#ally attempts to write smut

[allylikethecat]

Gatty smut prompt 57 pleaaasssee??!

Hi! To the Anon who requested this all the way back in July, I am so, so, so incredibly sorry that it took me so long to finish. I apologize profusely for the impending let down. I am not a talented smut writer, but, like pretty much everything in my life I attacked it with probably too much enthusiasm to try and make up for my short comings. I apologize for how cringe and not hot this is BUT I tried really hard. The same rules as my first smut prompt still apply, I would prefer if you laughed *with* me, rather than *at* me because I am a sensitive soul. Even if my attempt at smut doesn't make you laugh and instead just makes you cringe, I hope this screenshot of a text from my Bestie, when I was trying to hype myself up to write this, does in fact make you laugh. Anyway, here she is: Ally Attempts Smut Part II: The Smut Strikes Back 

❤️Ally

57. “Look at your reflection. Look at how gorgeous you are. So fucking gorgeous when I’m fucking you like this. So pretty for me, and only for me.”

George had caught him staring. He couldn’t help it, he was transfixed, watching himself, captivated by the elegant line of his own throat. His cheeks were red and splotchy, stained with tear tracks, his eyes were empty and wet. The flush of his cheeks made its way down his chest, shading in between the lines of his tattoo, reminding him of a red wine stained blouse, blotted pink around the edges. His frizzy curls were sweaty and plastered to his forehead as George manhandled him roughly, maneuvering his body for his own pleasure like he was nothing but a toy to be used, his own euphoria secondary. His lips were swollen, bitten to a dark bloody maroon, falling open as Geroge thrust into him, manicured nails scratching into his hips to grind deeper. He looked thoroughly debauched. He looked like something somebody wanted. He looked pretty.

“You fucking narcassist,” George had said, “getting off on watching yourself.” He grabbed a fist full of Matty’s hair, fingers digging into his matted curls, nails biting into his scalp. Matty whined, they were toeing the line between pain and pleasure when George tugged his head up, arching his neck. He pulled out, and Matty whimpered, his heart racing when he clenched around nothing and realized he was suddenly empty. 

George pulled him to his feet, and he stumbled, his knees buckling as his feet hit the ground before George dragged him up and shoved him roughly against the mirror mounted on the wall opposite the hotel bed. The mirror that had caught his eye when George had bent him over, and opened him up, riding the high of another successful festival appearance.  

“You wanted to watch,” said George, his voice low and dangerous, his breath hot against Matty’s ear, causing him to shiver. Matty’s face was pressed into the glass, his breath fogging up the surface as he panted, only to be cleared as his cheek was smooshed against it. He was trying to breathe, trying to bring oxygen into his dizzy head. He couldn’t take a full breath, his lungs compressed against the mirror making his head swim. “So watch.”

 His arms were pinned behind his back, his delicate wrists trapped between George’s long fingers, George’s other hand was in his curls, twisting his neck, forcing him to face his reflection, his eyelashes brushing against their mirror image when his eyes rolled in his skull and they fluttered.

He moaned, his cock drooling where it was trapped between his belly and the mirror, the glass cold against his burning skin as his cock slid, guided by precum and sweat, frictionlessly against the smooth surface. George reentered without warning, slamming roughly into Matty,  

“Look at your reflection.” George growled, George pressing his weight into the mirror was the only thing keeping Matty upright. “Look at how gorgeous you are. So fucking gorgeous when I’m fucking you like this.” 

Matty gasped, his lips falling open, his hip bones aching as they dug into the unforgiving glass, the surface warming from the heat of his body. 

“So pretty for me, and only for me.” George cooed, the hand in Matty’s hair dropping to his side as his hips stuttered, squirming against the mirror desperately. The hand around his wrists reaching up to brace against the mirror as he thrust. 

“Are you going to come like this?” George asked, his pace being more frantic, sloppy as he drew closer and closer to his own release. “Looking at yourself in the mirror, such a pretty little whore fucking the glass.”  

Matty mewled as George scraped his nails down his sensitive flank, leaving raised red marks in his wake. He arched his back, tears leaking from his eyes as he stared down his own reflection. He didn’t recognize himself anymore, it was like he was looking into the eyes of someone else, the sounds, pained and guttural torn from his chest were not his own as George slammed into him, pressing him harder against the mirror, his cock sliding against the polished surface. 

“Come on baby,” panted George, digging his nails into Matty’s hip, pressing impossibly deeper, before stalling as his own orgasm washed over him. Matty broke eye contact with his reflection, his eyes rolling back in his head at the feeling of George coming undone inside of him, his release dripping down his thighs when he pulled out, sending him over the edge. 

George petted his side, and whispered how pretty, how perfect he was into his ear as Matty came, his cum smearing against his stomach and the mirror as his cock jerked. His already weak knees gave way as George kissed the back of his neck, his softening cock pressed against the small of Matty’s back. Matty found himself being lowered to the hotel floor, hyper aware of the feeling of the rough carpet against his sensitive skin after the smooth coolness of the mirror.

His head felt heavy, his mind fuzzy as George continued to whisper sweet nothings into his ear, running his fingers through his tangled hair as he came back to himself. 

“Are you with me babe?” George asked softly and Matty nodded woozily, turning his head to tuck his nose into George’s bare chest. 

“Yeah,” Matty slurred, cum drunk from the intensity of his orgasm, of being pressed against the mirror. His hips ached from where the bone dug into the glass, and he knew he was going to be covered in bruises, from George’s fingers and from being slammed into the wall repeatedly when he woke up tomorrow.

“Can you open your eyes for me, love?” George asked, “I want to see that you’re okay.” 

Matty blinked, his eyelids felt heavy but he obeyed, he felt sticky and sweaty, he knew he needed a shower, but standing up felt like it was just, too much at the moment. Matty startled as his vision focused, brutally thrusting him back to reality. 

“Oh my god,” he said in horror, eyes widening, as he took in the mirror, as he took in the distinct Matty shaped smudge with a George sized handprint over the shoulder, cum smeared across the reflective surface, dulling its shine. “George, we have to clean the mirror before housekeeping comes oh my god.”

[swordgrace]

𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇 𝐎𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐋𝐘 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃.

⠀ཾ༵ 𑁍┆ gwayne hightower x wife!reader.

SYNOPSIS: After your husband returns from Rook’s Rest, mostly unscathed, you are quick to indulge him to make up for lost time.

anonymous request.

{ FORMAT: one-shot — requested by anon.

{ WORD COUNT: 5.1K.

{ WARNINGS: SMUT (mdni), first time writing for gwayne, please be gentle, gwayne is very cunt-struck in this fic, sub-ish gwayne, armor removal descriptions, mild wound tending, making out, both of them are desperate, unprotected sex, p in v sex, bathtub sex, riding (fem on top), handjob, oral sex (fem!rec), hair pulling kink, choking, breast play, cockwarming at the end

{ AUTHOR’S NOTE: I absolutely adore Gwayne and I felt like this was a really good way to warm up and get used to writing for him! I’m really glad that I’m seeing more Gwayne requests, this was ridiculously fun to write! ❤️ Thank you all so much for your love & continued support, it means more to me than you realize!

At the precipice of the gates of the Red Keep, emerald banners flew, embellished with the golden sigil of a dragon — the King’s dragon, laying half-deceased in the Dragonpit and the King himself, ripped apart and scorched beyond recognition.

A horrible thing, to be sure — your sister-by-law had become miserable and despondent when the news of her son’s maiming reached her. Whatever comfort you attempted to offer had been dismissed, but it was commonplace, not that you minded. You understood her desire to be left alone.

It was a cloudy, dismal day, marked by the overcast of gray and gloom, a dour portrait that only seemed furthered by the King’s potential demise. Rook’s Rest was outwardly displayed as some great victory, a vanquishing of Queen Rhaenyra’s forces and her allies.

Yet, the countenance of your Knight Hightower told a different tale altogether.

Becoming betrothed and wed to Ser Gwayne Hightower had been the hallmark of your family’s importance, a union of prosperity to further your standing in the realm, but it meant more to you than that. Gwayne had grown on you with the passage of time, witty and sharp-tongued, a proficient fighter with a calm rationality.

As the gates swung open to welcome those survivors of Rook’s Rest home, you desperately searched for the velveteen tabard and copper mane, wringing your hands together beside the Queen Dowager.

His armor glistened beneath the sheen of clouds, dingy and speckled with cruor and mud, his visage stained in dried crimson and soot. He was so comely and debonair, yet he seemed rather sour when he dismounted from his gelding, swiftly tugging his helmet aside.

Your feet moved before you could summon any logical thought, rushing to him across the Keep’s courtyard and into his expectant embrace. Plate-clad arms held you close as he inhaled a gust of your scent, marigold and honey, just as saccharine as he remembered. “My love.” He sighed, loud enough for only you to hear.

Before you could cage him within your own embrace, he let out a strenuous grunt, attempting to be subtle with the painful noise. “Husband,” It delighted you to see his face again — it had been weeks. “Are you hurt?” You fussed, brows knitting together as you inspected him for any critical wounds.

Gwayne bore the scars of battle beneath, save for the cut upon his lip and bruising around his cheek. His body was undeniably sore, riddled in bruises from falling, muscles aching from wielding a blade and weeks on the road. “You needn’t worry yourself into a stupor, dearest. I will survive.” He sighed.

“You do understand that it will only prompt me to worry more, instead of less.” Begrudgingly, Gwayne decided to let you dote over him — he quite enjoyed the attention whenever you did. “Perhaps we shall draw you a bath, and a proper meal to accompany it.”

Relief settled within his features, knowing that he would be well cared-for. He counted on you to ensure that he was pampered after every conflict — it was a habit you had developed. Despite the dull throbbing that consumed his body, he offered his forearm to you, delighted to have you at his side again.

He was rather captivating in his armor, shimmering and broad, a true Knight of the realm. Despite the tarnish and wear of his plate, he still seemed flawless, as if he were incapable of possessing any imperfections.

The Red Keep loomed overhead as many soldiers fought to lick their wounds, much of it from the angry bite of dragonfire. Gwayne was fortunate to remain mostly unscathed, aside from his pride. He could not stomach another day with Criston Cole, whose overconfidence often felt like a burden.

The sight of men being obliterated into nothing more than ash and bone was a harrowing sight, one that he desperately attempted to purge from his memory. It was good to be here with you, holding you again, giving him a worthwhile distraction.

Gwayne sought the solace and sanctity of your shared chambers within the Keep, but he missed Oldtown above all. Your marital quarters there far outweighed those here in the capital in terms of lavishness and comfort, but whatever lodgings offered to him now, he wouldn’t refuse. A feathered bed and pillow seemed heavenly after weeks of sleeping on rock and coarse rags.

Pale cerulean hues appraised you with a subtle hunger, finding the supple curves of your physique through the sage silk of your gown. Once you were in private corridors, he made his desire known, manifesting it into reality. “I must say, you look rather fetching, my dear.” Gwayne hummed. “Did you know of my return?”

“Perhaps,” Countering his flirtation with a teasing smile of your own, you gently nudged past the set of heavy oaken doors, making your way into your chambers. The servants there acted at your beck and call as you had them prepare a bath. “Perhaps I simply prefer to wear lavish silks each day.”

With a bemused scoff, Gwayne ogled you through half-lidded eyes, and as soon as the doors slammed shut behind you, he coaxed you in for a kiss. His mouth tasted like the bitter sting of copper coupled with brimstone and woodland musk, but you didn’t care in the slightest.

He cared little for prying eyes, desiring to claim your mouth for himself — it had been far too long. Passion and want were interlaced into each stroke of his lips, and you matched his caliber of desire, palms seeking to perch themselves atop his chest.

Gwayne exhaled, savoring your saccharine taste, the insatiable warmth of your pliant mouth. “I missed your mouth, wife,” He groaned, pearlescent teeth greedily capturing your lower lip as he caged you in against him. His blood ran hot even still, the adrenaline of war still lingering, yet you spurred him on. “Perfect as ever.”

“Gwayne,” His eagerness surprised you, but it wasn’t unwelcome, not in the slightest. “What about the servants?” You mumbled, skin crawling with heat as he insistently tugged you closer, auburn brows furrowing together.

A twinge of desperation followed from your Knight-husband, watching as he palmed at the swell of your hips. “What of them?” He murmured, caring little for the wandering eyes of handmaidens. They were like a flock of hens, squabbling after any scrap of gossip. “Surely, you would not deny your husband a kiss.”

“I would, if my husband vexed me.” You were able to both get a rise out of Gwayne and charm him all in the same turn, turning your head at the last moment. His mouth fell against your cheek instead, much to his disgruntlement. You would make it up to him.

Once the servants finished pouring a bath for your husband and preparing a hearty meal that transcended field rations, Gwayne felt as if he could relax, the tension in his shoulders unfurling. He stepped toward the washroom, unceremoniously falling against one of the velvet-cushioned chairs.

The wooden frame groaned in protest, rickety and barely able to bear the weight of his armor. He tossed his head back, finally able to breathe and relax within the sanctuary of his own quarters. No muddied tent above his head or the swaying of trees, no rancorous men, and no Dornishmen to tell him what to do.

With a steady exhale, he began to unfasten the innumerable amount of buckles and straps upon his armor, beginning with his gauntlets and vambraces. His brow remained creased with concentration, strands of copper stresses glued to his temples, lip curled with inklings of mild irritation.

