and you gawked at him in disbelief, humiliation and mortification burning hot on your cheeks. 

The hand not holding your face towards the mirror kept exploring your flesh as he waited, pinching and grabbing everywhere like he just couldn’t stop. You looked at yourself in the mirror, took in the simmering fire in your eyes, your lips with its bright red lipstick smeared all over. 

“Come on, darling, don’t you want to come? Won’t you let me make you come?” Bucky asked, spreading kisses down your neck as his eyes burned into your face through the mirror. 

You fought it for as long as you could, didn’t want to play these games, didn’t want to see your own vulnerability on your face as you said something you should believe but didn’t quite. 

Bucky grinded his hips all the way inside you and then stilled completely and your need won. 

“I’m beautiful,” you whispered, breath hitching as you saw the disbelief, the resistance in your own eyes, hating yourself both for saying it and not believing it. 

Bucky groaned in a resolutely pleased manner and started moving his hips again, languidly stroking in and out of your sopping cunt. 

“Again,” came his growled order from behind. 

Your resilience was weaker this time, with the tip of his cock reaching so deep, adding rhythmic pressure to that elusive spot in the deepest nook of your body that had your knees going wobbly. 

“I’m beautiful,” you said again, this time giving a low, timid voice to the words. 

Bucky groaned behind you, hands gripping you tighter as his hips picked up speed. 

“That’s right. Say ‘I’m gorgeous’.”

“I-I’m gorgeous.”

“Say ‘I deserve this’”

“I d-d - oh fuck - I deserve this - ah -”

“Say ‘I’m making Bucky Barnes crazy on a daily basis and I don’t even care enough to acknowledge it,” Bucky husked behind you. 

That made you actually giggle, though it came out more like a stuttering whine.

“I-I didn’t know,” you moaned, breaking your own eye contact in the mirror to look at his face. You honestly didn’t. Sure, you’d established a playful banter over the years, frequently sparking conversation whenever he was at your desk for something concerning Fury or you met in the halls or right after department meetings. But you’d honestly never considered you, just being you, could be driving a man like him crazy. 

Eyes dark as the ocean burned into yours from where his face was propped on your shoulder, mouth nibbling on the side of your neck and your earlobe as his hips kept up a punishing pace. It was becoming hard to string together coherent thoughts, your mind going hazy from the steady punch of his cock. 

He smiled against your skin, nipping it so hard you squealed a little, head swimming from the mix of pain and pleasure. 

“You’re killing me here, doll,” Bucky murmured playfully against your skin, hands moving again, skimming over your skin and kneading your flesh in such an appreciative way it had you blushing, even as you were steadily pounded by his cock, halfnaked in the bathroom at your workplace during a fucking Christmas party. 

It was all a haze, the way you were hurtling towards the precipice of your orgasm, his cock in your pussy, his hot breath on your neck, his hands roaming your body like a starved beast. The smell of his rich, musky cedar cologne and the hint of fresh, male sweat. And his eyes, devouring everything his hands didn’t touch. 

“I-I’m gonna…fuck, Bucky -” you stammered. You were so close. 

“I got you,” Bucky answered breathlessly, his flesh hand moving down between your legs to stroke your clit in fast, tight circles. 

You keened, vision blurring as your muscles seized, teetering on the edge. You faintly registered your own expression in the mirror in front of you, mouth falling open, eyebrows scrunching and a crimson flush high on your cheeks. 

You heard Bucky groaning behind you and trembled at the sound. 

“Fuck, there you go, baby, fuck you’re squeezing me so fucking - tight, god damn -”

And then Bucky was wrenching your face to the side and kissing you. And maybe it was the way his hips stuttered as you moaned into his mouth, or maybe it was the possessiveness with which he pushed his tongue into yours. Maybe it was the way his metal hand gripped you tighter as you started shaking, or maybe it was the sheer desperation in his kiss as he herded you over the edge that truly made you feel beautiful in that moment. Beautiful and blissed out as you spasmed on his cock, hearing his choked grunt as you pulled his orgasm right out of him.

You felt him throb in turn with you, his cum pooling hot deep inside you, the both of you nearly falling off your damn feet as you came together, the kiss disintegrating to a mere sloppy tangle of breaths and tongues.  

As you slowly came down from your high, your mind started whirring. Halfway preparing for Bucky to pull out and leave swiftly. To maybe give you a perfunctory kiss on the cheek, to push the skirt of your dress down over your ass and then make his exit from this very public bathroom. It wasn’t that you thought Bucky was some kind of sleaze, but it would be okay if he left it at that. You were a big girl, you knew people got carried away during a rowdy fuck, and if he left it at this, you would be fine. You told yourself as much, at least…

But Bucky didn’t leave. He didn’t pull out right away, either. Once you could both catch your breath, he reiterated his kiss, slow and thorough and breathtaking all anew. His metal hand firmly secured your face to meet his and his flesh hand gave your clit a few more gentle swirls, and you could feel his smile, fascinated and playful against your mouth as you jolted at the sensation. Whimpering a little at the overstimulation but keeping yourself completely still for it anyway, you were astonished by how sensitive you were and how fucking good it felt to have Bucky teasingly play with you as you basked in the afterglow. 

You squeezed around his cock still lodged inside you, and he gave a little grunt in response. 

“Careful, sugar, or I might get hard again,” he murmured against our lips, rolling his hips gently into your ass. 

“Is…is that supposed to deter me?” you asked, your snarky tone just a little undermined by the way you gasped. 

He groaned at that, low and pleased. 

“I suppose it should…at least until I can get you out of this fucking bathroom and into a bed,” he murmured, and a surge of adrenaline went through you. He wanted to do this again?

A small thought in the back of your mind wondered how it was possible that no one had come in and interrupted you by now, but it was quickly pushed away as Bucky gently pulled himself out of you. You tried to conceal the shiver of arousal that went through you as you felt his cum leak out of you and down the inside of your thighs. 

“Stay like that,” he whispered, removing himself and the fucking furnace of warmth that had been plastered to your back. The cold air hitting your back made you realize just how naked and exposed you were, your dress a scrunched up tangle low on your waist. 

You didn’t have time to become self-conscious though, before Bucky was back, kneeling behind you. Peaking over your shoulder, you were just in time to see him wipe a damp hand towel up your thigh and gently across the puffy, sensitive mess between your legs. You flushed for an entirely new reason now. It was just so…intimate, and sweet and generous and you struggled to handle the care and tenderness with which Bucky thoroughly cleaned both his mess and yours. 

You watched him quietly as he cleaned you up, and then as he seemingly couldn’t help himself from bending forward and kissing your pussy, tongue darting out to swipe a small lick to your still sensitive clit. You yelped, hips bucking away. 

He shushed you gently and kissed your ass cheek soothingly, fitting the admittedly soggy fabric of your panties back over your pussy before getting on his feet again. With gentle hands, he turned you around, and your eyes went wide as you looked down to see his cock still hanging out of his fly, already back to full hardness. 

Bucky followed your shocked expression down and chuckled. 

“Yeah, I know,” he said, hands still cradling your shoulders, moving up to knead the muscle between your shoulders and neck, and you hummed in pleasure, eyes falling close. 

“Does that always happen?” you asked, feeling the soreness in the muscles ease up under Bucky’s dexterous fingers. 

“No,” he answered simply, and you could tell by his tone that it meant something. That it lent itself to everything he’d said about you and the supposed attractiveness you held to him. You kept your eyes closed and bit your lips to keep from smiling too broadly at that. 

Feeling emboldened, you reached for him, hands finding his clothed chest and stroking down until you reached his cock, wrapping a tentative fist around its stiff heat. 

You heard Bucky suck in a breath, and then his hand wrapped around yours, holding it tight as he thrust his hips lightly a few times, pumping his cock gently through your fist. You were ready to go again by the time he gently pried your hand away and groaned like he was being gently tortured. 

You couldn’t help your pout, opening your eyes to find him gazing at your face. 

“I want to take care of you, too,” you complained, and the gentle whine of your tone sounded so small and decidedly submissive, certainly not fitting the badass work persona you’d built. It just suddenly felt so safe to be a bit whiny with him. 

Bucky only stepped closer and cradled your face in his hands. 

“I’ll let you take care of me later, sweet thing, to your heart’s content. For now, tuck me back in and we can get outta here,” he drawled, Brooklyn accent soothing his tone and lulling you to comply, pacified by his promise to let you take care of him soon. 

You did as he said, tucking his hard cock back into his pants and doing up his fly and belt as he watched your face intently, no doubt seeing the way your eyes grew hazy, your breath labored and your face flushing all anew at the way he held you while you handled him. You let your hands linger over his bulge when you were done, dying to take him out again and just do whatever he wanted to make him feel good. 

Soon, you told yourself, soon. 

“Now, I would like to swing you one last time on that dance floor out there, let everyone see that gorgeous leg through that deadly split in your skirt. And then I want everyone to see you leave on my arm, before I take you back to mine and take care of you properly,” Bucky said, voice even and sure and smile so dashing, you couldn’t help but smile back and nod in enthusiastic agreement. 

[potatoplace]

Mutual Cycles

Feyre x Rhys

Written for ACOTAR Omegaverse Week: Day 7

Summary: Rhys has been irritated all day, but when he comes home he finds just the thing to fix that problem.

Words: ~1.6k

Warnings: somnophilia, A/B/O dynamics, knotting, smut, Rhys being a simp for Feyre, not proofread lol

Author's Note: I wanted to get something out for the last day of omegaverse week, and I want to say thank you so much for the moderators of @acotar-omegaverse-week for hosting it! It's been so much fun to get back into writing and read all of the amazing fics coming out of it. I hope we have one again next year :)

18+ only

🩵💜🩵

Rhysand was seated at his desk, Keir standing in front of him, Cassian and Azriel flanking his chair. Keir was prattling on about some reason why the Darkbringer’s forces were not ready to be rallied. Rhys entertained two minutes of his excuses before cutting him off.

“I do not care what your reason is, Keir, you have already had three months to rally the Darkbringers. If you do not confirm for me that they are ready to fight within the week, I will gladly drag you down into the dungeons myself and let Mor have her way with you,” he growled, thoroughly incensed with his uncle, who looked surprised and afraid. Perfect.

This pathetic excuse for a male had annoyed him far too many times, perhaps he should just end his life now and save himself the headache of coming back down to this cursed court so soon.

One of Azriel’s shadows opened the door behind Keir, who gladly took the cue and scurried away. Cassian shut the door behind him, then turned to look at Rhys, a questioning look on his face.

Rhys let out an angry sigh, looking to his right at the Shadowsinger. “I wasn’t done with him yet, brother.”

Azriel quirked a brow at him. “Unless you decided that a week’s time is already up, yes, you were.” Rhys scowled at him.

“What’s wrong with you, brother?” Cassian asked, an amused smile playing on his lips. “Normally you let him go on for five minutes at the least.”

“Nothing,” Rhys sighed. “He just annoyed me faster than usual is all.”

“Maybe a training session would do you some good,” Cassian suggested. Rhys considered it for a moment, then inclined his head in agreement. “Az, will you be joining us as well?”

“No, I’m suspicious of Keir’s motives. I’ll stick around here for a bit longer.”

Rhys stood and walked around his desk, clapping his hand on Cassian’s shoulder. “Just us then, brother. Let’s go,” he said, winnowing the two of them to above the House of Wind.

🩵💜🩵

An hour later, Cassian had banned Rhys from the training ring for the day, saying that he was only getting more temperamental with each round they fought.

Rhys had glared at him and flown away, heading for the town house. The chill winter wind did nothing to cool the pool of rage within in him, though.

The moment he hit the pavement outside the house, he could smell her. His mate, his sweet, delicious smelling omega.

He swung the door open and entered the house, looking around for her. This time of day, she was normally taking lunch in the garden or working on paperwork in as she ate. He glanced out of one of the window facing the garden, no Feyre.

He made quick work of checking the first floor, his mate nowhere to be found.

He took the stairs two at a time, needing to see her now. Her scent was stronger on this floor, and he took deep lungfuls of her intoxicating scent, lilacs and pears, so perfect and just for him.

He looked in his office, but his omega was not there. Rhys opened every door along the hallway leading to their bedroom, with no luck.

The last door he opened, he struck gold. His omega’s sweet scent was overwhelming, and there she was, laying on the bed underneath the covers. His little omega was sleeping, taking a short nap most likely.

Lucky for him to find her, ready and waiting to be devoured, the perfect water to soothe his fiery temperament.

He slipped the blankets off of her, revealing her soft body clad in a black satin nightgown, so short it almost gave him a peek of the treasure between her thighs.

He sank down onto the bed, parting her legs and placing himself between them. He took a few greedy breaths in, instantly feeling his anger cool. This. This was what he needed.

His omega’s pretty pink little cunt.

He licked slowly up the length of her, gathering some of the slick leaking from her on his tongue. Yes, this is exactly what he needed, and used his fingers to gently part her lips, lapping at her center. Her taste was divine, perfect, all he ever wanted to have on his tongue again.

His cock was straining against his trousers now, the base of it swelling slightly already, just from a few heavenly tastes of his omega’s pussy.

Feyre was stirring slightly, a soft whine escaping her lips when Rhys brushed his tongue against her clit. He rubbed soothing circles on one of her thighs as he sucked gently on the little bud, entranced by the way her rib cage was moving faster now, and her eyes fluttered open just as he used his other hand to push a digit into her.

“Alpha,” she whined, a hand grabbing his hair and pulled his face further against her, the sight of her mate between her legs nearly enough to finish her then. He obliged her, moving his finger slowly in and out of her, making sure to curl against the spot that he knew made sparks fly through her body, lapping at her clit. Her thighs clamped down around him as she came, slick pouring out her and right onto Rhys’s tongue.

He licked her clean before he moved up her body, placing a kiss on his omega’s lips as he misted their clothing, leaving nothing between them but the delicious brush of skin.

“Omega,” he purred, nosing her neck to the side and sucking on her neck. Feyre sighed, a soft, contented sound, and pressed a kiss to his neck, nuzzling into it. He bit down, causing Feyre to gasp and stiffen slightly before he sucked and lapped at it again, and Feyre went limp beneath him again.

His cock was throbbing at this point, leaking at the tip and his knot half formed. It brushed against Feyre’s thigh and he groaned into her neck, even just the feeling of his omega���s skin was cauldron blessed. He lined himself up with her weeping cunt, and pushed in in one stroke. Their breath caught in their throats, Feyre was not quite prepared for the stretch of his length, or the immediate press of his knot against her, and Rhys was overwhelmed by the feeling her walls hugging him so tightly.

He gave a few powerful strokes, relaxing his omega’s cunt before he pushed the base in roughly, and he loved the way his omega’s breathing was coming in small gasps.

“Omega,” he muttered against her neck again, his world consumed by her in this moment. Her scent, her presence, her cunt were all that occupied his mind as he rocked back and forth gently, a hand coming down to rub at the apex of her thighs.

He bit down on her neck again where the mating mark was, leaving a fresh new set of bite marks over it, and Feyre came again with a strangled cry, Rhys following right behind her, his knot inflating fully and sealing them together.

Feyre wrapped her arms and legs around him, needing to be as close to him as physically possible, even if they were already locked together for a good while.

Rhys rolled them to their sides, and slid a hand through her tangled hair. He took in her flushed face and watchful eyes. “I missed you, omega.”

“I missed you too, alpha.” She paused for a moment. “Are you in rut?”

Rhys furrowed his brow at her, confused by the question. Until he thought a bit about it, that would explain…

“That would explain why I wanted to kill Keir more than usual, I suppose. And why the moment I saw my mate’s pretty little pussy my knot started growing.”

Feyre blushed, her cunt clenching around him at his words, and both of them groaned. “Mm, that would make sense love. It would also make the fresh mating bite you gave me more logical. Not that I don’t love to refresh it every now and then,” she smirked.

Rhys let out a low laugh, knowing his mate would be covered in bite marks by the time his rut was over. “Good thing I have such a sweet omega, hmm?” Feyre’s cute little smile was enough to draw him in for a kiss. “I love you, darling.”

“I love you too, Rhysie,” she replied, and this time it was his turn to blush.

“You always save that for the sweetest moments, love.”

“That’s because every moment with you is the sweetest, Rhysie,” she said lovingly with a smile on her lips. He wrinkled his nose as he smiled, kissing her again and pulling her body further into his, her head against his chest.

Her body was flushed, growing warmer with each minute they spent pressed together.

“Darling?”

Feyre nuzzled into his chest, not bothering to look up at him, knowing what he was going to ask.

“Are you in heat?”

She looked up at him, her face more flushed than before. “Yes, but only because your rut set it off.”

He laughed lowly, taking another kiss from her. “At least this way we’ll be miserably hot and turned on together, darling.”

She pressed her lips to his again before threading a hand through his hair. Feyre rocked her hips gently, testing how much she could move. Her body needed more of him already, even with him sealed inside of her.

“A whole week of uninterrupted time with my alpha?” Feyre’s smile was dazzling, her happiness overwhelming down the bond. “Count me in.”

[ninadove]

— Alexandre Dumas and Auguste Maquet, Le Comte de Monte-Cristo [Ch. 17]

For Feligami February 2025 — Day 20: Disobedience! 💜🦚❤️🐉

Alt text under the cut!

Line 1:

🇫🇷 — Qu’eussiez-vous donc fait libre ?

🇬🇧 “What would you not have accomplished, had you only been free?”

Line 2:

🇫🇷 — Rien, peut-être: ce trop plein de mon cerveau se fût évaporé en futilités.

🇬🇧 “Possibly nothing at all; the overflow of my brain would have, in a state of freedom, evaporated in a thousand follies;

-> Emilie frolicking (black and white)

-> The twins holding their newborns (darkened)

-> Gabemilie on their bed (black and white)

Line 3:

🇫🇷 Il faut le malheur pour creuser certaines mines mystérieuses cachées dans l’intelligence humaine ;

🇬🇧 misfortune is needed to bring to light the treasures of the human intellect.

-> Young Amelie reads a book (black and white)

-> Felix and Amelie join hands (darkened)

-> Colt balls his fist around Amelie’s baby bump (black and white)

Line 4:

🇫🇷 il faut la pression pour faire éclater la poudre.

🇬🇧 Compression is needed to explode gunpowder.

-> Gabriel threatens to snap Felix away (black and white)

-> Felix tells Shadow Moth to fuck off (darkened)

-> An akuma nestles in Felix’s fake ring (black and white)

Line 5:

🇫🇷 La captivité a réuni sur un seul point toutes mes facultés flottantes çà et là ; elles se sont heurtées dans un espace étroit ;

🇬🇧 Captivity has brought my mental faculties to a focus, and knocked thoughts against each other;

-> Felix’s amok breaks (black and white)

-> Felix opens his eyes after the amok incident (darkened)

-> Felix’s torn-up rabbit plushie (black and white)

Line 6:

🇫🇷 et, vous le savez, du choc des nuages résulte l’électricité,

🇬🇧 and you are well aware that from the collision of clouds electricity is produced —

-> Strikeback and its clones fall into the sun (black and white)

-> Flairmidable fetches Ladybug’s yoyo (darkened)

-> Shadow Moth addresses the city of Paris (black and white)

Line 7:

🇫🇷 de l’électricité l’éclair,

🇬🇧 from electricity, lightning,

-> Felix holds Kagami’s hand during the dance (black and white)

-> Felix breaks his fan to protect Kagami (darkened)

-> Argos prepares to snap Red Moon away (black and white)

Line 8:

🇫🇷 de l’éclair la lumière.

🇬🇧 from light, illumination.”