“Would you like help?” You inquired, knowing that Gwayne would be too stubborn to accept it, but you were pleasantly surprised when he became subservient. With an indignant huff, he sat back, sluggishly offering you his body with a low hum.

“If you feel that you must toil over my armor, I suppose you can lend your assistance,” Gwayne prattled on, though his breath hitched slightly when you neared him, standing in between his legs as you went about freeing him. Cerulean hues traced over your form, desperate to see your naked flesh. “Hm.”

His quick tongue and eloquent speech once irked you, but now, it was simply him. You rather enjoyed when he regaled you with his flowery words and streak of arrogance, a haughtiness that seemed to run predominantly within his family.

As you set yourself to the task of unburdening your husband from his armor, Gwayne busied himself with ogling your bosom, jaw tense and tight. A warm coil formed within his stomach, the onset of arousal as he carefully admired you, his enchanting paramour.

Unclasping his cloak, Gwayne shifted enough for you to remove it, neatly folding it into a rectangle as you draped it over the arm of the lounge. “I missed you,” You confessed, knowing that his ego would momentarily swell tenfold — it was simply in his nature. “These past few weeks were rather tense, wrought with strife.”

“Allow me to guess,” Gwayne guffawed, a smirk toying at either corner of his mouth. “Something to do with my nephews, or perhaps my sister.” Admittedly, you were lonely without him — the capital didn’t suit you, nor did any of its hostile inhabitants.

A soft huff of amusement escaped you, but you happened to shake your head, lifting a wet cloth to his lips as you dabbed at the dried blood. “One would think,” With an amiable smile, you rid your husband’s stunning visage of cruor. “I yearned to have my husband by my side, that is all.”

Gwayne’s gaze became soft in your presence, fluttering across your captivating features and gentle smile. Knowing that you missed him happened to evoke some semblance of delight, filling him with a familiar warmth that eased his aching bones.

“I am here now,” He assured, reaching for your hand as he cradled it within his own. Rough lips pressed themselves against your knuckles. “You shall have your husband for as long as you please.”

Stepping inward, your lips moved to bury themselves into his disheveled tresses, presenting him with a kiss. You always feared Gwayne riding off to fight in a war, coming to terms with the painful idea of never seeing him again. “As long as I please? That is forever, then. Cole cannot take you from me again.”

You were an excellent wife, perhaps the best — he had gotten incredibly lucky with you, a rare jewel, resplendent and glittering all for him, something to covet. He watched as you unfastened the leather straps with haste, placing each piece down atop the footlocker at your side.

Gwayne winced when you happened to tug just a touch too hard, body wracked with aches and pains, pale flesh flourishing with the wounds of war. “Gently, wife. I am still needed in one piece.” A low grunt tore past his lips, one that happened to come across as a suppression of mild agony.

Perplexed, you reached for the collar of his gorget, attempting to be as gentle as possible in its removal. It was difficult, given how much he wore — plate and chainmail weren’t exactly comfortable to wear. The relief he felt was visible, scrawled into his handsome features as he reclined into the cushions.

Broad-shouldered and corded with taut muscle, you often found Gwayne to be beautiful in some ways, painfully handsome to behold. When you’d gotten rid of his upper armor, you noticed the battlefield of flourishing bruises littered across his flesh.

The somber, softened stare you’d given him happened to temper his tongue, copper brows beginning to slack, visage contorting into more of a concerned expression. “They do not feel as horrid as they look,” He assured, smoothing his palm across the swell of your hip. “Such is the nature of battle.”

With a tender hand, you lightly traced your fingertips over each bruise, some angered and dark, others lighter in complexion. Gwayne shuddered at your delicate embrace, bluish hues glued to where your hand traveled — over his throat, toward his collarbone, and then cascading across his chest.

“Where does it hurt, my love?” The silky resonance of your voice stroked his mind in a perfect way, one that brought him to heel. Your doting attention happened to subdue him, cock stirring in the confines of his linen breeches.

He often pondered what went on in that beautiful head of yours, the way your mind operated. You were an intelligent woman, thoughtful and poised with a comely grace, becoming of a maiden. Gwayne swallowed the growing lump within his throat, feeling your palm smooth across the plate of his cuisse.

“Here,” He briefly motioned to the series of marks tangled along his collarbone — he was fortunate that it hadn’t been shattered. You stooped inward, mouth carefully hovering above the ugly bruises dotted along his collar, and kissed the injured flesh. “Hm — here.” Gwayne tapped his right pectoral.

You kissed where his hand gestured to, pliant lips akin to a gentle caress as you showered him in your sensual affections. Enraptured, Gwayne watched you, hunger swelling within him, a ravenous gnawing that he felt for you. It burned his loins, filling him with the ache of desire.

If it weren’t for his damned tasses and greaves, he would’ve had you slotted in his lap. Gwayne’s hands tightened around the back of the settee, digits curling into the wooden embellishments. “That’s all?” You murmured, gingerly caressing along his chest, watching as he immediately straightened.

Gwayne grit his teeth together, motioning toward his bruised bicep. “Here,” The soothing softness of your mouth soon followed, filling him with a warm rush of dull ecstasy. You kissed his bicep, peppering your lips upward until they landed atop his shoulder. “Here.” At last, he motioned to his mouth, marred by a cut.

“Here?” With a gentle hum, you smoothed the pad of your thumb against his lower lip, carefully avoiding the cut and any bruising. Gwayne kissed your fingertips, hand still poised against your hip, groping into your pliant curves and soft physique.

“Damnable vixen.” Gwayne muttered, though his cerulean hues oozed with warmth and ardor, a gallant love reserved only for you. It was a loving jab, and he immediately hauled you closer, bringing your mouth to his for a fiery kiss. The honey-sweet embrace of your lips were ambrosial, making his head spin around.

You reached for his auburn tresses, raking your fingers through his mane, kissing him hard and without an ounce of hesitation. His hands lowered themselves to your derrière, sinking into your supple flesh, treating you to the fervor of his hold. A low moan emerged from your throat when he nipped at your lower lip.

Gwayne relented, tongue seeking entrance into the warmth of your mouth, forcing you to part your lips. In a hurried clash, you kissed him again, open-mouthed and deliciously hot. Your stomach began to churn, arousal seeping from your core, slick between your thighs.

“Gwayne,” You whimpered, attempting to catch your breath as he parted from you, licking at his lower lip. “We needn’t carry on if you are hurt.” You insisted, but he scoffed at the notion, gazing at you with bewilderment and a clear dismissal of your concerns.

“Nonsense,” Gwayne countered, clearly feeling his blood sing with lust, bitten by desire. It was a fire that you had so diligently stoked, and now, it needed to be extinguished. “I would suffer through torture unimaginable if it meant I could have you properly.”

With a bemused huff, you pressed your lips against his bruised brow, watching as he stood up, chest bumping into you. The closeness only seemed to intensify, tension crackling between the both of you. “Are you still in-need of assistance?” You hummed, tone indicative of your lascivious wants.

Gwayne’s mouth twitched into the ghost of a smirk, catlike and salacious as he released an exaggerated sigh. “I suppose,” Truthfully, he basked in your affections, even if it was all playful, a steady buildup to more lewd proclivities. He allowed you to do it all as you unfastened his cuisses and tasses, placing them aside. “Perhaps I should take you along to the next conflict. I will have need of your skilled hands, sweet wife.”

Seeing your striking husband in nothing more than his linen smallclothes made you itch with ardor, desire beginning to fester within your heart. His necklace, adorned with his mother’s ring and yours, hung around his throat, relics resting against his sternum.

A battle was certainly no place for a lady, but you digressed, lowering one hand toward the slight bulge in the front of Gwayne’s trousers. “Is that so? I’ve become quite proficient, husband.” A silky purr escaped your lips as you kneaded one hand against his erection.

Seven Hells, you would be his undoing.

With a sharp exhale, Gwayne let out a husky groan near the shell of your ear, hands steadfast atop your hips as you caressed him over his clothes. “Quite proficient, indeed.” He uttered, teeth grazing along your neck as you let your hand slither beneath the coarse linen. The warmth of his cock met your palm, and he shivered.

A breathy sigh escaped you as you bared your neck to him, palm encircled around the base as you dragged your hand from bottom to tip. The pad of your thumb stroked along the head of his cock, causing him to jerk forward into your embrace.

He had sorely missed your touch, the smell of your skin, the plush feeling of your body beneath his capable hands. Gods, if you kept touching him like that, he felt as if he would explode — and so quickly, too. Gwayne refused to resign himself to such a thing.

“I would be delighted if you’d join me,” Gwayne murmured into your neck, lips suckling just beside your jugular. The mark he left flourished, soothed by the lap of his tongue. “Only after I’ve ravished your sweet cunt, of course.” Even crude words sounded so pretty upon his tongue, and you felt your skin crawl with warmth.

A sharp inhale escaped you, anticipation churning within the pit of your stomach as Gwayne found the laces of your gown. You nodded several times over, lips parted as you sought his mouth for a blazing kiss. With dextrous fingers, he tugged on the silken ties, loosening the garment with ease.

The fabric pooled around your feet in a heap, and you hastily kicked it aside, standing in nothing more than a sheer slip. It was nearly translucent, made of a shimmering gossamer that left little to the imagination. Transfixed, Gwayne allowed his hands to travel along your body, kneading and caressing wherever he pleased.

He coaxed you toward the settee he’d been situated in minutes prior, allowing you to sit as he stood above you, hand slipping against your thigh. “Gods, you are divine.” Gwayne sighed, roughened fingertips stroking at your silky skin, like warm velvet. “Lift your skirts for me, dearest.”

Kneeling as a sacrilegious individual would, as if begging for forgiveness within the boughs of a sept, Gwayne sought his peace between your thighs. He observed in quiet rapture as you brought your slip to your hips, revealing your body to him.

Broad shoulders bullied their way between your legs, hands more than happy to have their fill of your haunches. “Gwayne,” You whimpered, feeling him adjust your hips to a proper angle, cunny glistening with a thin sheen of your arousal. “Please, I need your mouth!” Hapless at the talons of your husband, you pleaded with him to taste you.

There was nothing he wanted more in this world than to oblige you, lips pressing all along your legs, mouth steadily finding the apex of your thighs. Gwayne took care in spreading you apart, tongue raking hot embers across your cunt, your taste ambrosial.

A stirring fire of lust roused him, cock twitching within his breeches as he delved deeper into your core. His mouth was a thing of beauty, tongue sluggishly tasting you from your clit to your entrance. Your chest heaved with wanton pants, hands gliding toward his tresses.

Tangled within his copper mane, you coaxed him closer, digits digging at the base of his skull. Gwayne released a groan into your core, hands clamping down on your thighs with an ironclad grasp. Your nectar fell heavy upon his tongue, the sweetest of honey.

Gwayne thoroughly reveled in the feeling of your hands within his hair, hips occasionally stuttering and bucking forward, desperately seeking his mouth. He was attentive, lapping at your cunt with a fervor, allowing his mouth to drift to your clit.

Silk bunched up around your belly, thighs quivering like leaves as you continued to move inward. Most of your writhing was done unconsciously, pleasure continuing to wrack your body whole. Arousal pooled between your legs, spilling onto your husband’s tongue — and he consumed every drop.

Gwayne found his place between your thighs, as any devoted husband would. Every sound that he evoked from you, every shudder of your body, the slick of your arousal, he knew that it all belonged to him. Your needy moans filled your chambers, reverberating off of the walls.

“Gods, Gwayne!” You huffed, countenance screwed into a look of complete and utter bliss, lips agape and eyes fluttered shut. Without shame, you rode your husband’s face as best as you could, wrestling with his auburn locks as your knees squeezed at his head.

Perfect — it couldn’t have gotten any better than this.

His calloused palms ran along your thighs before finding their purchase against the swell of your hips, drunk and delirious from your cunt alone. He was positively whipped, a notion that he rarely admitted aloud, let alone shared with himself. The way you took his mouth with glee filled him with pride.

Another deliberate barrage of licks assailed your clit, causing you to shiver and moan, the sounds tapering off into a series of breathy pants. “Sweetling,” Gwayne crooned, timbre shifting into a delicious husk as he called you by that affectionate nickname. “You are incomparable.” He mumbled, nose brushing along the hood of your clit.

A pang of delight rippled through you as you preened beneath his desire-ridden compliment. Gwayne had a way with words, especially if he found himself in the mood to regale you with lewd whispers. The moment wasn’t now, but you hoped that it would be, soon enough.

That familiar coil of tenuous heat festered within the pit of your stomach, signaling the encroachment of your release. Gwayne buried himself into your cunt, spreading you apart, tongue greedily lapping at your core. His cock was desperate to be inside of you, slick with precum, straining against his trousers.

You chased after your release with reckless abandon, a low wine tearing past your lips as you tugged on Gwayne’s tresses with a sense of urgency. His lips found themselves pursed around the pearl of your cunt, suckling on that sensitive bud until you cried out.

It was an undeniable surge of utter bliss, an amalgamation of pleasure that made your thighs twitch and tremble. You threw your head back against the velveteen lounge, moaning your husband’s name as if it were the only word you knew.

Between the deliberate, timed strokes of his tongue and the stimulation of your clit, you could hold out no longer, digits curling inward, stomach sloshing with a molten warmth. “I— Gwayne!” You mewled, the sound deliciously innocuous as you approached your release.

It slammed into you with the force of a tidal wave, sending spasmodic shivers all along your body, making your skin undeniably hot. Gwayne groaned into your cunt, finding great pleasure in cleaning you up, reveling at the taste of your nectar, like a fine stout.

His cock throbbed with a pleading ache, wanting nothing more than to be inside of you. He was patient, but he could wait no longer, face appearing from between your thighs as he huffed. “I cannot continue to wait,” Gwayne murmured, voice laced with desperation. “I must have you, sweet wife.”

Still trapped within the white-hot throes of your release, you nodded, wanting more from him just as he did you. “I am yours completely.” You breathed, watching as he made for the bathtub. The water inside had gone from steaming to warm, not that he cared.

It was like a race, an eager clamoring to see who could get themselves into the basin first. Gwayne hastily unlaced his breeches, leaving them behind along the stone floor before he sank into the water, muscles unfurling almost instantaneously.

You stood, legs quivering from the might of your peak as you attempted to rid yourself of the silken slip, but Gwayne didn’t have time to watch you fiddle with your gown. “In,” With a sharp timbre interwoven with lust, you seemed surprised, but obeyed his command. “Come here.” He hissed.

Without delay, you stepped into the bathtub, still clad in your silken slip, which Gwayne paid little mind to. Eager, strong hands gripped your hips, dragging you closer until you were in his lap. Auburn tresses were slick with water, visage upturned into a look of sheer delight.

The gossamer silk stuck to your body, hitched around your hips, the wet garment clinging to your flesh. Gwayne lowered you enough to let his cock nudge against your folds, burying his face into the hollow of your throat. He pressed strings of needy kisses there, feeling you grind yourself against him.

Tugging at the thin, lace-woven straps of your slip, you revealed your breasts to him, fabric sagging along your midsection. You listened to the audible hitch of Gwayne’s breath, continuing to slide his cock along the length of your slit. “Sit,” He commanded, hands firm atop the swell of your hips. As you lowered yourself onto his length, he shivered, jaw tensing. “That’s it.”

His cock filled you perfectly — nothing of indomitable size or girth, but it was pretty, just like the rest of him. You gasped, palms moving to perch themselves atop his freckled shoulders. Gwayne groaned, slumping back against the slick, metallic wall of the tub, keeping one hand steady against your hip.

What sweet torment, Gwayne thought, tantalized and entranced by the way you began to ride him, sluggishly through the constant sloshing of water. He assisted you somewhat, guiding you along, occasionally lifting his hips to buck into you, but the efforts primarily rested with you.

“Seven Hells,” Gwayne huffed, cerulean hues drinking in the sight of you, disheveled and damp, countenance contorted into a look of pure bliss. “I missed that cunt of yours, wife. There is nothing like it.” A low grunt tapered off into a breathy sigh as you came down harshly, nails digging into his pale flesh.

Instead of cajoling him with sultry praises of your own, you kept quiet, one hand slinking toward the base of his throat. The newfound sensation left Gwayne visibly perplexed, but he enjoyed your little domineering streak, mouth curling into the ghost of a smirk.

His palm moved to cup your breast, toying with your nipple, slick from water, beginning to pebble with the cooler air. “Gwayne,” You moaned, bouncing upon his cock with all of the eagerness of a brothel whore. Enraptured, he observed you through a greedy, half-lidded stare. “You feel incredible.”

Before his cockiness and ego could come swinging into the fray, you lightly squeezed at his throat, evoking a sonorous groan from him. It was effective at silencing him, but his gaze burned for you, burned with something incendiary as he gently tweaked your breast, kneading at the soft mound.

You were divine, a goddess incarnate, made for him to worship at your feet. He simply couldn’t get enough of you, savoring the way in which his cock continued to bury itself within your tight walls, over and over again. That tenuous coil of warmth tightened within his belly, a rush of heat soon to follow.

His hips jolted again, bucking up into you until he hit that perfect spot inside of you. You gasped, mouth agape as your nails dug angry-red crescents into his shoulder. Gwayne’s own sounds of pleasure caressed your ear, feeling him lean in enough to press a string of kisses all over your breasts.

The hold you had upon his throat began to slack, thighs burning with a dull ache as you rocked yourself upon his cock, continuing to ride him. His cock bottomed out before you lifted yourself up again, only to fall right back down, letting him bury himself until he could go no further.

He looked gorgeous, crown of copper tresses lolled back against the tub, visage one of pleasure, hands continuing to grope and caress along your body. It was only when his length began to pulse and throb within you that he grit his teeth, bracing himself for his release.

A low, subtle ‘fuck’ tore past his mouth, goosebumps coalescing along the length of your spine. You didn’t relent, continuing to rock yourself upon his cock until he was bursting at the seams. With a noisy groan, Gwayne’s hips stuttered, filling you with ropes of hot seed.

Even the ache of war and sex could not spend him entirely, and if it were up to him, he would’ve had you on your back the second you stepped out of the tub. With a sigh of relief, he stroked your hip, watching as you came down with him.

“I will never tire of that,” Gwayne confessed, hand repositioning to stroke at your brow, tucking your hair behind your ear. “Will you stay and help bathe your husband?” He inquired, tone jocular and somewhat playful, but he seemed serious.

“Perhaps,” You mused, reaching for a bar of herb-laden soap, attempting to move off of him. Gwayne tutted, clicking his tongue with mild disdain as he pulled you right back down onto his cock. “Gwayne.” Issuing a soft-spoken warning, you gasped, brows furrowing together.

With a debonair smirk, he pressed a kiss against the hollow of your throat, lounging back within the tub, either arm perched along the sides. “You can stay just like that, dearest. You are well within arm’s reach.” That lascivious purr of him stoked yet another fire, and you relented, staying slotted atop him.

“You’re insufferable.”

copyright @ swordgrace ; please do not translate my work onto other platforms, copy, or steal my work and claim it as your own.

[lauraneedstochill]

Confess the longing you are dreaming of

summary: Aemond thinks the woman he has to marry is the most impudent and unsufferable he’s ever met. He’s also never wanted anyone so badly. pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Martell!reader (third person, no mention of Y/N) warnings: bantering and teasing, mentions of unpleasant sexual experience, praise kink (guess who’s got it), a dollop of softness, mild smut (... for starters ;) author’s note: couldn’t get the idea out of my head and spent a few sleepless nights writing this. I imagine her brothers as Pedro Pascal and Oscar Isaac ✨ words: ~8000 song inspo: Hozier — Better love

>>> Aemond isn’t present when the idea is voiced the first time — he has a hunch that his grandsire is to blame for that. No doubt, Otto was the one to plan it out, come up with arguments served with his persuasive tone. He’s always loved to make arrangements and strike deals, each one of them to play into his hands, and Aemond hates the thought of being just another pawn of his.

He is blindsided at the breakfast but it’s made sound carelessly mundane — as Otto puts down his cup, he throws him the proposal, the way one would leniently throw alms to the poor. And Aemond thinks he must’ve heard him wrong.

“Marry me to... Who?” the prince asks, hardly covering his surprise.

His grandsire directs his gaze at him, the old man’s mouth twitching into a condescending smile. Since Otto isn’t keen on idle talk, he tells him plainly:

“You’ve long been of age, Aemond, you know that,” his knife scratches the plate as he cuts the meat, his eyes not moving from the prince. “House Martell holds power, and we’ll be fortunate to have such allies. Besides,” he pauses to take a bite, and Aemond gets annoyed at waiting; Otto chews, then adds, “I’ve only heard good things about your bride-to-be. Wouldn’t you confirm, Ser Criston?”

The mention of the knight is unexpected to them both — Aemond turns his head to meet Ser Criston’s puzzled look. But the brunet effortlessly copes with his emotions:

“We met when she was just a kid. But I knew she’d grow into a fine lady,” he easily agrees. Mayhaps, too easily for Aemond’s liking so he makes a note to talk about it later on.

His grandsire only lets out a pleased hum. “Well, I’m under the impression she will make a good match for our prince,” and Aemond feels that Otto carefully picks each word, “She’s said to be both beautiful and smart, and known for being quite independent,” he’s usually so stingy with his praise, it’s worth its weight in gold.

But that is not what Aemond hears. The choice was made for him, and his rejection of it makes him paint a portrait less alluring — a pompous wayward woman raised in the traditions that are starkly different from his; and yet, it is expected of him to accept it freely. His wounded ego simmers at the thought.

“I’d add another word to that,” Aegon chimes in, half-drunk already, “Everyone knows the Martells to also be promisc—”

“Look who’s talking,” Otto glares at him, and Aegon shuts his mouth.

The word is left unsaid, only the meaning of it isn’t hard to guess, and Aemond feels embarrassment creeping up his cheeks and weighting down his chest. He deems himself an educated man, well-read and eager to put his knowledge to the test, but he has yet to learn of carnal pleasures. A memory is clawing out: him, ten-and-three and plied with wine, laid on a bed that smelled of sweat, a naked woman next to him. Despite her tireless attempts, he wanted none of it, and the repulsion made him sick — and then it made him hate the act itself.

He did go to the brothel through the years, tried watching, touching, looked at bodies of all sorts, only it felt like putting paint over a rotten wall. He felt constrained, and lacking in some way (perhaps, in many), and more so awfully incomplete. Not once he sensed a spark, a pleasure he would crave, and no amount of effort could help him fill the emptiness inside.

He quells the feeling, pushes in indifference instead, and glances briefly at his mother. She meets his eye but only grants him a faint smile, her own gaze lacking any protest.

“Her brothers wrote that they would visit in a fortnight,” Alicent peacefully explains. “It is our duty to ensure a royal welcome.”

“Brothers?” Helaena blithely chirps. “How many does she have?”

“Four but only two of them are coming,” Otto tells her softly, then looks at Aemond, adding in a voice more wily. “I am convinced they really want to see whom their dear sister is about to marry.”

He doesn’t spell it out but the implication can’t be clearer — Aemond must play the part and make a good impression. As if impressing just one stranger wasn’t tedious enough.

As if he isn’t vexed already by how unsuitable he finds her.

>>> Frustration grows in Aemond with each day, takes roots, and clogs up all his thoughts. Some other man would’ve been glad — he often heard that the Martells are quite the lovers. He can’t admit it to himself how much he’s bothered by his own misfortunes on the love field.

He bottles his emotions up and doesn’t utter any word of discontent, nor does he ever speak of the awaited visit. Although he makes just one exception.

“My grandsire mentioned that you knew her,” he reminds Ser Criston one day after training.

The knight nods. “I crossed paths with Quentyn, he’s the oldest. She used to come to watch us train.”

“What was she like?” Aemond carefully wonders.

Ser Criston ponders for a minute, polishing his sword. “She was a quiet little girl, kept to herself. A lot of boys were always chasing after her, and she paid them all no mind,” he smiles at the memory. “But I remember one of them who was... particularly pesky. His charms didn’t work on her so he got offended, rude, followed her around. She tolerated him for over a month. One morning, he was hassling her in the training yard, and she just took a spear laying nearby — and smacked him with no warning,” he shakes his head but it’s apparent that he isn’t judging. “She didn’t use the pointy end but she got him good. And then she told him that next time he would think twice about his actions. She was impressive for a ten-year-old,” he muses and puts the sword away, then turns to Aemond, giving him a wistful stare. “Frankly, I think that you will like her.”

He does, for just a second, as his mind rushes to paint the image of a fearless little girl; and then he mercilessly wipes that image off. Maybe in other circumstances, he could’ve found amusement in that story, but Aemond only huffs and thinks back to the list of all her traits he prematurely made up. He adds “rebellious” to that list, and his self-doubt is a venom that clouds his judgment. He’s in no rush to find a cure.

>>> Their ship arrives a few hours earlier than planned — and after the dock watchers break the news, the bustle begins. Maids, servants, guards all run and faff about the castle, the dining hall gets filled with smells and noises, plates and dishes clanking.

Aemond is not excited in the slightest.

He dresses up reluctantly, each piece of clothes only dampening his mood that’s been already sour for the past two weeks. He all but drags his feet into the dining hall and by the time he reaches it, he looks so grim that one may think the prince’s preparing for his death, no less.

The minutes fly too quickly for his liking — they barely have time to sit, his mother nervously toying with the tablecloth already, and then the guards rush to announce the guests. Surprisingly, she’s not among them. The prince thinks he should be relieved; deep down, there is a splash of worry fizzling in him.

Her brothers walk in calmly in a cloud of servants bearing gifts. Their kinship is immediately clear — both tall, broad-shouldered, and dark-haired, self-confidence subsisting in their every step. The oldest is distinguished by a touch of gray in his short beard, his gaze more focused, a slight smile plastered on his face. The other one shamelessly stares at every maid his eyes can catch.

“Your grace, it is a pleasure to finally meet you,” Quentyn reaches their table first, and Alicent walks down to greet them. He keeps his distance and his smile, his tone is measured. “We were so sad to learn that the King has fallen sick. But I can tell the Kingdom is in great hands. And —”

“Women’s hands do have a healing touch,” Oberyn smoothly interrupts, his accent a bit thicker, his voice honeyed. “I will prefer a Queen over a King at any given day. Unless, of course, your husband can compete with you in beauty... I somehow doubt that.”

A shade of disapproval grazes Quentyn’s face but Alicent is too amazed to notice. The compliment may come off as blunt but she still takes it well, her smile embarrassed yet sincere.

“I hope you will enjoy your stay,” she tells them humbly, then looks over the crowd. “But may I ask where is the lady we’ve been waiting for?”