-> Kagami giggles after Argos draws a heart on her window (brightly coloured)

-> Felix puts his mask on, preparing to tell his story (brightly coloured)

-> After the play, Argos and Kagami kiss in front of the sunrise (GIF, brightly coloured)

[ihatenotreading]

I WONT BE ONLINE FOR ABOUT A MONTH SO HERE IS A WIP OF MY FIC:

 A/N 💜💚💜💚 This is a WIP of ch 3 bc I wont be online for about a month 😭. Pls forgive me                                      ○○○

Will woke up. Atleast he thought he woke up. Everything was blurry, he saw the sun shine through the windows. Dam Max, he was supposed  to sleep for 1 hour maximum not a whole night! Will sighed and got up,walked towards the door and left the room. Only to see a fuming Kayla.                                                      ♡♡♡

Kayla was furious. She ran to the infirmary ready to give Will Solace a piece of her mind. "William Andrew Solace, you get your ass right here!" She saw his face pale as she walked towards him and gave him the most painful slap she could. She dragged him to the other room, ignoring the looks of the injured who had seen the scene.

"Kayla!!! What's going on???" Will asked Though Kayla had a feeling he knew what was happening. "Max told me," she said simply. Will's face darkened and he silently cursed Max,"Ok,ok fine I'll stop, now can I go back, I'll only work for 6 hours a day. Ok?" Will questioned. But Kayla wasn't letting him get of the hook so easily. "Not so fast", she said before grabbing Will, that was already walking off…

                                 ▪︎▪︎▪︎

Nico was allowed visitors. Atleast Max said so, but the Italian demigod wasn't sure he could handle his best friend. "YOU MEAN YOU LIKE HIM!!!!" Jason shouted, after Nico told him his weird feeling for the doctor, probably loud enough for the whole camp to hear.

"No!, well…" Nico thought about it. Did he like the texan demigod, "I guess I do," he sighed in defeat. After, ALOT of fangirling from Jason, they could finally talk normally, atleast as normally as half-bloods could. "So, I'm going to go look for leo, then probably go start school somewhere," the son of Jupiter said, making Nico a little sad.

Jason seemed to have noticed though, "But dont worry, I'm staying at camp a little bit more before, though I'll be leaving for leo soon, and we could often  iris-message!" He exclaimed

Nico cheered up, and continued his conversation with Jason, he told him about his…. confession to Percy, how it didnt ho too bad and that he planned to stay at camp, making Jason overjoyed.

In return Jason told him about his new greek friends he made at camp:

Noah (a demeter son)

Clovis (a Hypnos kid)

Ellie ( a nemesis non-binary child)