“She made a stop on our way to catch up with an old friend,” Quentyn answers, ready to explain, “It’s been years since we’ve met Ser —”

“Still can’t believe he is the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard,” Oberyn chuckles. “I think it’s all the armor that makes it look like he poses a threat. But you may reconsider if you see him in the nude.”

This time, the older brother glares at him with warning, and there’s a lull in their conversation, while Aemond’s struggling to hear what made his mother’s cheeks so red, his mind nervously preoccupied with someone else —

her laughter enters first.

It’s bright and joyful, a sound so lovely it might be enough to crack up his restraint. But then he spots her, and it feels like his whole body flares up at the sight.

She’s walking with her hand under Ser Criston’s arm, and Aemond’s never seen a dress that covers so much but hides so little. It’s muted orange, floor-length, made of sumptuous silk, with two long slits along the sides, curves of her thighs beguilingly seen through. Her neck and arms aren’t covered, and the material is intricately stitched around her waist to show a few more glimpses of her sun-kissed skin. The waves of her long hair fall on her shoulders and frame her face, each feature of it striking but her lips stand out the most — full, plump, and reddish. Not once before Aemond found the thought of being kissed so tempting.

She doesn’t even turn her head to look at him. She’s talking to Ser Criston quietly, and he’s engaged in conversation, unusually relaxed. Their difference in age is obvious, and the knight seems like just another relative of hers, but an uneasy feeling still leaves a bite on Aemond’s chest. He can’t imagine her so carefree — so beaming and compliant — by his side. His jealousy tastes bitter like a stale wine.

He hears his brother let out a short laugh. “It’s not like they were fucking,” Aegon carelessly notes. “Please ease your outrage before she runs away.”

“I don’t remember asking for advice,” Aemond snarls.

“You do look like you need it,” the blond comments, then goes back to drinking.

She gracefully approaches them, her voice melodic like a murmur of a river. “Forgive me, your grace, for being late, I haven’t seen Ser Criston in some time,” she tells his mother. “He was once a dear friend of mine.”

“I only helped to shush away a few of your admirers,” the knight cackles, earning a smile from her.

“I hope you are making use of all his talents,” she says to the Queen, making her face flush right away.

She delicately moves on to another topic. “It is a pleasure to have you here, you must be tired from taking such a long trip.”

“We found it quite enjoyable,” Quentyn remarks politely. “The beautiful sights along the way are worth the journey, and your city has some great views too.”

“Can’t say I’ve heard great things about your food,” Oberyn grins. “Hence why we took the liberty to bring some of our own,” he signals to the nearest servant, who runs to open one of the trunks they carried. “The dornish fruits are also my sister’s weak spot.”

“As if you don’t gorge yourself on them!” she jests, letting go of Ser Criston’s arm at last. “My brother is a glutton, your grace, please excuse his manners in advance.”

“You can call me Alicent,” his mother corrects her warmly. “Only seems fair to continue this discussion at the table,” she slightly moves away to let the girl go first.

Aemond unintentionally stiffens and only when he stands up from his chair to greet her, she finally does look at him. In contrast to her countenance, her gaze is dark and piercing, and the prince is staggered by how unreadable it is. Her brothers glance at Aemond briefly — Quentyn is pensive, while Oberyn looks like he wants to bite his head off; neither says a word.

She’s seated to his right, and she leaves behind a trail of scent — apples and plums, and he can’t help but catch the movement of her hips under the flowing dress. The words all mash and fall apart, and he can’t pick a single one to strike up a conversation.

Aegon is sitting next to her, and his patience only lasts a minute. “Never knew Ser Criston was such a ladies' man.”

“I’m sure he succeeded on that front but we are merely good friends,” she answers calmly, keeping her eyes on servants bringing fruits — blood oranges and pomegranates, robust grapes, and ripened cherries.

“You two seemed more than friendly,” Aegon presses, his tone evidently taunting.

She picks a golden apricot and runs her thumb over its fragrant surface. “Maybe it’s the wine that makes you see things,” she rebuts and takes a bite out of the fruit, a drop of juice risking to escape her mouth but she wipes it swiftly with her finger. She catches Aemond looking, and his cheeks heat up.

“We’ve never seen him in the company of a woman,” the older prince points out, filling up his cup once more.

She takes out the kernel and eats up the fruit, her mouth glistens. “Aren’t the knights of the Kingsguard forbidden to marry?”

“Never stopped them from bedding whoever they like,” Aegon remarks crudely, and Aemond is thankful that their mother is too preoccupied with Oberyn’s tireless chatting.

“Maybe some men have the decency to follow orders,” she responds, unbothered, taking a cherry and clasping it with her lips. Aegon doesn’t seem to notice and only gulps the wine and rolls his eyes. Aemond can’t look away.

“Aren’t you Martells known for not following the rules? I thought unruly was in your house’s motto,” Aegon argues, a corner of his mouth curled in a smirk.

She takes another cherry, the third in a row, her lips already stained with juice. “I think you keep getting your facts wrong,” she brushes him off, and Aegon goes to object some more but spills the wine right on his shirt. The displeased cry brings Aemond out of his trance.

“He tends to do that when he’s drunk,” the one-eyed prince coolly interjects.

Her eyes flicker to him, then she fully turns her head. “So you can actually talk,” her teasing comes off soft but her gaze still burns. “It’s good to know.”

“You seemed preoccupied with someone else,” he musters an excuse.

“Do you expect your wife to never speak to other men?” her voice almost betrays her disenchantment.

“No,” Aemond quickly answers, caught unawares by how strained his thinking process is. “She— you are free to choose your friends, of course.”

“I’m flattered,” her tone suggesting otherwise, “Not that I would ask for anyone’s approval,” she reaches for a plum; he closes his eye with a sigh.

Aegon comes to stand in between them on the pretext of needing another carafe of wine: “I didn’t mean to interrupt your friendly bickering, please continue.”

“It seems like Aemond isn’t in the mood for talking,” she doesn’t look at him, the tip of her tongue darting to lick her finger. “And I am never in the mood for begging.”

“My brother’s hospitality leaves much to be desired,” Aegon takes a sip. “So I regret the disappointment you are soon to suffer,” his hand falls on her chair. “But if you ever wish to be... well satisfied, all you have to do is ask me”.

It’s hard to tell if Aegon’s actually that drunk or merely provoking (or if he’s got a death wish, Aemond wonders).

She replies without much thought. “Well, if I ever find myself in need of...,” she trails off with a smile but her gaze gets harsh — her words then follow, “My choice won’t fall on you,” the smirk falls off Aegon’s face, and she glances straight at Aemond, adding, “I like them taller.”

But her straightforwardness is met with his resistance, with the deep-rooted unacceptance of his lurking needs. He adds “indecent” to the list, and they speak no more.

>>> Her boldness doesn’t pose a problem to anyone but him. To his surprise (or more so to his shock), his mother gives in first.

The morning can’t come fast enough for Aemond after he spends the night tossing and turning. A few hours later he rushes to the garden for a walk, overwhelmed by restlessness his training didn’t help him cope with. That’s when he sees it — a spot of yellow shining through the trees. He somehow knows it’s her without further confirmation but still, his feet carry him on.

Her dress is vivid like a field of marigolds, her hair plaited, wrists adorned with golden bracelets. He slackens pace and peers into her — and he wants nothing more than to drink her up, her whole appearance is the sweetest nectar... Until he hears another sound and realizes she is not alone, and it’s his mother sitting by her side, wrapped in her favorite green and, unexpectedly, in glee. He can’t remember when he saw her laugh like this — out loud, giggling, tears at the corners of her eyes are not from sadness but from joy.

“My dear, that is so improper! Did he apologize at least?” Alicent inquires with a smile.

“Oberyn rarely does,” she tells her serenely. “His lover looked way more ashamed. I hope each of your rooms has locks, gods know I don’t want to walk in on him again.”

Unlike his mother who is covered by the shade of trees, she’s bathing in the sun, the soft light caressing her skin, and Aemond’s eye greedily follows every ray. In barely a minute he feels warm all over.

“I hope that Aemond’s chambers got locks too,” she adds all of a sudden, a bit louder, and his chest is splashed with cold.

His eye moves to her face, and she’s already looking at him, direct and daring. He knows he’s hidden by the trees but there’s no hiding from her gaze.

Aemond turns away and steps back in haste, his abashment mixed with grievance at her implication. He believes someone like her would never lust for him, and her jokes at his expense not only hurt but prompt his resentment to grow stronger. He adds “deceptive” to the portrait of her he is so adamantly set on painting.

>>> She wins Helaena’s heart with ease. His sister fondly compliments her brooch — a little poppy made out of gold — and she gifts it to Helaena the same day. The silver-haired princess grabs at chance to show her own collection, and they spend the day looking through the jewels spread over the floor, sitting right there and equally amused.

And that’s how Aemond finds them. He only planned to see his nephews but hearing her voice coming from Helaena’s chambers makes him slow his step.

“... And this one he gave me for my latest name day,” Helaena babbles cheerfully.

“Aemond clearly spoils you,” she laughs without a shade of envy. “As he should!”

“He is very kind at heart,” Helaena eagerly assures her. “You will be happy with him, I am certain of it.”

There is a pause that makes him feel uneasy, makes him sneak up closer to the room.

“I do believe he’s not an evil man,” she finally says, “Maybe he just wasn’t made for marriage.”

Surely she can’t see him through the door but he can swear that he feels her gaze, like a silent challenge, a hidden mocking. He barges in without a knock.

Helaena beams. “We were just talking about you!”

His sister’s dress is milky blue, modestly pretty, and loosely fitted. It’s also treacherously pale compared to the liquid gold the Martell girl is dressed in. She’s sitting with her feet under her thighs, the bending of her back is bare and in plain sight. He should’ve walked away the second he heard the sound of her voice because not looking at her seems impossible.

“Oh, you came to see the twins? They are with Aegon but I can call— No, I will bring them back myself,” Helaena springs to her feet, rosy-cheeked and smiley, and leaves the room before Aemond can protest. And then it’s just the two of them.

He takes a breath and makes an effort, with his jaw tense and his blood rising, to drag his eye away from her. It feels as pointless as ignoring sunlight in an open field on a summer day. Only her beauty is more brazen — and so is her wit.

“I take it, gold isn’t your favorite color,” she speaks up with an impish tone. “Would be a bad idea to wear it on our wedding then.”

She never comes too close, always just a little out of reach, and yet he feels as if her presence grips him, weakening his will. He doesn’t want to be with her until he is — and then he has no wish to leave.

It scares Aemond as much as it spikes his anger.

“Why did you agree to come?” he bristles.

“You are not asking about your sister’s chambers, are you?” she clarifies, and he hears her smiling.

He tells himself he only needs to cast a glance to check.

He does — he meets her gaze — her earrings catch the sunlight and cast a trail of glares — the scattering of specks play on her skin, her neck and collarbones, sneak to her upper chest — his own is heaving. His struggle only lasts a moment but it leaves him short of breath. He isn’t looking anymore, his eye trying to discern the pattern on the drapes behind her.

“Our marriage, how do you benefit from it?” he hates how hard it is to control his voice.

And how she watches him intently without giving him a clue of what’s on her mind.

“I plan on visiting my family a couple of times a year. It will be easier to do on dragon back,” she doesn’t sound spiteful when she says it but her words still sting.

He can’t stop an image flashing through his mind: her on top of Vhagar, lungs full of air, pressed to him. It’s tempting — to have her in his hands, and yet the vision is too intangible to cling to. Instead, he thinks that in just three days she learned to play him like a harp, his years' worth of self-control is merely a sand castle against the tide of her sharp tongue.

He only snickers dryly at her reply, then they both hear the sound of running footsteps. Jaehaera and Jaehaerys rush to greet him — but almost instantly abandon, the kids' attention drawn to the shining golden dress.

He thinks “unruly” suits her better than does “pompous”. He comes up with a fake excuse to leave; the image of her stays with him.

>>> He picks more adjectives as the week goes on — she’s audacious, disobedient, wanton. She moves around the castle as if she owns every room she’s in. She wears less, and even on rare occasions when she doesn’t, her defiance more than compensates for it. She never shies away from a deep neckline, nor does she feel the need to hold back her resounding laughs. Her jewelry clinks, each of her dresses is brighter than the other, but it’s her wicked mouth his eye always falls on first.

More times than not, Aemond can’t tear his gaze away, each meal for him now both a torture and a feast.

He watches as she parts her lips, puts them around a luscious grape, a cherry, or a peach, she swipes her tongue to lick up every running drop, savoring its tang — and keeps eye contact with him. He barely can taste the food he’s eating, and no wine can quench his thirst, his body flooding with a feeling he can’t define, his heart adrift.

He tries to fight it off with all our strength. He scratches off “unruly” to write down “unabashed” instead.

But then the dinner comes, and even though he’s never had a taste for sweets, he thinks he’d eat them from her lips (deep down, he wants to). The lies he tells himself are brittle like the flesh of fruits under her teeth.

>>> He comes to think “insufferable” fits her the best. That thought rings in his head while he is standing in the stable, his eye on anything but her. He was informed she wished to pick a horse, and he begrudgingly agreed to come, only to keep up the pretense.

What turns out to be much harder is for him to keep restraint. The dress she’s wearing might as well be a chemise — it’s just as light and white, and much to his discomfort, it also tirelessly risks hiking up to expose more of her legs.

Discomfort, mayhaps, isn’t the right word for it.