Nico made the ex- praetor promise to introduce him before visiting hours were over.

~~~

After being severely chewed out by Kayla, Will was in EXTREME trouble. Kayla had set up a list of rules that went as followed:

Work from 7:30 am - 8 pm

Regularly take food breaks

Accepting Max's and other people helps

Spend time with his friends & siblings

Atleast 8-9 hours of sleep a day

Will wasnt really happy, but it was better than nothing. He walked outside the room, ready to start working again. He went from bed to bed, before reaching the son of hades's one. Right, Nico was there, he didnt know why but Will had felt a certain… attirance to the Italian boy.

Srry yall I forgot to tag cuz I was in a rush😭

@apjofan @wordsofwizdumb @moth-in-the-lake @aurantiumred @lylakylie609 @kendalltheaceicon @randomactsofweirdnesslol @biggestqiblifian @boobersandstuff @lemedstudent2021 @goblinofpeacelol @your-local-depressed-fangirl

[optiwashere]

B.7 is begging for Isobel and Aylin. Let Isobel comfort her one and only angel please she's so tired after all thus suffering let her be scared in her wife's arms

I prayed to Selûne that someone would ask for the moon lesbians. Thank you for asking for this perfect prompt, anon! 💜

You can send a prompt from this list + a ship or platonic pair, and I'll write a ficlet!

---

B7. Character A has a vivid nightmare and Character B comforts them (CW PTSD for Aylin experiencing an episode)

A veil of violet darkness washed over everything Aylin saw. No matter where she looked, light failed to reach her. No matter how much she clawed at the sigils inscribed on the ground, she remained within the circle that was her prison.

Days passed and nights fell. She was certain of it, though there was no way for her to know when she was. Where, she knew well. She had been trapped in the heart of her mother's sworn enemy and sister, in the clutches of Shar’s vilest disciples. She closed her eyes and waited for another day and another Justiciar-in-waiting to take their prize from her.

A day became one hundred, one hundred fell to a thousand.

One thousand melded into ten thousand more.

She opened her eyes, sure to awaken in Reithwin next to her darling Isobel once more, and instead of the glow of her light, Aylin saw the void beyond her floating prison.

She reached up, ready to claw at her own eyes to steal away the vision of the Shadowfell for at least one blessed day.

"Aylin?"

Like the broken clouds of a storm as sunlight shone through, Isobel's voice reached her in the Shadowfell. Somehow, her fallen love could speak to her.

It seemed impossible, but then her familiar touch graced Aylin's face and a hand slipped between hers. Its touch, perfection. The thumb that stroked her chin and then her cheek was its own goddess worthy of praise, and Aylin fell in prayer.

"Aylin," Isobel's voice repeated. Impossibly close. Next to her. "Aylin, you're having another nightmare. Wake up. Please."

She never fell anywhere.

Aylin opened her eyes again.

She lay in a soft bed with far too many pillows. Sunlight flowed in from a nearby window in a private room within the Elfsong tavern, that much she remembered. The air tasted fresh. A familiar scent, like the soap Isobel used to use, filled the room.

"Aylin, love, look at me."

Her voice drew Aylin's gaze to one side. The goddess's thumb still rested on her face, cupping her cheek.

There laid Isobel, alive and swathed in blankets, next to her. Clinging to her.

"You're safe," whispered Isobel. "You are in Baldur's Gate. We're with friends in the other room. You are safe."

Aylin reached up and laid a hand on Isobel's that caressed her face. She warmed Aylin's palm with that touch, warmed more and calmed the rapid breaths that Aylin at last felt burning her throat and chest.

She peered into Isobel's eyes and held her gaze for so long that Aylin wished the moment could be immortalized, somehow given the same gift that Aylin herself had. That moment of true safety and peace.

"I am safe," said Aylin, "with you, my darling."

[luminetti]

𝑶𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒅𝒖𝒆 𝑨𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒔𝒚 ༺♡༻ Chapter 3

༘⋆Notes: this chapter went a bit differently pacing wise than I originally planned! Last chapter I added a 7th prospective chapter to the navigation post because I wasn't sure if I could fit everything into just 6. I think the 7th chapter is very likely to happen, so just letting you know ch6 wont be the last. I love reading your guys' comments both here and on ao3, they're all so sweet and it's what keeps me posting so thank you to everyone who did that 💜

༘⋆ Chapters: ┆[1] ┆ [2] ┆[3]┆[4]┆[5]┆[6] ┆[7] ┆

ao3

The metal handle of the withdrawing room bore cold through your hand as you hovered in front of the door. Your mind was reeling. Gale had mentioned magic and mages that morning, and he seemed quite adamant for your presence. Bending down to peek through the rusted keyhole, you squeezed one eye shut, hoping to catch a glimpse of what was to come. Your vision was fuzzy, blurred from old bits of metal that had rusted from years of unuse.

After your eyes finally began to focus, you could just barely make out a figure on the ground, toying with what almost looked like string? Like plucking invisible thread, Gale peeled apart the translucent strands, letting bits slip through his fingers in a breath of mist. The string between his fingertips glinted in the moonlight as he redirected it into a soft wave, the line following its path and deftly falling into place. A quiet gasp escaped your lips when the final pieces settled themselves in the air like brushstrokes of greens, blues, and purples in the air. Gale had painted an aurora into the air with nothing but his hands.

The warmth of your breath hit your face as you pressed closer against the door, subconsciously leaning against it harder in hopes of somehow seeing more. Too engrossed in the display, you failed to recognize the indicative clicking of the door latch coming undone. With a creak, the door swung open into the room and spat you out onto the floor, landing behind Gale in embarrassing proximity.

Gale leaped to his feet, swiping a hand through the aurora and waving away the remnants of the sparkling colors into the moonrays. “Gods, you caught me practicing,” he mumbled, brushing the dust from his clothes and smoothing the wrinkles. “I thought I had prepared well enough but– are you alright?”

Scrambling from the floor, you nodded, far too starstruck to answer him properly. “Aurora– in the air– moving with your fingers–” your sentences spewed out like strands of word vomit, unable to finish a single thought before beginning another. Mimicking his gestures from earlier, you waved your hands around, hoping they would convey your questions better than your words. You had to know more.

Gale paled and clasped his hands around yours to steady your erratic movements. “Please don’t be alarmed,” he begged, “I wanted to tell you, There just wasn’t– Never the right time–” Gale caught himself from blithering any further and took a deep breath. “Let us start over–”

“I’m not,” you interjected, forcing Gale to fall silent. “Not alarmed, I mean.” Grabbing one of the nearby chairs, you dragged it towards the center of the room and sat. “Don’t restart. I want this.” You motioned to himself and your surroundings. “I want it to be genuine. You in your entirety.” 

His jaw softened and he nodded silently. “I suppose I’d quite like that…” He began, looking around the room for inspiration. “I had something more ostentatious planned, but that doesn’t feel right anymore.” Gale’s eyes locked onto your unfinished painting of Euphemia’s garden. “This however…”

You watched in a daze as Gale swept a hand over the canvas, the dried paint morphing at his touch. It was as if a breeze had come over the painting. What was once static scenery of flowerbeds and grass spotted through a window, now had begun to ripple. Each individual flower and blade of grass swayed as if it was caught in the wind and even the graphite outline of the window’s curtains drifted lightly.

Gale stood off to the side and faced the painting. Cupping his hands around his lips, he blew a puff of air and the garden trembled as if a gust of wind had blown through the field. As the wind grew stronger the curtains billowed and petals detached from their stems. One of the flowered bushes shook in the wind more ferociously than the others, shaking harder and harder until a single flower snapped off the branches.

The flower–small and pink–flew around the painting, carried by the wind which had now slowed to a zephyr. As the flower drifted closer, the pointed petals and golden center became more apparent. It was a sweet brier. Rosa rubiginosa, as Euphemia calls it. But more commonly known as–

“An eglantine rose,” Gale mused, catching the painted flower as it emerged from the canvas. Twirling it in his fingers, he carefully plucked off the small thorns covering the stem. Once cleared, he bent down and tucked it neatly behind your ear. “Your favorite, if I’m not mistaken?”

Dumbfounded, you raised a hand to stroke the flower sitting in your hair. Sure enough, the petals were smooth and velvet-like. It was a real eglantine rose. “I’m impressed you remembered…” you murmured, more to yourself than to him. It was hard to fight the rosiness creeping up your neck, accompanied by a familiar sense of transparency, though different than before. You weren’t quite sure if you minded it or not. It felt as though Gale could see right through you, or that you were bare before him. And yet, you made no move to cover yourself. 

“If that trick isn’t called ‘gale force winds’ then I’ll be highly disappointed.”

Gale snorted, exhaling sharply through his nose. “I’ll admit I’ve never attempted to name any of my abilities before. Though, I suppose I wouldn’t be able to come up with anything like that on my own.” 

“It’s a pity you’ll lose my naming prowess when you depart.”

“A day I have come to dread, it seems.” He chuckled nervously and slipped a hand into his pocket, retrieving a small coin purse. “I suppose I was dreading it more than I realized.” Undoing the drawstring, Gale produced a small necklace from the pouch. Hanging from the thin chain was a crystal pendant, unceremonious and unassuming. “When I eventually return to Waterdeep, I want to leave you with something… Apologies, I wasn’t sure what jewelry you preferred.”

You took the necklace in your hand, rolling the gemstone between your fingers. It looked deceptively light. The pendant bore a surprising amount of weight, indicative of high quality material. 

“This is for me? Really?”

Gale nodded, chewing on his lower lip as he watched your expression closely.

A glimmer from within the necklace caught your eye. Suspended in the clear pendant were engraved stars, shining with all the colors of a sunset sky.

“It’s beautiful,” you breathed, undoing the clasp and holding it out for him to fasten around your neck.

Gale hurriedly took the chain and positioned himself behind you, draping the cold metal over your neck and lifting your hair aside.

You forced yourself to still and let his warm fingers brush against the nape of your neck as he fiddled with the fastener.

“That is most gratifying to hear,” He said, motioning for you to turn once he finished. “I would’ve asked whether you liked silver or gold, but I…” Gale trailed off, his eyes locking onto the pendant hanging just beneath your collarbone. Clearing his throat, his gaze flicked back up to meet your own. “It suits you nicely.”

You reached up to feel the necklace against your skin. “I rarely wear jewelry outside of balls. But this,” you closed your fingers around the crystal. “This I believe I’ll be wearing for a while.”

Gale raised an eyebrow, looking from the necklace, to the flower in your hair, then back to you. “You’ve been to the balls this season? How could I possibly have missed you?”

You fidgeted with the necklace. You were never particularly lucky when it came to courting. Ballroom dancing felt too monotonous to be worthwhile and in sensing your discomfort, no suitor had requested a second dance in one night. There was another time when a suitor had professed his undying devotion with a bouquet of amaranth barely a day after you mentioned your aversion to pollen.

Euphemia excitedly told you that amaranth represented longevity and in this case, longevity of love. You, however, found it to be the longevity of sneezing, which eventually solidified the poor suitor’s rejection.

Finally, you shrugged. “I don’t suppose we run in quite the same circle, Viscount.”

A warm hand brushed against your temple, slipping a couple strands of hair that threatened to cover your eyes off to the side. “I must be in the wrong circle then.” The back of Gale’s hand trailed down the side of your cheek and rested underneath your chin, gently tilting your face to look up at him.

Just as you began to feel his warm breath on your lips, the doors swung open once more and Euphemia strode in, her nose deep in a newspaper.

“Scandal of the season!” She cried, pacing back and forth in the room, not once looking up. “Newly made Dowager Duchess Mystra of Waterdeep swarmed with suitors come the following of Duke Elminster Aumar’s passing,” she recited, frantically flipping to the next page.

The warmth of Gale immediately disappeared as he rushed to read over Euphemia’s shoulder with you in quick pursuit.

“The mother of magic retreats in mourning and withdraws from the shortly upcoming ball hosted by Duke Ravengard of the Sword Coast,” she continued, letting Gale take the paper and read himself.

You rose to your tiptoes, trying to skim the paper over Gale’s tall frame. “The mother of magic? I thought she was just a normal mage?”

Gale shook his head, his fingers tangled in his hair, grasping it like it would disappear from his head. “The Duke and Duchess were some of the most powerful mages in Faerûn. Just the union between the two helped ease fears of magic across all of Waterdeep and even parts of Baldur’s Gate.”

You bit your lip. The opinions on mages were already precarious. The loss of a Duke would be difficult for any region, but a Duke of arcane magic would be difficult to replace. From what it seemed, the Dowager Duchess was still excruciatingly desirable. Despite only seeing a couple portraits of her, you’ve always noted her impossibly youthful appearance. Someone of her status would have no trouble…

“Remarrying.” Gale gripped the paper so hard it began to crease in his grip. “She’s surely remarrying.”

Euphemia took the crumpled newspaper. “You think so? Her mourning will last at least another half-year, a full year until she can remarry.”

He shook his head and pressed his lips together. “Her Grace is the face of mages all over the world. She cannot just vanish from society.”

You bit your lip, feeling helpless at the sight of Gale so disheveled. “Was the Duke unhealthy?”

Gale shook his head once more. “He was healthy as can be, and that’s what worries me. I need to attend the Ravengard’s Ball. There’s people I must talk to.” 

That wasn’t possible. Gale had specifically requested for utmost discretion surrounding his presence in your manor. If he were to attend the ball, he would need to come from Waterdeep. Which meant…

“You’re leaving? Now?” You asked, reaching out and catching his wrist before you even realized you had moved.

Euphemia eyed the two of you silently. “I’ll request a carriage,” she said before turning away and leaving you alone with him..

Gale traced the flower behind your ear with a pained expression. “I know, I’m sorry it’s sooner than either of us would’ve liked.”

“Let me come with you,” you begged.

A hand snakes up your waist to lay over the necklace. From beneath his palm, your skin thrummed with warmth emitted a soft white light. When he pulled away after what felt like ages, the small pendant purred with life, glowing and dimming repetitively like a heartbeat. “If you need me, touch the crystal to relay a message. No matter where you are I will hear it and find you.”

“And if I come to the ball? Would you save a dance for me?” You leaned into him, memorizing the feel of his touch.

Gale nodded. “I’d put myself down on your dance card ten times if I must.”

You smiled sadly as he pulled away. “I’ll have quite the lonely eleventh dance.”

He took one step closer and tapped the necklace making it sway gently. “You only need to ask.” With a final parting glance, Gale let your joined hands drop as he turned and exited the room. You watched him thank Euphemia, asking her to give regards to Sebastian for him until finally Gale stepped into the prepared carriage and disappeared off into the night.

As you stood in the doorway staring out into the empty hallway, you felt the necklace thrum against your chest. Like a passing whisper caught in the wind, you felt the faintest voice in the back of your head. Goodnight, Tav.

taglist:

@vhaldren @qiific3 @cryingoverpixelsetc

[borathae]

Sibi, could you tell me how to add masterlist's link to the description? Cause I don't know why that's not happening. It would be really helpful if you could.

Of course I can tell you 💜

This is the link code you need for it to work:

<a href="https://LINK GOES HERE">Link name goes here</a>

Anything you write outside the <> won't be a link so you can add separators there like I did with my "|" symbol or emojis/other text can go there as well

How to add the code:

You need to be on your computer.

Create your masterlist post first, otherwise you won't have a link to copy.

Keep the masterlist post open in a separate window, so you have quick access to the link.

Open your blog in a separate window. You have to click on the link (blue arrow) and NOT stay in the quick view window.

5. Once the blog is fully open, click on the paint pallet symbol (where the blue arrow points to).

6. This opens the edit blog window and then you have to put the link code you want to show up in your blogbar into the description field

7. This is where you have to add the masterlist post link at the first part of the code and the name of the link at the second part of the code.

8. Once you added all the links you want & added everything you want to show up, click on save and it should work.

9. Maybe refresh Tumblr once, so the changes actually show up.

10. Bonus note: After you did all of that, you have to log out of the tumblr app on mobile & then log back in again, otherwise it won't show the changes you made to your blog idk why that is 🥴 (this goes for anytime you change something)

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 8: I Just Need A Stronger Dose]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra’s wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother’s life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting…

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, violence, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, sexual content (18+), angsttttttttttt!

Both the series and chapter titles are lyrics from: “7 Minutes In Heaven” by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 5.9k.

Link to chapter list: HERE.

Taglist (more in comments): @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauraneedstochill @not-a-glad-gladiator @daenysx @babyblue711 @arcielee @at-a-rax-ia @bhanclegane @jvpit3rs @padfooteyes @marvelescvpe @travelingmypassion @darkenchantress @yeahright0h @poohxlove @trifoliumviridi @bloodyflowerrr @fan-goddess @devynsficrecs @flowerpotmage @thelittleswanao3 @seabasscevans @hiraethrhapsody @libroparaiso @echos-muses @st-eve-barnes @chattylurker @lm-txles @vagharnaur @moonlightfoxx @storiumemporium @insabecs @heliosscribbles @beautifulsweetschaos @namelesslosers @partnerincrime0 @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @yawneneytiri @marbles-posts @imsolence @maidmerrymint @backyardfolklore @nimaharchive @anxiousdaemon @under-the-aspen-tree @amiraisgoingthruit @dd122004dd @randomdragonfires @jetblack4real @joliettes

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰💜

“What’s it about?” Aegon purrs in your ear, his ivory-and-red scarred arms circling around your waist, his fingers lacing over the lowest part of your belly, kindling heat and hunger that he draws out of your bones like water from a well, his ring of gold wings and jade eyes glinting in the sunlight that pours in through the library windows.

Smiling, you turn a page in the archaic, dusty book that’s cradled in your arms. It’s not on a subject you’ve ever seen before; of course it would only be here, where the Targaryens once worshiped their own gods and practiced rituals of fire and blood, that the occult would not be torn up and discarded like weeds. “Witchcraft.”

“Witchcraft?!” Aegon feigns being scandalized as he kisses your neck, soft lips and seeking hands. He’s been out in the courtyard sparring with a guard; he smells like salt and wine and rose oil and the ocean. “I do hope you don’t turn out to be an unrepentant sinner. I’d hate to have to burn you.”

“We’d match then.” You turn another page, sketches of different types of sage, dark forbidden recipes that promise to hurt or heal or protect. “I can’t say I am persuaded by the more mystical elements. But there are some interesting insights into herbology, I think.”

“You don’t believe in magic?” Aegon muses, pulling up the skirts of your pale, ashy blue gown, his palms on your bare thighs. His lips curl mischieviously against your throat. “You reside on an island of dragons, in an oppressively gloomy castle built by spellcasters, and you don’t believe in magic?”

“You have it, perhaps,” you say. “Your family. Your house. I don’t believe in it as something that is real to the rest of us.”

“Don’t the Celtigars claim to possess a trumpet that summons a sea monster or something?”

“A horn,” you say, amused. “To wake krakens. And yet as much as my father enjoys boasting about it, he’s in no hurry to prove its efficacy, is he?”

Aegon turns your face to his and kisses you with a fierce, greedy hunger. “You’re magic,” he says as his hands move to loosen the laces of your gown. “You heal people. You bring them back from the dead.”

You’ve forgotten the book entirely. It tumbles out of your grasp. As Aegon tugs off your gown and it falls with a rustle to the stone floor, you reach back to touch him: white-blond hair, scarred cheek, his voice and his heat and his flesh that you need more of. Sunlight and late-summer air, a weakening red-tinged gold, hit your bare skin. Aegon is undressing himself too, and now his shirt and trousers are gone, and now he is leaving euphoric indigo shadows on your neck and shoulders, ghosts of pleasure that will haunt you long after this moment has passed, and now as he stands behind you his fingers find the warm, yearning wetness between your legs and stroke you there, parting folds, plunging between them, retreating just as you feel yourself climbing towards a peak, beginning the divine cycle over again.

“Yes,” you beg, hushed and hidden between the shelves of this ancient library, taboo texts and stories no one else remembers. You push your hips back against Aegon and he inhales sharply, reaching out with one hand to steady himself against the bookshelf as the other teases you, readies you, drives you mad with red ravenous lust. You can feel that he is hard. You can feel your fingers buried in his hair, the rough scar tissue of his chest against your spine, your bodies moving with an easy, harmless rhythm. “Please, Aegon, please, I need you…”

“Do you believe in magic now, wife?” he murmurs, a grin in his voice; and the shock of it drags you into a climax, a whirlpool, a storm, a fever that singes and scalds. He has never called you this before. His wife, his queen.

You cry out as the pleasure pulses through you, as your muscles unravel and your skull is cleared of the knowledge of all the ways in which the world is so irretrievably wrong, as you drink up every drop of Aegon with your eyes, lungs, spiraled fingerprints, the pores of your skin.

“Well, do you?” he asks again. He kisses you forcefully, possessively, biting at your lower lip. “Have I convinced you? Do you believe in magic now?”

And you smile dazedly as you answer: “I believe in you.”

“That will suffice, I suppose.”

He follows you down to the floor. You roll onto your back, pull him between your open thighs, cradle his face with your hands and kiss him deeply as he enters you, fills you, moves blissfully inside you. Long-dormant dust swirls into the air; specks of it float in aisles of sunlight like ships bobbing in the open ocean. The stone floor is cold and unforgiving, Aegon warm and kind. You arch into him, your hips rolling in time with his, your tongue tasting wine on his lips and salt on his flushed cheeks.

“You feel fucking incredible,” Aegon gasps. His braid is tucked behind his ear; you moved it there, or he did, it doesn’t matter, it belongs to both of you. Each time he thrusts, there is an indistinct sort of pleasure—low, muted somehow, like rocks covered by the sea at high tide—that builds, yes, but agonizingly slowly. You know he wants to make you come again. He’s trying to last, he’s battling against himself; but his face is already blood-red and his hands are trembling. He never discusses the pain with you, but it’s still there. He goes to the maesters when he has sunburn to be soothed or wounds to be cleaned and bandaged, he goes to Lord Larys Strong with his fears. He does not want you to think he is weak. He does not want to disappoint you.

You whisper through his mess of silver hair: “It’s alright, Aegon.”

He shakes his head and closes his eyes, tiny oceans erased. “No, no, oh fuck, I’m so sorry—”

“I want it,” you insist. Your hips rock more quickly, taking the blame away from him, easing his burdens. “I want you to come, I want you to finish inside me, please, please, I want to feel you dripping out of me tomorrow, I want to remember this, I want you, I want you, I want you—”

Aegon moans, shudders, pours himself into you, a rush of energy and heat, a closeness you never believed was possible for two people to share. His unsteady hands constrict into fists against the stone floor. His teeth close around your collarbone, more violet blooms like the colors of a garden, more tokens of him that you carry around like gemstones. The waves wash over him, and then they recede; the tension evaporates from every scrap of him and Aegon collapses onto the floor beside you.

Skating his thumb along the line of your jaw, marveling at you in the dreamlike haze of the afterglow, he says softly: “We have to talk, Angel.”

Fear settles in the cage of your ribs, a cold heavy thing like the iron dragons that preside over the dark corridors of the castle, ominous leers and bared fangs. “What is it?”

“I don’t know what to do with you.” His words are serene, his murky-blue eyes drowsy; his scarred chest rises and falls with slowing breaths. “When I leave to rejoin the war effort, I don’t know where you should go. I don’t know if you should stay here. I don’t know if I should have Larys try to take you to Storm’s End, or maybe Tarth or Estermont. I don’t know if you should return Claw Isle and wait out the bloodshed with your mother and sisters. I don’t know anything. And I can’t choose wrong. I can’t lose you. I can’t be responsible for your ruin.”

“I think I should stay on Dragonstone,” you say. “As long as you and Aemond are in the Riverlands, you would be able to fly back to see me.” And I might be able to help if Aegon is injured again.

He smirks, sadly, regretfully. “That would be my preference as well. But I fear it’s unwise. What if Daemon or Rhaenyra decide to come back to the island? They’re both far too preoccupied at the moment—Daemon fucking Nettles at Harrenhal, Rhaenyra stomping out rebellions in King’s Landing—but circumstances could change. Even if the Blacks believe you to be my unwilling captive, I don’t trust Daemon to treat you with decency. I don’t trust Rhaenyra’s paranoia to spare you.”

“I want to stay here. It’s our home now. It’s where I belong.” And you nestle into him, tangle up in him, will him to help win the war and then return to you.

Aegon chuckles, kissing your forehead. “Can you believe I was worried about whether this would work?” This: love as something physical, not just words or allegiances, not just something that changes how you see the world like peering through mist or smoke. “You had such a fear of it. Such adamant dread.”

“I feel safe with you.”

“Because I am a sad, weak, floppy little man?”

“No,” you say, smiling. “Because you’re a good man. Even if no one else has ever seen it. I see it all. I see you.”

There is the echoing noise of a door opening, then slow, laborious footsteps. “Your Grace?” Larys says reticently from the other side of the bookshelf.

“Stop,” Aegon orders. “Wait.” He grabs your gown off the floor and helps you into it, then yanks on his own shirt and trousers. “Approach,” he tells his Master of Whisperers.

Larys appears, resting his interwoven hands on the handle of his cane. He bows, tactfully averting his gaze from your wrinkled dress, untidy hair, glistening sheen of shared sweat.

Aegon says: “Your timing is impeccable as always, Lord Larys.”

“My sincerest apologies, Your Grace. You have a guest and I did not want him to…catch you unawares.”

“Ah. And of course I have no idea who that could be.”

The library door opens again; you hear its archaic iron hinges creak. Swift light footsteps cross the room. Aemond breezes into the aisle between bookshelves and stands there, tall and willowy and watchful and with his long hair plaited into a thick silver braid. His clear blue eye shifts between Aegon and you, stoic, betraying nothing. Of course Aegon does not know about Aemond’s proposition. You would never tell him as long as the war wages on. It would be a distraction, a danger, an unnecessary wedge to drive between two people who desperately need each other.

“Back already?” Aegon says. “I’m sure the people of the Riverlands miss you dearly. They’re probably waiting outside with their livestock all in a row just waiting for you to soar by and cook their supper for them.”

Aemond ignores this. He stares at you, then looks back to his brother. “I’m starving from the journey.”

“How fortuitous, we’re famished as well.”

Larys notes helpfully: “The cooks have prepared soft-shelled crabs, seasoned, battered, and fried in oil. They’re ready now.”

“They’ve prepared what?” Aemond asks, nauseated.

“You’ll like the crabs,” Aegon says, and as he walks past Aemond he thumps him roughly on the shoulder. “You’ll see how much I enjoy them and you’ll suddenly want every last one.”

~~~~~~~~~~

In the courtyard, under the next day’s late-afternoon sun, Aegon is sparring with a strapping knight supplied by House Chyttering, one of the noble families you inspired Larys to bring surreptitiously into the Greens’ service. When the king practices like this, his opponents go easy on him. They assail him with halfhearted swings of their blades and feeble shield arms. The goal is not to turn Aegon into a robust warrior; he would need years for that, and he will not go into battle on his feet anyway. He just needs to be strong enough to ride a dragon.

Near where you stand, Lord Larys and Aemond are deep in conversation. Aemond is saying: “It is my understanding that she and Daemon are operating almost entirely independently at this point. Is that consistent with what you’ve heard?”

Larys nods. “When Hugh Hammer and Ulf the White betrayed her side, Rhaenyra lost faith in all the Dragonseeds. She ordered the arrest of Addam Velaryon, but Corlys warned the boy before he could be imprisoned and he escaped on Seasmoke. For protecting his bastard son’s life, Rhaenyra had Corlys thrown in the dungeons. A curious lack of empathy from someone who has so recently lost three sons of her own. The Velaryon fleet has abandoned her. Rhaenyra has offered a substantial reward to anyone who brings Nettles to her, dead or alive, as the girl has been sentenced to death for treason.”

“Treason?” Aemond echoes doubtfully.

“Seducing the so-called queen’s husband.”