He stays out of her way but, unsurprisingly, he ends up looking — at how she walks, spring in her step, swinging her hips. She gives each horse a piece of apple and feeds them by hand, strokes their muzzles, and then she mounts and rides them, one by one. She grabs the reins, her foot easily finds the stirrup, and as she swings her leg over the saddle, her dress slips up, showing a few inches of her skin.

He swallows thickly, glances more intently — over her dainty ankles, bending of her knees, he notes how smooth her skin is, soaking up the sun. Her dress then billows slightly, and his eye glides higher, hungry, follows up the contour of her thighs that bounce a little as the horse gallops.

He feels it blooming — a sensation with no name that travels from the lower chest down to his very navel, then spreads and tightens all that’s underneath.

He is so deep in his enthrallment, he doesn’t hear the steps approaching until there’s someone standing next to him. Quentyn stays silent for a minute, throwing him a sideways glance.

“My sister’s always been terribly picky,” the man says out of the blue, “And usually it’s hard to meet all of her demands,” — it doesn’t seem like it’s the horses he is talking of. The vagueness of it makes Aemond focus as he takes his eye off her but Quentyn doesn’t elaborate, giving him a smile instead. “I do admit, your patience is commendable. Some other man would’ve already interfered just to wrap the process up.”

“I was under the impression she doesn’t need anyone’s help,” Aemond replies evasively.

“You guessed it right,” Quentyn titters, his tone veiled with the same unclear meaning when he adds, “The only thing left for us all is to accept it,” and with that, he goes to join his sister.

When Aemond — tamely, almost yielding — takes a peek at her, his gaze collides with Oberyn’s who clearly watched them talk. Unlike his older brother, he prefers to stay away, but the mischief in him pairs really well with danger. He grants Aemond a nod, switching attention back to her, his threats unspoken for the meantime.

For just a second, it gives Aemond pause as he finds it odd that no one brings up their wedding, and no announcements have been made ever since she came. He doesn’t mull over it for long because her laughter interrupts his thoughts (or maybe he just yearns for any chance to look at her). She rides around the yard, her hair floating in the wind, a little breathless but breathtaking, her lips enticing and her curves making his throat dry.

He tries to ground himself, to look for explanations, for some reprieve from the entrancing spell he’s under — he’s never been so close to losing reason —

out of the corner of his eye, he sees a couple of guards dropping their gaze in poor attempts to stop themselves from gawking; it reins his passion, bringing back his jealousy instead. He’s way too used to seeing himself unworthy to even entertain the thought of having her, and his denial prickles. He wants to burn his feelings out, and anger helps with that — it breaks out and engulfs him fast, hardening both his heart and gaze.

“Quentyn is the friendliest of the two, and you couldn’t hold a conversation?” Aegon appears out of nowhere, seemingly displeased despite the bottle in his hand. “Must you always be so gruff? I stayed behind in hopes you’d make it work!” he waves at Oberyn then glares at Aemond, waiting for a reply. “Are you pretending to be deaf or...?”

“Must she test my patience?” Aemond mutters, his tone not jealous but exasperated, his eye boring into her, “Putting herself out like that for all the men to see.”

Aegon being speechless is a rare sight. He cannot fathom it at first, looking from Aemond back to her, confusion sobering him up. And then he grins, realization creeping up on him; there are some things he’s always quick to notice.

“It’s funny that you say that,” he leans in to tell him and catches Aemond’s gaze, “Since it’s just you who’s staring,” Aegon pats him on the back and leaves to greet her brothers.

Aemond tries to choke it down — his irritation and his shame combined, but it’s too much for him to handle, his head and heart clearly in conflict. He doesn’t wait for her to make a choice, retiring without sparing her a glance (a fear nibs at him that if he looks at her once more, he will stay rooted to the ground).

He doesn’t leave his chambers for the remainder of the day, dining all alone and fuming all the same. He’s usually good at curbing his emotions but he is having trouble understanding them, wanting nothing more than to erase all memories of her. But even in his solitude, he catches himself thinking — about her cunning smile and swaying hips, her eyes on him, his hands wanting to roam and touch and —

Aemond shoves unwanted thoughts away and goes to bed earlier than usual. He remains steadfast in his resolve to find some peace, he makes a conscious effort to shift his focus to all the boring, random things his mind can come up with until he is too tired to care.

But then he falls asleep, and his subconscious welcomes her. He sees her right before his eye in that obscenely short white dress, there are no people in the yard, her tantalizing moves all meant for him. She hops off her black horse and walks to him without a single word — anticipation makes him drop his guard and hold his breath — and then he feels her lips on his, her body pressing into him, his hunger for her ruining his self-control, the kiss is searing, suffocating, driving him insane, his fingers pulling up her dress —

he wakes up painfully aroused.

He lays in bed, his heartbeat rushing, his breathing ragged, and vision blurred. While he’s still grasping for the remnants of his dream, he sneaks his hand into his breeches, wishing he could rip her dress off and sheath himself inside her, spread her on his bed, and drink every salacious sound she makes... It only takes him a few strokes to spill over his fingers; he can’t remember if he’s ever reached his peak so fast.

And only then, as he comes down from his high, it hits him, like lightning in the dark — in spite of her remarks, her audacity, her dresses, and every cruel adjective he’s found for her, he’s never wanted anyone so badly. Aemond sits up abruptly, his sleep gone, giving way to stubbornness that comes hand in hand with reticence. He persuades himself that he’ll suppress this — the spark, the pleasure that he craves, and he won’t be a slave to his desires.

He’ll rid himself of feelings, of this lust. Inevitably it will wane.

>>> It doesn’t.

Desire is a guest that never leaves, unwanted but demanding space, attention, time. It slips into his thoughts the moment he wakes up, it whispers in his ears, never giving up, it’s layered in between his clothes and his skin. He hides it well from everyone; it lodges deeper into him.

Desire is a cherry in her mouth, each fruit she bites in, savors, drinks the juice from. He doesn’t want to watch — he can’t take his eye off her, caught in his fervor like in undertow, the flavor of her lips the only one he truly yearns for.

Desire bruises more than does a hit, cuts deeper than a blade, and there’s no weapon he can fight it off with. His training brings him no relief, and he can’t sweat it out or wash it off him, and even while he soaking in a bath, it feels like longing only rises back with steam.

Desire waits for him at night, stands by his bed, slides right under the covers with him. He dreams of her, and in those dreams, her body sings under his every touch, trembles from his praise, his hands and mouth paint her with marks and kisses. He wakes up with his chest aflame and out of breath, and then it takes all of his willpower not to crawl to her.

It staggering how much he really wants her, and he hates himself for it.

>>> It’s been three weeks and they have barely shared a word. He does his best to cut down their encounters and avoid her, he doesn’t argue and takes no offense, he hopes that if he pulls back just enough she will give up and let him be.

Aemond spends his evenings in the study, his table piled with books, and for a couple of hours, it does help to take his mind off things. The night already steals in while he’s searching through the shelves for scrolls, too caught up in the process to pick up the creaking of his door.

Her gaze nearly scalds him. He only looks up out of surprise — and then he freezes at the spot, his heart a stone that plummets to his stomach.

Out of everything she’s worn, this dress might be the one to bring him to his knees — the cutting out the front so low, his eye falls in the hollow between her breasts; he envies fervently the golden chain that rests there. He takes in her whole body, bare arms, and flaunting forms, all clad in deep dark green. He’s never seen her pick that color (and he can’t help but think she put it on for him).

He’s brought back from his stupor when their eyes meet — and startled by the determination in her gaze.

“Ser Criston told me that you missed your training,” she stately starts walking toward him, “Quite a few times this week.”

“I found myself preoccupied with other things,” he clears his throat and clasps his hands behind his back, the scrolls forgotten.

“With reading, I assume?” she almost sounds aggrieved (he wants to ask what else she’d rather have him do) but then her tone gets jaunty. “Would you mind if I join?”

“Actually, I would,” Aemond takes his eye off her, his coldness feigned. “I’d like to avoid distractions.”

And more than anything, he would like for her to leave; she’s not the one to give up so easily. “Maybe we can learn some things together?” she nonchalantly insists, and that ambiguity — deliberate or not — leaves his face suffused with pink.

“I highly doubt you take interest in the things I study,” he manages, his crudeness biting his own tongue.

She only sneers, already nearing his table. “You surely rush to judgment.”

“And I am never wrong.” (Although he’s been wrong once before.)

“That’s very humble of you.” (And she’s tenacious with her intent to prove him wrong again.)

“I am surprised you know that word,” he replies too hastily — and instantly regrets his outburst.

And his attempts to get away from her could’ve been valiant, but only left him feeling like a coward.

She’s got enough courage to spare. “Oh, my apologies, did I strike a nerve?” her hip grazes a stack of books. “You sound so displeased with my behavior,” she puts her hands right on his table, her cleavage in full view.

“You interrupted my studies,” he’s looking only at her face.

“Just this one time,” she clears up, her sly smile is a dare, “Sounds like you have quite a few complaints.”

Damned be her dress and the day he laid his eye on her. “It’s clear as day that we have nothing in common,” he hisses, her persistence molding his anger. “From your bawdy humor to your reckless behavior and your...,” he struggles to push the word through his mouth, “vulgar dresses — everything suggests that we will never make a good couple.”

He catches a gleam in her gaze but it’s not threatening nor hurt — and when the corners of her mouth curl up, her face expression actually looks amused. “I didn’t realize my presence tormented you that much,” she crosses arms over her chest, her hands under her breasts; he looks away that very instant. “So will it please you if I take my vulgar dresses and go back home and leave you be?”

He wants to say it will — he’s thought of it for days — but now he isn’t sure. The dreams he has of her will hardly be enough as every image he collected has got nothing on the real form.

“Is there anything that does?” she asks him suddenly and takes a step in his direction, and then another one.

Belatedly, he realizes that he’s backed against the wall. The air in the room heats up, and Aemond moves back to his table, fingers holding to its edge to find some balance. “...Does what?”

“Please you,” she swiftly clarifies, now standing at arm’s length.

“That isn’t any of your concern,” he wants to glance away and yet, his eye is drawn to her.

“I am inclined to disagree,” her lips stretch into a smile. “Shouldn’t a wife know how to make her husband feel good?”

“We are not married yet,” he tries to argue weakly.

“I’d like to learn beforehand,” but her assertiveness works quicker than his doubts.

The time is still, and seconds drag like hours. His heart leaps at the thought of being all alone with her, his concentration crumbling, his self-restraint already hanging by a thread.

“The way you look at me suggests you aren’t averse to the idea,” she tells him in a low voice, her eyes two glowing embers. Aemond gulps, she deftly rounds the table. “You act so cold and so collected,” she muses, coming closer, and he helplessly steps back. “But I am yet to meet a man who would deny himself the pleasure of laying with a woman,” her voice is warm and warming; his legs bump into the chair, prompting him to sit.

He hesitates for barely a moment but his quick reaction fails him because the next thing he knows, she’s standing next to him, her golden chain casting a blinding glint — he blinks — and then she’s straddling him, her thighs on either side of his.

Aemond’s mouth falls slack as he becomes aware: to lift her he will have to touch her. He glances down at her legs that sneaked out through the long slits of her dress, all bare to the very hips before him.

“I wonder if you are too spoiled by the attention of the ladies? Mayhaps you’ve got so satiated, the intimacy doesn’t bring you any joy,” she runs her fingers up his chest.

He only finds it in himself to shake his head. She isn’t satisfied with that reaction. “Or do you simply find it boring and have a taste for something else?”

Objection bubbles in his throat but he gets no chance to voice it — he barely registers a clinking sound before he feels cold steel pressed under his chin, her fingers wrapped around the hilt of his own dagger. He meant to leave it at the training yard but it completely slipped his mind.

“Does this work better? I’ve heard that you Targaryens have peculiar tastes,” her other hand lands on his shoulder, his chest is stirring with emotions he can’t read.

“That’s not— No,” he mumbles, his voice raw, the weight and feeling of her body overwhelming.

She cocks her brow at him in disbelief. “No? So it’s just plain old satiation then?” she makes no attempt to press the blade but her questions do get pushy. “Must be so hard when women throw themselves at you ever since you were... What was it, ten? Twelve years of age?”

He would expect her to sound teasing — instead, he hears disappointment. That’s the reaction he is used to getting.

“My brother took me to a pleasure house when I was ten-and-three. He said it’s time to get it wet,” he forces out, “And it was...,” awful and humiliating, something he wishes to forget, “...Not what you are describing.”

Her face expression changes — first surprised, then splashed with sadness, and her every feature softens. Aemond sees her opening her mouth to speak but he averts his gaze, abasement scrabbling at him. His eye falls closed, and he keeps thinking that now she will get up and leave, and there won’t be any wedding, and he’s got no reason to get so overly upset already, and —

she sheathes his dagger without a word, the unexpected movement making him breathe out.

And then she dips her head down, and her lips fall on his jaw. Aemond inhales sharply. Her mouth feels softer than it was in all his dreams, and she plants kisses down his throat, moving to the part of it the blade was pressed to. He doesn’t know where to put his hands while hers lock nimbly around his neck.

She pulls back slowly, and he dares to look at her again, trying to catch the merest shadow of pretense but there is none.

“I am truly sorry that you had to go through that,” she tells him quietly. “Have you tried some more since then?”

“I did,” his answer comes off hurried, blank, “I... I am aware of how the act is done.”

“How the act is done? Aemond, that doesn’t sound enjoyable at all,” she pouts, then gently caresses his face, her voice a tender whisper when she adds, “But it should be.”