“Right,” Aemond says, thoughtful. In the center of the courtyard, Aegon is beating back the Chyttering lad with clumsy (yet determined) strikes of his sword. “What will Daemon do now, I wonder. Has he tired of the girl yet? She is a nobody, unlearned and of ignoble birth. Surely she cannot hold his interest for long, even if she is a dragonrider.”

“Time will reveal all, my prince,” Larys replies. “Perhaps Daemon will abandon Nettles. Perhaps he will defend her against Rhaenyra’s wrath. Perhaps he will send her away to safety.”

This heartens Aemond; it brightens his face like cool ethereal moonlight. “If she leaves, Sheepstealer will no longer be a threat to us. I can meet Daemon in battle. And in a fair fight, Vhagar will annihilate Caraxes.”

“I urge you to proceed cautiously,” Larys says. “You are the Greens’ greatest military asset, you are the prince regent, we need your leadership. If anything was to happen to you…” The Master of Whisperers trails off.

Aemond acts as if he hasn’t heard him. Instead, he unsheathes his sword and announces: “I think my brother needs more of a challenge. Allow me to assess the status of his recovery.” Then he takes a step towards the king.

Your hand juts out and closes around Aemond’s wrist. He blinks down at it, stunned that you have voluntarily touched him, perhaps. It is not an affectionate gesture, but it is a familiar one. You command Aemond, your voice low: “Don’t hurt him.”

“I never do,” Aemond replies, bewildered. Then he goes to meet Aegon in the center of the courtyard. The Chyttering knight retreats as Aemond approaches, twirling his sword effortlessly.

Aegon takes a defensive stance, both hands clutching the hilt of his own weapon. He’s grinning, but you don’t think he’s taking this seriously. He already knows he’s lost. “No great contest. I just have to aim for your left side.”

“Good thing I’ve never trained with my maiming in mind.” Aemond lunges and you yelp, started and fearful; he moves staggeringly quickly, his blade cutting through the air to clang against Aegon’s once, twice, and then the king is knocked to the ground with the point of Aemond’s sword at his throat.

“I yield,” Aegon says from where he’s sprawled on the gravel. “You win. You are superior. You could still easily murder me if you chose to.”

“As long as you are aware of it.” Then Aemond takes his brother’s hand and pulls him to his feet, helping to brush pebbles from Aegon’s light armor.

“I should order you executed,” Aegon jests. “You’ve humiliated me in front of my wife.”

“I’m sure she was already well acquainted with your myriad of failings.”

“They are rather evident,” Aegon admits.

“Hm,” Aemond says to himself. Then he stalks back inside the castle with his silver hair flowing out behind him: to consult books, to plan battles, to console himself with wine, to put on Aegon’s crown and admire himself in a mirror, to brood as he glares at the walls, you aren’t sure.

Aegon slides his sword back into its scabbard and joins you by Lord Larys. When he speaks, his words are smug and anxious and eager and heartbroken. “I think I’m ready to go, Angel.”

“Tomorrow? When Aemond leaves?”

“Tomorrow,” Aegon agrees. He smiles, off-balanced and sad-eyed, as he takes your hands in his. Half of his hair is pulled back from his face, but as always, he is still wearing his tiny braid; right now it is stained with dark gravel dust like soot, like ash. You can feel the chill of his gold dragon ring under your fingertips. “I have to help them win this war, Aemond, Criston, Daeron, Mother. I have to try to stop the end of the world.”

You mean to say something—I understand, I’m proud of you, I love you now and I’ll love you forever—but your voice breaks and you have nothing to offer him.

“I know,” Aegon says gently, cleaning a tear from your cheek with his thumbprint. “Come and walk with me. There’s one last thing I have to make sure I can do.”

On the long stone staircase that leads from the main castle entrance down to the beach, Sunfyre the Golden is waiting for his rider. He makes those alien sounds that unnerve you—clicks, growls, squeals, whistles—but Aegon seems to comprehend them. He rests a palm on his dragon’s gleaming face, just between his reptilian, liquid-metal eyes. Rain is rolling in off the ocean; the sky is thick with dark, low clouds. Cold wind claws at your hair and unfurls in your lungs, proof of the rapidly approaching end of summer. Winter Is Coming, you think, words that you have grown to hate.

“Would you like to go too?” Aegon asks as he prepares to climb up into the dragon’s saddle; and to your surprise, he is only half-joking. “I know Sunfyre won’t hurt you now. He understands what you mean to me.”

“I personally abhor dragons.” And all the destruction that only they can curse the earth with.

Sunfyre snorts; steam rises from his nostrils and he stretches out his wings, pale pink membranes that match your gown. Aegon laughs. “You will have to learn to appreciate them. Your house is the same as mine now. And we owe everything to these beasts.”

“Perhaps I’ll accompany you next time.” But no, you will never ride a dragon; you know that absolutely, unquestioningly.

“I’ll be back in time for supper,” Aegon says. “And then I intend to keep you awake all night with—”

He cuts off like a severed limb. There is a scream in the sky, not of a man but of a dragon: too shrill to be Vhagar, too unfamiliar to be Tessarion, tinny but fierce, hostile, growing louder. The creature zooms by with blinding speed, a blur of pale pearlescent green, the fastest dragon you’ve ever witnessed, small but lethal.

Moondancer. That has to be Baela and Moondancer.

A column of fire bursts from Moondancer’s gaping jaws as she hurtles past Sunfyre, but just a sliver of an instant too late, narrowly missing him; still, the inferno is close enough that you can feel the apocalyptic heat, can see the air wrinkle and warp like the fabric of existence wearing thin. High above the ocean—her shadow like a bruise on slate-colored waves—Moondancer banks and begins to turn back towards where you stand.

“Get inside the castle!” Aegon is roaring at you. You are too terrified to move. “Go, go!”

“Aegon, you can’t fight them alone—!”

“Go!” He gives you a hard, frantic shove. “You get inside the castle and you stay there!” Then as you sprint up the staircase towards the entranceway, he clambers into Sunfyre’s saddle and takes off into the churning, thunderous sky.

You can hear them overhead: shrieking dragons, human shouts, flames crackling and billowing, wings flapping like the sails of a ship. You stagger into Dragonstone screaming for Aemond. Larys rushes to you, the guards materialize like vultures around a corpse, but none of them can help Aegon. Only Aemond can. Only he and Vhagar.

You tear through the castle. You are banging on doors with your open palms, racing up steps, calling for Aemond until your throat is raw and you can taste the coppery sting of blood. Aemond comes running and grips your shoulders to steady you. He is panicked, he is petrified. “What, what is it—?!”

“Baela, Moondancer!”

Aemond understands immediately. He bolts for the castle entranceway, you following close behind him. He does not tell you to remain within the towering, mist-sopped walls of Dragonstone. Perhaps it does not occur to him; perhaps he knows you would not listen.

“Your Grace!” Larys is imploring you. Not my lady, not Lady Celtigar. Your Grace, because Aegon believes I am his queen. “Your Grace, please, I beg you, stay here where it is safe!”

When you and Aemond cross through the doorway and out into the windswept, iron-grey air, you look up to see it just as it happens. Sunfyre and Moondancer are gnarled together like a sailor’s knot, hissing and snapping, drawing blood from each other, clawing and clinging with suicidal rage. Now their wings are little more than shredded ribbons of thin membranous flesh. Now the dragons are plummeting towards the beach. And Aegon is falling, falling, falling from an impossible height, his hands reaching to grab for a rope that doesn’t exist, his legs kicking as if through water. He is crashing to the earth like a bird shot through with an arrow, like an angel whose wings have been sheared off, ripped out by the root, burned away.

You are shrieking his name, but you know this is useless, that you are useless, that nothing you’ve ever learned or practiced can stop this. You and Aemond are racing down to the beach, clutching each other’s arms on the staircase so neither of you trip and stumble off of it. You are dimly aware that there are guards and maesters behind you, and Lord Larys too, and that they are speaking in frenzied phrases that you cannot understand. You and Aemond are united in that. You are both beyond words.

Aegon is on the sand. He isn’t dead; he isn’t even unconscious. He is screaming like he was on the day you met him, when half his skin had been scorched by Meleys’ flames, when he was near death and you were the only reason he lived. Now he is not burned; but his legs are destroyed. They are not just broken. They are shattered, grotesque bulges everywhere, moon-white bone splitting through the skin in two places on his left leg and three on his right. His trousers hang in bloody tatters. Someone is wailing, someone sounds like they have lost their mind. Someone is raking their fingernails against your face until your cheeks are bleeding. Oh, it’s you, it’s you, but you don’t feel real, and neither does this moment, and neither does the knowledge that Aegon will not leave tomorrow to help win the war, may never walk again, may not be alive by midnight. You have dragged men back from the brink of death, countless men, and you have done so with almost supernatural composure; but this is no anonymous doomed soldier. This is Aegon, and he is ruined.

Down at the other end of the beach, Sunfyre is tearing out Moondancer’s throat with his teeth, loosing a vicious subterranean snarl. From the surf, a seemingly uninjured Baela emerges, coughing seawater from her lungs and reeling on her hands and knees. Larys is instructing someone to take her to the castle dungeons. The maesters and guards are swarming around their fallen king and trying to decide how to move him without damaging his legs further. Aegon, meanwhile, is reaching for his brother.

“Aemond—”

“I’m here. I’m right here.” Aemond drops to his knees and tenderly sweeps Aegon’s shaggy silver hair out of his eyes. “We’re going to get you inside and the maesters will set your legs. You’re going to be alright. We’re going to help you.”

Aegon howls, tears flooding down his face. He snaps at Aemond as he grabs his hand and squeezes it: “When the fuck is it going to be your turn to get hurt?!”

“It will happen eventually, I’m sure,” Aemond replies grimly. Then he glances up at you. You have to free yourself from this shock, this horror. You have to help Aegon.

You kneel down in wet, bloodied sand and begin to examine him. In a trembling voice, you tell Larys and the maesters and the guards how he must be carried—feet-first when going up the staircase, lessening the strain of gravity on his legs—and that the wounds must be painstakingly cleaned before the fractures are set to prevent infection. You try to say more, but you can’t. Your gaze lands on Aegon’s agonized face and is trapped there, a mutual recognition of the death of one future and the bleak, torturous nightfall of another.

Why couldn’t I stop this? I love him, I love him, why can’t I stop him from suffering?

Aegon looks to Aemond and says something in High Valyrian, something halting and with immense effort. Whatever Aegon asks for, Aemond is momentarily taken aback by it. Then he nods, understanding. And when the guards lift Aegon—Larys and the maesters supervising, the king shrieking until the pain knocks him unconscious—Aemond links his arms around you and stops you from following them up the jagged stone staircase.

“No! Let me go, let me go!” You fight him, and you don’t just fight, you screech and claw and strike at him, you scratch at his face until you rip his eyepatch away and Aemond’s glittering sapphire shines in the fading light. Raindrops are beginning to fall. You’re crying; tears fill your eyes until your sight is hopelessly obscured, until the world is nothing but a grey like smoke, ashes, storms.

Aemond is murmuring to you patiently: “Shh. Stop, stop. Please don’t fight me. He doesn’t want you to see him like this.”

“Aemond, let me go!”

“He doesn’t want you to think of him as someone helpless, someone weak—”

“You did this!” you scream into Aemond as he entombs you in his arms, unbreakable like steel. Your fists drum futilely against his chest. “You started this war, you murdered Luke, you started it and it’s going to kill Aegon, you did this, you did this, it’s going to kill him and it’s all your fucking fault!”

“I know,” Aemond whispers, lips to your ear, his heartbeat thudding against yours. “I know. I know. I’m sorry.”

“It’s going to kill him,” you moan, sobs ripping through you; and at some point you stop fighting Aemond and begin holding onto him, not because what you’ve said isn’t true but because he understands, and because he’s the only person you have left who can.

I want Autumn, you think powerlessly, miserably. And I want her child to have another chance at life. I want Everett. I want Alicent and Jaehaera. I want Helaena and Maelor and Jaehaerys and Otto. I want wisdom, guidance, innocence, hope. I want the future and I want the past.

“I can end this war,” Aemond swears to you as the full moon rises and the waves crash against the shore. “I can make things right again. I can end it. I can win.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It is hours later when Aemond allows you into the room, illuminated by flickering candles and ghostly moonlight. Aegon lies unconscious in the same bed where he made love to you for the first time, where he might never again, where he showed you that there is something besides fear and pain and surrender to be found in marriage.

His legs have been set as well as they can be, bandaged, elevated. You would have done nothing differently if it had been you to tend him in place of the maesters: Jasper from House Hardy, Lothair of House Stokeworth, men you have taught everything you know to just as they shared their expertise with you. Aegon has been given as much milk of the poppy as his body can endure without his heartbeat slowing until it stops. You sit on the edge of the bed and untie his braid, weave a new one, undo it again, knit and unknit glistening silver strands like the strings of a spider’s web. You can’t imagine what will happen next. You don’t want to.

When Aegon stirs, you clasp his hand, letting him know that you’re here. His dragon ring is missing, you notice; no gold wings, no jade eyes. It must have slipped off when he tumbled from the sky. And you remember what Aegon told you about his dreams of Helaena, about the warning she imparted to him, her ghost or her memory or something else wearing her face: Don’t fall, don’t fall.

“I’m sorry, Angel.” His voice is hoarse and whisper-thin. He’s trying to smile but can’t quite manage it. “I wanted to be strong enough. I wanted to start over with you.”

Start over how, Aegon? In peacetime? As a dynasty? With retribution or forgiveness? With children? “You will. You still can.”

“I knew I’d disappoint you.”

“Aegon, I’m not disappointed,” you say, tears streaming down your cheeks. “I just want to help you. I want to take care of you. I love you.”

But he blacks out again before he can give you his familiar refrain, something in High Valyrian that he doesn’t know Aemond has provided you with the translation of. To your misfortune. And is Aegon wrong when he says this? Is he really?

You drift into a fitful sleep beside Aegon, wake up only a few hours later with sore, damp eyes, make sure he’s still breathing. It’s raining heavily now; sheets of it patter against the windows and thunder quakes the castle. You rise from the bed and walk without knowing where you’re going. When you find yourself sitting on a stone bench in the gardens, drenched with rain and freckled with fiery torchlight from the mouth of an iron dragon, you don’t remember how you got there. You are cold and shivering; you are so profoundly, numbly despondent that you cannot move, cannot think, can only sit with your arms curled around your bent knees and your eyes vacant.

By the time Aemond finds you, your dusky pink gown—stained with splotches of Aegon’s blood—is soaked through. Aemond lurks just inside the doorway of the castle that opens into the gardens, sheltered from the storm. “Why are you sitting in the rain?”

You do not answer. You cannot answer. You stare blankly out into the night as droplets pelt you, stinging your skin like needles.

“You should come inside,” Aemond tells you. “You’ll get pneumonia.”

Nothing he says matters. Will going inside cure Aegon? Will catching pneumonia rob you of any life worth living?

Aemond sighs and strides out into the rain to meet you. “I have to go back to the Riverlands now. Will you be alright here?”

Your words are a question, but your tone isn’t. You speak bitterly and without looking at him. “Why would you care.”

“I care intensely,” Aemond says, kindly now. “If you don’t know why, you haven’t been listening.”

“You don’t want me. You just want to feel like you’re better than him. That you’re worthy of being chosen, worthy of fathering the heir.”

He shrugs. “Nothing in life is without ambition. Love is never entirely selfless.”

“Mine is.”

“No,” Aemond says severely. “No, you want things for yourself. You want a choice in who you marry. You want to escape the burden of bedding someone dull or repugnant or cruel. What makes you think you’re so high above the fate that the rest of us have suffered? Do you have any idea how desperately few people get to marry for love? But you can’t endure that resignation. You have to covet something more. Even if it gets you killed.”

Have suffered, Aemond said. Not will suffer. Have suffered. At last, you turn to him. “You’ve never had a wife. When were you ever forced to lie with someone?”

He stares at you and does not answer, cold rain dripping from his face, a vulnerable childlike apprehension in his lone blue eye.

Then you remember: the madam at the brothel, Aemond’s aversion to her unmistakable familiarity. What had he said when he apologized for leaving you there? It is a place that I associate with great unpleasantness. “At the brothel,” you realize. “The Pink Pearl.”

“Yes,” Aemond says, very quietly.

“How old were you?”

“Barely thirteen.”

He was a boy, you think, horrified. Not a man. Just a boy. “Who took you there?”

“Who do you think?”

There is only one true possibility. Aegon, just a few years older and already corrupted in every sense of the word, drunk and miserable and lustful and lost.

“He thought he was doing me a kindness,” Aemond says. “He didn’t intend for there to be any harm, I’m sure of it. But that doesn’t mean no harm occurred.”

“That should never have happened to you. I’m sorry.”

“A lot of things should never have happened.” Aemond’s hair hangs in long, disheveled waves. Now his clothes are sodden with rain too, not a pale pink like exposed organs or half-healed burns but a verdant, jealous green. “I can’t leave until you come inside out of the rain.”

It doesn’t matter where I am. I can’t save anyone, I can’t stop the world from crashing down. “If he’s dead I want to be too.”

“He’s not dying,” Aemond insists. “He won’t be able to fight, but he will live.”

He won’t, you think, lifeless words that are cold and grey like tombstones. The suffering is too great. The trauma is too dire. It stacks up like blood-red coins in his liver, his heart, his lungs, his kidneys. And eventually the scales will tip, and it will kill him, and I’ll have to watch it happen.

Aemond offers you his hand. “Let me walk you back inside.”

“Please leave me.”

“I can’t,” Aemond replies, distressed.

You are weeping now; your own words choke you. “I want to stay here.”

“No you don’t. The pain just feels so heavy you can’t find your way out from under it.”

He is still holding out a hand to you. At last, you take it. And you make a confession, dark, venomous, unfamiliar like the voice of a stranger. “I used to believe war was hell for everyone. I used to want the suffering to end. But I don’t think I do anymore. I think I want the Blacks to suffer greatly. I want them to suffer more than they ever knew was possible.”

And in the maelstrom of the driving rain, Aemond grins until his teeth look like fangs in the shifting, rageful, rust-and-blood glow of the firelight.

[rileyglas]

The List ~Pt. 7 - Condemnation~ (Sneak Peek)

Out here kicking my feet like Alastor - Got part 7 queued for Friday then MAYBE part 8 next week (if ya'll like it enough) 💜 Need to catch up? Masterlist

The last few days (weeks?) have been a blur. It was a weird switch going from sleeping terribly because you longed to be near him - to sleeping constantly so you didn’t have to feel your body long from him. Anyone who came to your door was just told you weren’t feeling good. “Just caught a stomach bug, don’t come in! I would hate for you to catch it.”

Today you decided it’s time to finally leave your room. Charlie needs help and there are things around the hotel that need to be done before her meeting with Heaven. You aren’t one to let others down just because of your own emotional baggage.

You throw some makeup on to try to brighten your face. Usually, you wouldn’t be bothered but all the crying significantly darkened your eyes. I’d rather not let them see me like this. The less questions the better. Plastering a smile on your face, you head down to the lobby to get the list of ‘to-dos’ from Charlie. Surprisingly she isn’t there when you arrive, so you take a seat next to Angel on the floor. You lean your head against his leg as a silent ‘hello’.

“Hey toots, how ya feeling?” he says without looking up from his phone. “Better, thanks.” You say cheerfully.

“Good! Guess you and Smiles must have shared cooties ‘cause he ain’t been seen or heard from since Lucifer’s visit.” A pang hits your chest, but you try to brush it off. He’s probably just pissed off.

Charlie rushes down the stairs and scoops you into a lung crushing hug, “So so so soooooooo glad you’re feeling better! I didn’t realize how much you did around here! Could you do me a huge favor and go pick up a few things from the city and take them to my dad? He said he can meet you at this address. I have to go pack - Thank you!” Just as quickly as she came down the stairs, she hurries back, leaving you with a short list and an address.