He stiffens, waiting for the discomfort to wake up, for the aversion to coil his guts, to trigger the jarring need to move away. None of that happens. Instead, he feels her fingers running through his hair, a calming motion bringing only comfort, her every touch relieving tightness in his chest.

“You seem too tense... We have to work on that,” she joyfully murmurs. “Unless, of course, my worry causes you distress,” her fingers stop, “Do you want me to leave, my prince?”

“No,” he rasps, he almost pleads, “D-don’t.”

She hums with satisfaction, bringing her hands down to unclasp his leather doublet, knowing she won’t meet any resistance. He should resent her for this but he doesn’t (he didn’t and he won’t). The air lays cold over his shirt, and Aemond shivers; she moves her fingers down his firm chest with an unspoken admiration.

“Tell me how it usually goes,” she inquires, one of her hands finding its way back to his silver locks. “Do you find pleasure in undressing them?”

Her warmth envelopes him, scented with cinnamon and peaches. “They come without much clothes,” Aemond blurts out, earning another hum from her.

“And what about you?” she glances curiously at him.

“I don’t... I don’t like them touching me,” he timidly avows, and saying it to her does bring somewhat of a relief.

With both of her hands, she cradles his face, thumbs gently contouring his cheeks — he all but melts into her palms. “And yet you are so responsive to the touch,” her voice praises, “So pretty.”

She leans in again, leaving a kiss at the hollow of his throat — and then her mouth travels up, ardent and steady, and he squirms in place. Not out of discomfort.

“You are not supposed to rush it if you want it to feel good,” she whispers in his ear and moves back to catch his gaze. “You never rush into fighting so why love making should be any different?”

Astonishment brightens his face, and she chuckles lightly. “I must confess, I did enjoy watching you train, even though you never noticed. The way you move and twirl your sword,” she’s recollecting breathy, “You are so lithe and fast and so resistant... An infatuating sight.”

She holds his gaze and lifts her hand — he follows it, unblinking, until it finds one of the straps — she hooks it with her fingers. “Fairly soon it made me wonder how would your hands feel... on me,” his heart jolts at her words.

Slowly, she moves the strap aside, baring her breast for him; Aemond’s breathing hitches. She takes his hand in hers, planting a kiss over his knuckles — and then lets his fingers graze her naked skin.

“It was so cruel of you to rob me of my pleasure,” she laments, but he can barely hear a thing, his eye wide as he fixes on the soft swell of her breast, on how her nipple peaks so eagerly under his touch.

She guides his hand over her chest, down to her ribs and waist, letting him brush her every curve, placing his fingers firmly on her hip. And then she reaches for his other hand and lowers the other strap; his body trembles. The layers of his reticence are all peeled at once, leaving his desire raw and undisguised, unshackled. He’s drawn to fondle, clutch at her plump breasts but her grip is tight and taunting, not letting his fingers roam free.

Still, when both his hands sink into her hips, he realizes that he’s getting harder by the second.

It doesn’t go unnoticed by her. With a controlled, torturously slow move she drags her clothed core over his straining cock. His mouth stays closed but there’s a sound — a muffled moan caught in his throat.

“Doesn’t this feel good?” she teases, lightly tugging on his hair, her lips reaching the column of his neck. “With how much you read, I hoped you’d be more generous with words,” each of her kisses weightless like a drop of rain but then her mouth finds a spot below his ear and suckles at it, pulling a whimper from his chest.

He thinks he should... his mind goes blank after another movement of her hips, and she picks up the pace, merciless and sensuous. He tries biting down his moans but only hurts his mouth. She notices, her rapt eyes on him, and puts her finger on his lower lip:

“Please, don’t be shy with me,” she coos, her gentle touch soothing his bitten flesh, “Our desires coincide,” she earnestly affirms him — and the spark erupts and drags him into pure bliss.

He feels that his arousal leaks, his breeches way too tight to hide it, his fingers dig into her supple skin, but she gives no complaints. He watches breathlessly through his hooded eyelid as she grinds against him, then looks over her bouncing breasts, her nipples pebbled, and the pressure curls somewhere down his spine. She peppers him with kisses — the angles of his face, neck, everything that she can reach, except for his desirous mouth. And yet the softness of her lips and hands, her skin that’s draped with the redolent scent, the rhythm of her hips all bring him closer to the edge.

Her forehead is pressed to his, their lips an inch away but never fully touching. “Let go for me,” she says against his mouth, “My handsome, fierce dragon.”

That does it for him. He harshly presses her to him, then shudders with a strangled moan and comes undone, his eye squeezed shut as her name quivers in his mouth. The pleasure whirls him in and leaves him drained and stunned, a little bit light-headed.

It takes Aemond a minute to recover before he finds her gaze again — and in another minute he discerns her shallow breaths, her parted lips, brows slightly furrowed. He wants to ask her if she reached her peak, if he can help her with it —

but she pulls back.

She stands up and only briefly grabs his shoulder, steadying herself, then promptly puts the straps back on, fixing her dress. He wants to lend a hand but she moves it away, leaning in to lightly caress his face. “No, you don’t get to have me yet. I want you to admit it first, to say that you want me,” her words are laced with dignity but cooling to his mind.

She steps back, cruelly fast, the only consolation is her naughty tone. “Until then, I have to satisfy myself some other way. But I will think of you while doing it, my dear prince,” she promises, a ghost of a smile on her lips, and then walks out without looking back.

The silence feels unwelcome in the room and hangs over the ceiling like a cloud, but Aemond he is too dazed to move, spent and perplexed to wrap his head around it.

Desire, it seems, has come to stay.

But it’s not the only thing he’s feeling.

✧... YES, there will be a second part, it’s already in the works! ✧ and yes, I didn’t bother to rename Pedro’s character 'cause I adore Oberyn sue me

✧ just to clarify, I usually age Aemond up to 20 (or however old Ewan looks to you ;) ✧ I got inspired after watching the video for ROSALÍA’s “La Fama” (give it a watch, she is soooo 🥵) but I only found it because of this gorgeous gifset so shout-out to OP for giving me inspiration

✧ my recent fic (couples who kill together, stay together 🔥) ✧ my masterlist

thank you @amiraisgoingthruit for letting me tag you in every silly story of mine, hope you’ll like this one (if anyone else wants to be tagged, don’t be shy)

English is not my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any major mistakes. reblogs and comments are very much appreciated!

[girlokwhatever]

please please do a kate martin being jealous ( smut if you would want to write it) 🙏🙏

yk i’m a sucker for jealous!kate

࣭ ⭑｡‧🍓ɞ˚‧｡⋆⍣ all mine,,

kate martin x fem!reader

you and kate had gone with the rest of the team out to a local bar that everyone liked. the majority of everyone was tipsy by now and couldn’t take anything seriously.

kate was telling you how beautiful you looked when a girl she didn’t know walked up to the bar next to you, wrapping her arm around your shoulders. the girl also managed to wedge her way between you and your girlfriend, which kate did not like at all.

before either of you really knew what was happening the girl (your classmate from last semester, ally) was pleading with you to dance and pulling you off of your chair. kate tried to grab you and pull you back in, but ally was persistent.

your girlfriend watched you mingle with the other dancing bodies, missing the feeling of you next to her. she decided to turn towards jada, talking to her about anything that came to mind. it didn’t aid much in taking her mind off of you though; every few seconds she’d turn her head to see where you were now.

the longer you were gone, the more jealous and upset kate got. the girl just pulled you away, never even sparing kate a ‘hello.’ kate looked back at you for what felt like the millionth time that minute and saw ally swaying and grinding her hips down on your own. you were attempting to yell something at ally but she wasn’t paying any mind.

your girlfriend saw red, stalking her way through the crowd. her eyes never left you and your predicament, which only made her anger boil over what she could handle. kate hardly ever got like this, so when she pulled you into her chest you had to do a double take and make sure it was actually her.

“don’t touch my girlfriend, okay?”

you were hoping kate would find her way to you. for the past twenty minutes you’d been stuck between two unmoving bodies. when you tried telling ally to back off a bit, she just kept going. so even though kate came to your rescue, you didn’t think she’d be so confrontational.

but when it came to you, nothing was impossible for kate.

“don’t do this here, kate. you’ll cause a scene.”

“i don’t care. you’re mine.”

kate had too much to drink to handle this situation the way she normally would if she was sober, so you tried to tug her away. you succeeded, efficiently pulling her away from ally and out of the bar.

“why’d you let her flirt with you?”

you and kate had been walking back to the dorms for a few minutes. she hadn’t talked until now and you hadn’t either, unsure of what to say.

“obviously i didn’t want her to kate. i couldn’t get off the dance floor.”

“it wasn’t obvious.” she’s being short with you, keeping her head forward even though she’s addressing you. you understand where she’s coming from and you also know you probably won’t be able to reach a consensus with her until she wakes up tomorrow less drunk, but you still try anyway.

“kate.” you hold her hand and pull her to a stop in front of you. she’s finally looking at you and notices you look a bit disheveled (but still pretty as ever.)

“what?”

“i’m yours. you know im yours. i wasn’t trying to do anything with her, im sorry.”

kate knows you’re being truthful. she feels her heartbeat pick up when you say you’re hers and only hers.

“you’re all mine.”

“all yours, martin.”

“babe please don’t call me that, it sounds nasty.”

༉‧₊˚.·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

this was certainly without a doubt terrible and i promise i will do another jealous!kate later

like pls you guys i need jealousy scenario ideas

[thebadboyfanclub]

This Is What You Deserve (Daemon x Reader)

Look man you don't choose when the smut will come to you, it just does. This was requested by anon and @ladystrongofharrenhall which I feel the need to apologise cause it like barely is what you requested, if you feel like you don’t like it please let me know and we can figure out something else for me to write for you.

“The dowager lady of Harrenhall, (y/n) Strong with her son and heir Arryan Strong”

The man introduced the lady dressed in all black that stood before the iron throne with a toddler holding her hand that was dressed in deep blue, a spitting image of his father, soft curls fell directly on his face and eyes that had stolen the color right out of the deep sea.

The lady bowed before the king that had invited her to court after the incident that had occurred in Harrenhall, within the night she had lost her husband and good father, both of them gave their lives to save her and her son, now she was in kings landing for the first time since her wedding.

“My king, it is very thoughtful of you to invite me to your court”

“Nonsense, your husband was one of the most trusted men within the gold cloaks and his father was a good friend of mine, last time I saw you you were dressed in all white”

“A lot has changed since then I am afraid”

“Indeed, I grief for the loss you have suffered, I summoned you to offer you a place in my court, under my protection, your born family has been an ally since the beginning, your son will be my cupbearer and will receive the same education as every noble boy and you can live within the castle as the queens' companion”

“Your honor me, your grace, it gladdens my heart that you thought of us amongst the countless matters that demand the kings' attention”

(Y/n) had learned from a very young age that a lady was to act a certain way, she had just lost the earth from underneath her feet, left with a son in her arms and a scandal on her back that she had to shield him from, she could feel every pair of eyes on her back, all of them like crows that waited for a sign of weakness, she would not give them that satisfaction, not today, not ever.

“The servants will lead you to your chamber, I believe your travel is quite long”

“Indeed, thank you, my king”

“My king”

Sweet Arryans voice was heard as he bowed in unison with his mother, a boy of 4 years of age, he was (y/n)s sun and moon, anything and everything she did she did it to make sure his future is secured and his present time is as happy as it could be amongst the chaos.

-

“My boy”

“Mother!”

Little Arryan ran to his mother and hugged her as tightly as his little arms could although he could not completely wrap them around (y/n)s hips since this was the height that he was.

(Y/n) scooped up her son to check for any injuries or some type of harm, (y/n) had attempted to stay calm and calculated in front of the court, however, imagine her surprise when she left her little boy with Baela and Rhaena to play together and when she came back Baela told her that their father Daemon had taken Arryan up on Caraxes.

“You looked tiny from up there”

“I did, didn’t I? Let’s go inside now”

“You are welcome, I am sure that was a moment the child will never forget”

(Y/n) was fuming, Daemon had approached her a few morrows ago to offer his condolences, being a widower himself he could indenting the struggle and pressure she was under, at the time she faintly smiled and curtsied to thank him.

Now (y/n)s eyes threw a dagger and her lips were a thin line, how dare he so arrogantly demand a thank you for putting her child in danger? Arryan wasn't a Targaryen, nor was he a kin to Daemon, the possibility of Caraxes to harm the child was huge.

“Baela, take Arryan inside, I shall be with you in a moment”

Her voice grew cold, and the surroundings were resembling of a cloud closing in and overshadowing the sun, like a warning of a strong that gathered around Daemon's head who seemed clueless of the warning signs that he is daughters picked up so easily that got them almost running away from themselves

“Have you lost your mind?”

“Excuse me?”

“Who gave you the authority to take my son up on that beast with you?”

“You should feel flattered, he is one of the few people that get to say that they have gone up on a dragon”

“I know that your family likes to frown down upon us from your mighty dragons but listen to me well, my son is the future lord of Harrenhall and the carries my born name of Featherdall, we were the biggest army Aegon the conqueror had on his side when he took over the seven kingdoms, so the next time you even think of coming around me and my son with your high and mighty attitude I would advise you to think how well would it go for you if you angered the house that put you up on that throne, got it?”

Daemon was stunned, he just stared at the lady that stood before him with her breath heavy and audible enough for everyone to feel her fury, she wasn’t a dragon but Daemon swore he could see fire in her hues, no one had dared to speak to the rogue prince this way, still there she was, commanding him and keeping her head up high, not an ounce of doubt or fear in sight.

“Yes, my lady”

“That’s what I thought”

-

“Alright my love, let me tuck you in”

“Momma, can I go up to the dragon again?”

“I am not sure sweetling, the prince is a busy man”

“But he said he will find time whenever I want”

“Did you like the dragon that much?”

“Uh-huh, you said Papa is up in the sky, I wanted for him to see me better”

(Y/n) was speechless, tears welling up in her eyes at the doting explanation her son had given her, she could detect the joy the little boy had experienced that day, she had not seen him this happy since Harwin was alive.

“Go to bed now, I will ask Prince Daemon on the morrow”

“Thank you, momma, goodnight”

“Goodnight my love”

Regret took over her body and soul like poison, she lost composure and talked back to a royal, she did not even take a minute to think of how did Arryan end up on the dragon, (y/n) had switched to defense mode the moment she saw the humongous animal land and did not care of anything else besides that her child could have been harmed.

Daemon could not find sleep, he tossed and turned for hours but his mind was occupied with playing (y/n)s speech over again instead of leaving him to rest, she was fuming however there was something in the way she looked at him, at the trembling tone of her voice that Daemon could empathize with… grief.

It was almost like the Gods had orchestrated it, leaving them restless and wandering in the gardens with the encounter that had a sour taste in their mouths.

Daemon was the one that noticed her figure sitting down on the bench, a silk cape covering her as her hair was down instead of a tight undo like it was in the morning, he chose to remain silent as he approached slowly and sat next to her, (y/n) did not turn to look at the prince, something told her exactly whom it was.

“I am sorry, I should have not talked to you that way, it was entirely inappropriate”

“You were defending your child, I should have asked permission to take him with me. I understand why you lost your temper”

“Sometimes I dream of putting him in a bubble, to keep him from… harm”

Her voice cracked once more, at that little word so many emotions were hidden, love, fear, anger, confusion, Daemon looked at her side profile while the moonlight caressed her cheeks, the difference of expression between the lady he met in daylight was tremendous, she had lived every day in agony but painted a smile for her son, now he could see the true cracks.

“Why did you come back to kings Landing? Harrenhal might have been better?”

“The king summoned us, Harwin and I had never presented our son to the court, now I had to make sure he was established as the future lord of the house strong”

“Did you love him? Harwin”

“Deeply, he treated me with kindness and respect”

“I don’t know how much respect did he show to your wedlock, especially with all the whispers that surrounded his name”

“Harwin was a wonderful man, I lost three children before we had Arryan, my father told him that he would understand if Harwin wished to leave our marriage, still he stood by me and loved me”

“Is that what love is to you? A man sticking at your side while he has other children”

“I will not let you taint my dead husbands' name, I have already apologized why are you trying to get me riled up again?”

“I’m not”

(Y/n) scoffed at Daemon's protest and got up so she can get some distance from him, her back was now facing him and Daemon realized he was pressing down on a wound that was still tender, it was not his place to question their marriage since he has two on his back.

“I just, you are a young lady you certainly deserve more than the bare minimum?”

“Bare minimum? Are you even aware of what most women have to put up with when it comes to their husbands? Beatings, embarrassment, constant pregnancies, bastards, public belittling, Harwin treated me with care, he was sweet and offered me much more than any woman could ever wish for”

“He fucked Rhaenyra”

The harsh slap against Daemon's cheek was heard loudly around the garden, even (y/n) was taken back by her action, she did not understand why he kept pressuring her, like a knife that he had stabbed her with and now he kept twisting it around, Harwin was nowhere near perfect but there was a level of understanding between them, he kept her away from the dramatics and carefree enough, why was Daemon kept nitpicking at her?

Daemon's eyes grew wide, it stung but it did not hurt him, was most shocking, they both gawked at one another waiting for someone to do or say something, maybe it was (y/n)s sudden rush of emotion that compelled him to do the same or just him being compulsive, whatever it was that took over it was strong enough to push her against the nearest wall and plant the most passionate kiss (y/n) had ever experienced, at first she froze still the heat that radiated from his hands as they roamed her body and the strength his kiss held sweetened the moment and she closed her eyes, in a way one would say she surrendered.

“This is what you deserve”

Daemon growled as the kisses went down from her lips to the nape of her neck, Harwin was a sweet lover, his touch was soft, and (y/n) was taken care of, however (y/n) could see that it lacked in passion, he did not yearn for her, it was just another way to show her that he loved her.

“We could get caught”

“Not if you are quiet”

That would have been a piece of wonderful advice had he not made it so difficult by thrusting intensely, she whimpered from pleasure while her nails dug deep into his skin and drew blood, she even bit her lip to the point of bleeding to prevent herself from letting the whole keep know how much she was enjoying this, she had never felt what it was like to be craved, wanted, needed even, Harwin loved her still his body did not weaken at the sight of her nakedness nor did his hues darkened during their sacred bedding.

Daemon's eyes were as dark as the deep waters of the ocean, his grip on her waist was ironlike, and his body collided with hers while she hoisted up her leg to his waist for more access and comfortability, the match was resembling the concept of throwing fire to gasoline.

“Please Daemon”

“You sound so pretty when you beg”

Both of them were out of breath but kept pushing, their bodies acted like they knew each other for years, that this was a normal day for them, they instinctively were conscious of how the other liked to be touched, kissed, gazed upon, it was addicting, it was (y/n)s first time of feeling like the queen of the world and Daemons first time that he wanted to over-perform, to fill every need and tend to her every desire.

“Hush”

He shushed her when a yield escaped her lips as she reached her end, he kissed her once more as she moaned in his mouth, his pace slowed and both of their bodies relaxed when they rode the pleasure at the very last wave of it.

“Do you now understand what I meant when I said that you were getting the bare minimum?”

Daemon whispered in her ear before he left a kiss on her cheek, her face glowing and wet from droplets.

“Yes”

“You are burning up”

(Y/n) was sweating profusely, although Daemon wanted to take a good look at her, to remember the moment that a faint smile decorated her lips as she grew tired but her body was relaxed as it was used to the very bit of its powers, Daemon softly blew some air at the side of her neck to cool her, though all it did was compel her body to grow goosebumps and shake.

“Stop, it tickles, you are no better either, you are a sweaty mess”

“The sweat of a champion, anyone that would even glance at you would see how content you are”

“And you are not? You are still inside of me”

“I must admit, it is like a nice warm hug”

(Y/n) pushed him off at the cheeky comparison making him giggle, she fixed her dress to hide most of the damage while Daemon pulled his trousers up and buttoned up the shirt with the few buttons that were left since (y/n) had ripped it open.

“We must go”

“I will collect Arryan on the morrow after I break my fast”

“And who told you you could do that?”

“No one, I assumed I get privileges when you were holding on to me for dear life whilst I-“

“Alright alright, I will see you on the morrow”

Requests are open!

[why-what-no]

New Obsession

Pairing: Captain James Hook x Reader, Former Peter Pan x Reader

Warnings: Smut, Swearing, Attempted Murder, Dacryphilia

Notes: guys, I finally posted something for the first time in a while! You proud of me?? Sorry for disappearing, I had so much going on irl, but I’ve got a bunch of spare time over the next while so I’m gonna try to get back into writing more often and finally getting through the last couple of requests I haven’t finished yet :):)

Summary: Having visited Neverland many times before as a child, she returned to Neverland after growing and was struck with the realization that it wasn’t what she remembered. Pan was no longer her anchor and protector, and she was forced to realize that everything on the island is a danger to her. Except for, to her surprise, the gentleman pirate whom she used to be terrified of

All around (Y/N), the pirates were reveling on the deck of the Jolly Roger, completely unaware of the way her mind was racing. Her heart heavy as the thoughts of Peter crushed her. The lost boy never stayed away from her thoughts for long, always returning with some good memories as well as the more recent terrible ones.

"Please tell me you forgive me, lost girl." His green eyes were filled with tears and his voice breaking as he held her down against the bed, dagger in his raised hand. Preparing to plunge it down into her heart, a betrayal worse than anything she had ever experienced. "I have to do this. I have to! But I couldn't live if you don't forgive me."

The heartbroken sound in his voice and look on his face made her want to forgive him; an automatic reaction that made her feel sick. Disgusted in herself and her weakness. Did she truly love that boy – any boy – so much that she could forgive him for her murder? With no explanation or attempt at redemption?

But she didn't give him a reply, and when he faltered, she ran. And now, she was with the people she had once considered her enemies. To an extent, they still were, of course. But they were also now her best hope for allies against Peter – against Pan – on this island. And there was something about the forget-me-not blue of their captain's eyes... they almost made her forget that the color green existed.

Now, those eyes were staring at her from the other side of the deck, as Hook sat in his captain's chair, gazing intensely at (Y/N) without any emotions on his face. His crew was cheering and grinning around him, but he didn't even spare them a glance.

It almost made her tense up, she wasn't used to feeling such vulnerability, pinned under the gaze of a man like Hook. She remembered him vaguely from when she was a young girl, although she had never actually interacted with him until the week she had left. He had seemed so old to her, so scary and untouchable. Peter had always encouraged her to feel that way.

Maybe that was why she felt like he was gazing into her soul. Because few people had known her that young, and the ones that did were all either her dearest allies or worst enemies. At the moment, Hook was neither. And so she didn't quite know how to feel about him. There were no boxes to put him into in her head.

But unfortunately for her sanity and dignity, there were words to explain the unsettled allure that his gaze made her feel in the pit of her stomach.

It didn’t help that he looked so… enticing. Strong and angular features, and a gracefulness in the way he moved. Everything was deliberate with him, every action purposeful and stayed in her mind for longer that it should. His pale skin stood in contrast to his long dark hair, cascading over his face and framing those hypnotic forget-me-not blue eyes. 

He stood up, drawing glances from his crew but quickly being ignored again when they recognized that he wasn't about to give any announcements. No, only (Y/N) was looking at him as he made his way towards her. Like a large cat, a mountain lion or a panther ready to pounce. To tear her apart.

But he didn't, merely stopped in front of her, leaning forward as the girl looked up into his eyes. It wasn't that he completely towered over her, but his regality, his aura of power made her feel like he did. "And are you enjoying this evening?" He asked, whispering into her ear. The sound of his voice and the warmth of his breath so close making her nearly shiver.

"Yes." She replied, taking care that her voice sounded even and calm. Trying to ignore how fast her heart was beating, how she had never felt an affect like this before. Like he was a flame that could burn her any second.

Hook's lips curved into a small smile. "Wonderful, a lady such as yourself deserves a fine celebration." His gleaming hook moved to hover against her back, keeping it at a respectful distance. But even though it wasn't touching her, she could practically feel the coolness of the metal against her clothes. It took all her control not to lean into his touch.

"Thank you." She responded, doing her utmost best not to look at him while his eyes stayed glued to her face. "Although I might go to bed soon. I've had enough excitement for the day, I think."

"Of course." Hook responded in a voice that possibly sounded almost... disappointed? "I shall give you the space to relax now, and make sure none of my pirates bother..."

"No -"

(Y/N) mentally slapped herself at her quiet outburst as Hook paused, raising an eyebrow at her.

"No?"

"I..." She could feel warmth on the back of her neck, praying that she was wasn't turning red. "You're fine. I don't mind your company. I don't... you can stay if you want."

What she really wanted was to jump into the ocean out of sheer mortification and let the mermaids drag her down to the depths. She wouldn't even try to kick or scream.

But Hook just looked surprised, beginning to smile once again.

The man offered her his hand, not his hook like he normally did when he wanted to lead her somewhere. It was surprisingly warm, and so gentle. The callouses that came from sword-work were there, but they felt more like the hands of a musician, a writer. That was the one thing that surprised her the most about Hook, he was a gentleman as much as he was a pirate. Equal parts savage and refined.

Perhaps that was what drew her towards him. She knew he could treat her better than any man she knew... and hurt her worse. He made her feel small beside him, but so important.

"Come with me." He told her, and she immediately followed. Letting him hold her hand and lead her towards the captain's quarters.

It was quiet when they got inside, the large and elegant room surprisingly soundproof. Letting go of her hand, he gestured around the room, giving her permission to look around. "Forgive me for my forwardness, but I couldn't bear the thought of forcing you to sleep in the crew's quarters during your time here. You may take my bed if you wish, I rarely use it."

"Where will you sleep?" (Y/N) asked, walking over to the large bed and sitting down on it, facing Hook.

"I have a nasty habit of falling asleep at my desk, my dear." He chuckled for a moment, before tensing up once again. "But if you would prefer to spend your nights alone, I shall disappear until you wake."

She shook her head. "No, it's alright. It's your room, Captain."

"James." He replied.

"What?"

He stepped closer. "My name is James Hook, or has Pan not told you that already?" The captain walked over to his table to pour each of them wine into glasses made from large glimmering seashells.

The lost boy hadn't told (Y/N) that. "He mostly told me stories of your rather violent pursuits. Pan very much wanted me to know that you would torture and kill me if I ever spoke to you. That you were a beast who took pleasure in the pain of others."

"Ah." James Hook said, handing her the wine. "No doubt to make sure your loyalty was to him only."