For the first time in weeks, you leave the hotel without Alastor or his shadow close by. It’s not that you’re afraid of going out alone, but you realize you enjoyed his company more than you thought. You glance up at the radio tower as you walk away from the hotel and can make out a dark figure with glowing red eyes staring down from the window. Well at least that’s confirmation he’s still around.

You pick up the few things from a local shop and walk across the city to the address Charlie gave you. This doesn’t look right. The building you walk up to is more of an abandoned warehouse for a drug deal rather than a cozy meetup with the King of Hell. Cautiously you walk through the door which looked like it had been kicked in already. Just as expected, it’s an empty building with piles of trash scattered about. Graffiti and posters plaster the inner walls. You triple check the address on the small paper and it matches.

Sooo now what?

After waiting and pacing for a few minutes, you hear someone call out to you. You turn to see Lucifer standing outside a portal in the middle of the building.

“You didn’t actually think I stayed within the city, did you?” he chuckles as he motions for you to enter into the portal with him. Once inside you look around to see a large open room filled with…ducks? And this guy was trying to give me a hard time?

“Is – is this your office, sir?”

He boots a few ducks out of his path. “Yes, this is where I work on – important – matters. Also, no need for formalities, Lucifer is fine. Those bags for me?”

You almost forgot why you were even standing in the King’s office. All the piles of rubber ducks grabbed your attention and now you wanted to look through them out of pure curiosity. Handing over the bags, you keep scanning around the room. Lucifer notices your curious glances, “Would you – like to see my most recent project?” he asks nervously. You feel your face light up at the offer and he can’t help but mirror your excitement.

He starts to show you all the ducks he’s created, their names, what they can do. His eyes glimmer excitedly every time you display even the slightest interest in one. What feels like a mere fifteen minutes ends up becoming a couple hours. As he shows you the last of his collection, a solemn look crosses his face.

“Thank you for this. I don’t get a lot of visitors and haven’t really been able to share my work since Charlie…grew up. Plus, it’s nice to see you smile, especially after our first encounter.”

Your breath catches at the memory of that night. Not so much the crying in the arms of the devil part - rather the grief you felt shortly after. “Oh – thank you for taking the time to show me. Truthfully, I haven’t had much reason to smile lately so it’s a lovely change.”

His smile drops. There's a long pause as he fights with himself to find the right words, “Did he…Alastor I mean…hurt you that night? You can tell me. I know Charlie is close with him, so you probably don’t feel comfortable -”

“He didn’t hurt me. At least not in the physical sense.” Frowning, you curse at yourself for being too honest. You can’t help but feel at ease in his presence. He was Lucifer, King of Hell and easily the most powerful in all the seven rings. What ulterior motives could he possibly have or need? He has no reason to be anything other than genuine in his worry for you. He made it all too easy to tell him anything.

[biromantic-nerd]

💜🍊✏💉

Thank you! ^_^

💜 describe yourself in five words or less!

Okay when I was 11, for an assignment I chose "queer, contrary, and creative" and that has been endlessly amusing to me throughtout the years because, well, I was right it turns out but I hadn't known that queer means queer.

I think maybe it'd be "creative, messy, kind, earnest, anxious"

🍊 favorite season?

When spring is just about to turn into summer. That is my peak window.

If my chronic pain wasn't a thing, I'd say winter. I love sweater weather so much. But it does not love me back. But oooo sweaters ily

✏️ when did you start writing fanfic

Well. Technically. When I was like 13 and into Twilight. However! I do not count that.

So it was in hmm. I want to say 2014? Just checked. It was 2016, I was so close! Wow it's almost been ten years of biro fanfic.

But yeah I had way too much Spider-man in my head and I HAD to do something because spinning it around in my head 24/7 was NOT enough after TASM2 came out.

Before that I was totally fine imagining various fandoms in my head like daydreams. Which I still do! But now, I know it's always a possibility I'd want to record it down and share whereas before there were all just for me.

💉do you have tattoos and/or piercings

I do not! I'm very afraid of needles so tattoos are completely off the table for me, which is fine because I'd be way too indecisive on deciding what to get. Also afraid of piercings. And not just because one time a kid chased me to put a piercing in my unpierced ear, but boy it sure didn't help.

Some times I wear clip on earrings but I have a scar on one of my ears that hurts when I do, so I don't do that very often.

[yoonkooks-yn]

💜 Jungkook Valentine’s Day Schedule – Pick Your Time Slot! 💜

💌 ARMY, JK’s fully booked, but let’s pretend we have a chance 😭😂 Choose your exclusive time slot below! ⬇️

6:00 PM – Dinner Date 🍽️

Romantic candlelit dinner… until he starts eating like it’s a mukbang.

7:00 PM – Gym Session 💪

You hold his water bottle while he casually wrecks lives.

8:00 PM – Karaoke Night 🎤

He sings. You cry. Simple.

9:00 PM – Gaming Session 🎮

Winner gets… well, we all know JK wins everything. 😭

10:00 PM – Movie Night 🎬

He picks the movie. You pick your jaw up off the floor every time he breathes.

11:00 PM – Late Night Drive 🚗

Windows down, city lights, his playlist… life is good.

12:00 AM – Midnight Magic 🌙

Just you, him, and that deadly duality. (Warning: No survivors.) 😵‍💫🔥

1:00 AM – Deep Talks & Pillow Fights ☁️

One second he’s talking about the universe, the next he’s hitting you with a pillow.

2:00 AM – Sleepy JK Cuddle Time 🤗

A rare sighting of soft, sleepy Jungkook. Protect at all costs.

3:00 AM –???

Whatever happens at 3AM stays at 3AM. (Insert delulu thoughts here.) 😏

Which slot are you taking? 🤭💜 #JungkookValentines #BookedAndBusy

[dreamwatch]

💜WIP Wednesday Friday 💜

Tagged by @hbyrde36 Thank you!

It’s WIP Wednesday, time for a little accountability, sharing your work, and getting a kick in the pants.

Here’s how it works:

In a reblog of this post (so people can find you in the notes) or new thread (w/ rules attached) if you want to play on your own, post up to five (5) filenames of your WIPs; not titles, file names.

Post a snippet from one of them. Snippet must be words you wrote in the last 7 days. We’re posting progress here. If you haven’t made any, go make some and come back to play!

After you’ve posted, people can send you an ask with one of your file names. You must then write 3 sentences in that file. If the filename is one you can't share from (for example, an event or gift fic), write 3 sentences on it anyway, and then 3 more on another to share.

That’s it! You can invite others to join in, or just post.

If you’re reading this, you’re invited!

If you see someone posting a WIP Wednesday Game snippet, send them an ask! Make them write.

Filenames (some of which are now titles):

Fell On Black Days (aka Prison Fic)

Like A Stone (aka Depressy Eddie)

Steve and Eddie 90s (erm... as it says 😂)

Seasons (aka Eddie discovers Grunge and moves to Montana)

I've only worked on Seasons since December, snippet below!

They head back to the motel, the mood sombre as Eddie walks shoulder to shoulder with Wayne, Steve comandeering Dustin to give them space. The ever-considerate Steven Harrington, ladies and gentlemen. “You’re heading off at six?” Eddie asks. Wayne hums in reply. Eddie has never seen his uncle talk as much as he has the last few days, this joyous little trio seemingly so comfortable in a way that stuns Eddie. But now, as they traipse along Main Street, Wayne is quiet and tense, an almost mirror image of Eddie. They’re both walking to the gallows, time running short for them both. “Listen to me, boy,” Wayne says, eventually breaking the silence. Eddie turns to face him and sees the tension in Wayne’s brow. “You can come home whenever you want. You know that right?” Eddie sighs. He’d been expecting it. “I know that.” “I just…” Wayne shakes his head a little like he’s trying to decide whether or not to carry on. But carry on he does. “I know there are things you haven’t told me. About Seattle.” Eddie begins to interrupt, but Wayne just raises his hand to cut him off. “I’m not asking you to tell me, and I’m not trying to make you guilty for keeping secrets. You’re a grown man, you’re entitled to your privacy.” “Can you tell Dustin that?” Eddie scoffs. Wayne let’s out a little laugh. “He’s something else, ain’t he?” "That's one way of putting it."  “Look," Wayne continues, "I just want you to know. I am proud of you. I always have been, always will be. But what you’re doing, working, going to school?” He shakes his head, a soft smile growing. “Jesus, you deserve it, is all. I know you’re going to do well. You’re a smart kid, I’ve always said it.” Eddie huffs a laugh, and Wayne cuffs him lightly, making him laugh harder. And then Wayne says, “It’s nice, hearing you laugh. I’ve missed it.” Guilt is a powerful thing. The longer he stays away from Wayne, the more he feels it.  The Hotel Finlen is the tallest building in Butte. Eddie found it fascinating how a ten-storey building could be so dominant, after spending the last few years in cities with skyscrapers. After a while they all blend into the background. But The Finlen stands tall and prominent, her terracotta window arches looking out onto the streets below her, the Motor Inn nuzzled up against her. And so it stands there like a gallows, as Eddie heads towards it with Wayne, Steve and Dustin. He fucking hates goodbyes. But this isn’t one he can run away from. There’s an uncomfortable moment outside their rooms where no one wants to be the first to make a move, before Steve walks up to him and hugs him tightly. Tells him not to be a stranger and then gently nudges Dustin for his turn. There’s promises whispered, and Dustin sniffles a little, but they’re men now, and it’s all good because they’ll see each other again soon, right? It’s fine. They’re fine.  Steve squeezes Dustin’s shoulder and pulls him inside, saying goodnight to Wayne as Eddie tells them to drive carefully tomorrow, “my Uncle is precious cargo!” and he just hopes that they didn’t hear the little crack in his voice, the tightness in his throat. Wayne pulls him into his room, tells him to sit, and pulls out a bottle of Buffalo Trace. He holds it up to Eddie with a sly smile. “One for the road? With your old man?” Eddie is on the fucking edge tonight, but that hurts, like Wayne just reached in and squeezed his heart. He can feel the heat rise up, but he makes a Herculean effort to not. Fucking. Cry.  So Wayne pops the lid, grabs the plastic-wrapped cups from the bathroom, and pours them to the top. And then, they talk.

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