He was probably right. And (Y/N) was just disappointed that it took so long for her to realize that. So many people had attempted to do that to her in her life, to twist her reasoning and manipulate her into thinking that they were the only people she could trust. And for some reason, Peter had succeeded so easily. Perhaps it was her young age and inexperience, but at that point in her life she should have already known better. Or perhaps it was love that made her blind.

"So, you're telling me that it was all a lie? All his stories about you."

He chuckled, standing over her sitting form while taking a sip of his wine. Her hands were folded almost docilely in her lap as she looked up at him, taking in his elegant features. "The stories were true, I assume. I've done enough pillaging in my lifetime that there are any number of truthful tales for that boy-demon to share with his followers."

He paused.

"However." He smirked down at her, before reaching down to slip a finger under her chin. (Y/N) looked down and away as he did that, cheeks warm but not pushing away his touch. At her lack of pushback, he used those fingers to tilt her head upwards so that he could make sure she continued to stay captivated by his intense blue stare, using his thumb to gently stroke along her chin. She could feel how close his touch was to her lips, and she pressed her thighs together instinctually. "I would never dream of killing a precious jewel such as yourself. And thought of your torture brings me great pain." Hook said to her, almost like a whisper. She didn't reply, too caught off guard by the intimacy in his touch. As well as by the dark desire that he was instilling in her.

But for a brief moment, Hook saw her silence as discomfort. "Forgive me my forwardness." He murmured, stepping just out of reach. His hand by his side once more. A sight that felt so unbearable to (Y/N) that a rush of shame overtook her for a second. She was now she was buckling under the weight of a pirate's glance. Of his quick and gentle touches.

"It's alright." She replied, trying to reassure him that she didn't mind his ‘forwardness’. "Do you want to sit? With me?" She patted a spot beside her on the bed, displaying a forwardness of her own. Not wanting him to have to continue standing (and it was easier for her to speak when he wasn't standing over her), and not wanting him to be far from her.

His surprise at her offer morphed into a small grin as he sat down right beside her. "Thank you, dearest." He faced her while sitting, his whole body turned towards her like a moon orbiting a planet. "You are very kind."

(Y/N) doubted that. Most of her kindness was born from selfish reasons. Mainly, the selfish desire to pull him close to her and get him to make her forget about what was happening in Neverland. "Thank you... James."

He smiled as she spoke his proper name. "I can see why Pan was so immediately taken with you."

And there it was. Pan was like a dark cloud constantly following her, and with Hook's obsession in the boy, perhaps he wasn't the best person to distract her from him.

(Y/N)’s distaste of the mention of Pan's name seems to be visible on her face. "My apologies." Hook murmured, reaching forward to take her hand in his. "I should not have mentioned him to you."

"I just... I don't understand why he would do it. I loved him. He loved me."

"He's not capable of love." Hook told her gently, seemingly believing his words. "It's the price he paid for everlasting life."

"He was. He was capable. It was just... innocent love. Childhood love. And besides, he's older now, we both are. Even you've admitted that things on Neverland aren't what you thought anymore." (Y/N) felt ashamed of her outburst. Ashamed that Pan could pull those emotions out of her.

The pirate captain just looked at her, a sort of resigned look on his face that she couldn't quite decipher. "Of course." He nodded. "You may be right. I'd apologize for my impudence, but I worry that you might be tired of my apologies by now."

"You don't have to apologize. You didn't do anything wrong." The girl sighed. "I just don't want to talk about Peter Pan right now."

"Then what would you wish to speak about? Anything you wish to say will be satisfactory to me."

There was something about Hook's attention, his habit of doing or saying exactly the right thing that made her trust him even less and desire him even more. "I don't know. Tell me a story? If you have any?"

He chuckled. "Many more than most people, my dear. Despite this island and it's promised youth, I'm practically an old man now." The sound of his voice was a little bit self-deprecating.

"I wouldn't say that." (Y/N) denied. Maybe he was older that the children on the island, but it wasn't like he was some decrepit old man who was losing his functions. He was... striking.

"No, no, my dear. It's true." He told her, still holding her hand gently. "Growing up is a nasty business. I'm sure you are aware of what I say. All those pesky feelings, the energy of childhood sapped away."

The girl opened her mouth but closed it again. Maybe it was his warm hand stroking hers, the glint of his hook in the candlelight, his intense blue eyes staring into hers. It felt like she had no self-control. It suddenly felt like whatever answer she gave was an important one. It could lead in any direction. And as for the direction she was secretly hoping for....

"It's not all bad." She slid closer to him. "You still have your energy, I'll bet." And all the things that he could do with that energy raced through her head. "You're the most feared and respected pirate on Neverland."

"And those feelings..." She felt like she was regaining some control as she took his hand that previously covered her and gently rested it on her thigh, keeping eye contact with him as she did. "They're not all bad." She barely breathed with nervous anticipation, waiting to see what the pirate did next.

He was certainly surprised, that much was clear on his face. But as the gleam in his eyes grew more intense, she couldn't bring herself to regret what she did.

His hand slid up her thigh, slowly. (Y/N) was pinned under his gaze as her breathing became heavier. She shivered as he skilfully undid the button to her trousers, and without thinking, she reached up to touch his face.

Never in her dreams had she thought she would ever see this man in this way. He had always been the scary pirate, the dark villain of her hero's stories. But as he leaned into her touch as she cupped his cheek, she couldn't help but pull him forward to kiss him.

He immediately reciprocated. And even more, he did exactly what she was hoping for. Taking over control of the situation and moving his hand so that it was buried into her hair, tugging her as close to him as possible.

She moaned as he pulled on her hair, grabbing at his coat for stability. Gone was the caution and gentlemanly politeness that Hook had been displaying, she could only see the dark pirate captain as he bit her lip and rested his hook against her neck.

She knew she was putting herself in danger by touching him, kissing him like this. Like Icarus soaring too close to the sun. But he already had her caught in his orbit.

"I can't say I expected this, my dear. No idea that you wanted the touch of a pirate so badly." Hook said, his breath warm against her lips. "Although I am certainly not displeased."

"I just want your touch." She replied breathlessly as he moved his mouth down to her throat, nipping at her neck and kissing along her collarbone. Pulling her hair so that she was made to tilt her head back to give him better access.

He chuckled, enjoying her honesty and desperation. "And you'll get it. All night you'll get my touch, until you beg for me to stop. Until we leave this room or you tell me to let you go... you're mine." He let go of her. "Lie down on the bed. And don't make me ask twice."

The speed in which she obeyed only made the lustful darkness in his eyes grow. As she laid down, she watched him raise himself so that he hovered over her, kneeling with his legs encasing hers. His shape of his thighs were visible through his pants, as was the growing bulge of his cock. She couldn’t help but glance at it.

“Any man who had the honour of seeing you like this would be blessed by Poseidon himself.” Hook murmured to her, running his hand along her side and grabbing at her hip, leaning over to kiss her deeply, harshly.

She watched him as he unbuttoned her shirt, leaning forward to he could remove it. (Y/N) was half naked below him, revealed and vulnerable but it only made the electric feeling in the lower part of her stomach stronger. Made her even more wet.

And Hook could tell. “But you’re not innocent at all, my love. You want me to make you beg for me, don’t you?”

She nodded as he pressed kisses along her stomach until he reached her breast. Taking one of her nipples into his mouth, licking and tugging at it with his teeth as he groped at the other.

He chuckled against her chest as she gasped at his touch. The vibration of the sound reverberating against her body, feeling like it went straight between her thighs.

She took initiative and kicked off her trousers herself. Reaching up to bury her hands in Hooks hair, pulling him into a kiss.

“I might not ever anyone take you away from me, love.” He growled as she tugged at his dark curls. “I’ll keep you all to myself.” He kept running his hand over her body, driving her wild as her touched her. Somehow intuitively knowing all the spots that could turn her on.

However, once her pants were fully gone, he immediately turned his attention to her soaked cunt. (Y/N) was grateful that there was a party on the deck above them, she wasn’t able to fully cover up her moans as James Hook pressed his face against her core.

She held on to his hair tightly, trying to gain some type of stability as his tongue pressed against her clit and into her cunt. “So wet.” He smirked. “All for me? You filthy girl.”

He added a finger only a second later, doing everything he could to remove any thoughts from her brain. Wanting pleasure to be her only sensation. There was something about her that made him go feral, wanting to make this succubus of a women moan and cry for him all night and every night.

“Please.” She begged, tears pricking at her eyes at the onslaught of satisfaction that the pirate captain was giving her. “I want you, please James.”

The sight of her tears only turned him on more, and so he submitted to her pleads. “You want me to fuck you, love? Is that right? You want me to make you come so hard that I ruin any other man for you? To make you mine?”

“Yes.” She let out a gasping sob. “Please.”

“Your wish is my command.” Hook grinned darkly, finally pressing his cock against her folds and pushing inside quickly. He wanted to spilt her open, wanted to make her go brainless for him.

She dug her nails into his back as he rocked in and out of her. He delighted in her moans, at the look on her face as he took her closer and closer to her climax.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had someone as seductive as her in his arms, couldn’t remember the last time that fucking someone felt as good as it did as he plunged his cock into this woman.

Everything about her drew him in, and this obvious confirmation that she desired him as well only served to make him need her more. He grew even harder at the thought of doing this with her again. Of holding her tightly as he fucked into her whenever they wanted.

And (Y/N) could barely think that far ahead with how good Hook was making her feel. It felt as though there was nothing in her brain at all except for the thought of how his cock felt rubbing against the walls of her cunt, of hitting her g-spot as he slammed into her. His fingers rubbed her clit as he did, and she could feel her orgasm approaching.

Hook could too. “Do you want to come, my dear?” He asked her, his hook right beside her face, the glean of the lantern next to them gleaming off of it. “Have you been good enough to be allowed to come?”

She nodded quickly, looking into his gorgeous blue eyes desperately. When he told her she could come, the coil that had been building and building within her finally released, and Hook had to muffle her scream of pleasure with a kiss. If they had been alone on the island, he would have been delighted at the noises he was pulling out of her, but he didn’t want one of his pirates rushing in and interrupting them.

The look on her face as she came was more satisfying that any treasure to him, and couldn’t help but kiss her forehead and face as she caught her breath

(Y/N) collapsed against the bed as he did. “You were perfect, my darling.” James murmured to her, moving away to grab a towel to clean her up.

“So were you.” She smiled at him, relaxed as her mind began to return to her. “Although I can now understand why Pan called you a beast.”

Hook chuckled, his gaze was soft as he leaned down to kiss her. “No more talk of Pan.” He told her. “Peter Pan doesn’t need to be thought of at this moment. You… you are my new obsession.”

And he lay next to her in the bed, felt her against his side, remembered the feeling of her around his cock, those words were true to him.

Taglist: @fictional-hooman @norman891 @fairynook @dark-academia-slut @silverhart93

[mncxbe]

UGH IM LOVING ALL THE SUB AKU FICS you write him so well!! I wanna request one where he's getting a bj and he cries from pleasure

TYSM ANON you're so sweet and oh my your request got me so giddy. hope you like it mwuah♡♡

°☆○

Girl dinner♡

𝑨𝒌𝒖𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒘𝒂 𝒙 𝒇𝒆𝒎! 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

𝑮𝒆𝒏𝒓𝒆: smutty smut♡/ head is therapeutical

Akutagawa was a cold, ruthless man, feared by both his enemies and allies, raised to fight for the Port Mafia. That's why he never expected to fall so madly, clumsily, agonisingly in love with you.

He was like putty in your hands, always deliciously responsive to every little touch or praise you granted him. Even now, as you stood on your knees in front of him- right cheek pressed against his clothed thigh, hand lazily stroking his painfully hard dick, a coy smile stretching the corners of your lips- Akutagawa couldn't help but tense up:

Ragged breath, quivering lips pressed tightly in a futile attempt to contain those sweet sounds you so wanted to hear, fingers digging into the linen couch; this just wouldn't do.

"Relax baby. I'm just tryna make you feel good" you said softly and he immediately complied, as if your silken voice had him under a spell. You finally removed your head from his thigh, scooting closer to his dick and traced your tongue from its base to the leaking tip; earning a helpless groan from your boyfriend.

"You like it hm?" you purred and he nodded weakly. One of his hands came to rest atop your head, lithe fingers threading lightly through your hair as he guided your mouth back to his tip. You gave it a few licks, relishing the high-pitched hiss that rolled past his lips before taking him in your mouth.

Akutagawa's grip on your hair tightened when he felt your mouth around him, trying to refrain himself from pushing your head lower. You went at your own pace for a while, bobbing your head up and down his length as he tried his best to remain quiet, desperately holding on to his last shred of pride.

But soon enough, as always, his composure crumbled; both of his hands coming to rest on the sides of your head as he thrust his hips into your mouth. You gave his thigh a reassuring squeeze and rolled your sweet tongue around his tip, coaxing a needy moan from him. His mindless babbles and whimpers got louder and louder with each sloppy thrust as he pushed himself closer to his high.

Unbeknown to you, fat tears were pooling at his lashline, threatening to spill. Akutagawa knew how pathetic his current state was, shame rooting itself in his core as he choked up thank yous and praises for you. You moaned on his dick at the sound of his quivering voice and delicious pants- the last drop in his cocktail of pleasure- and he spilled in your mouth, painting it white with his cum.

The fierce grip on your hair finally loosened and you rose your head only to be met with his teary expression. A chuckle escaped your lips as you rested your head back on his thigh, smiling up at him.

"Ryuu you ok?" you asked softly to which he simply nodded, trembling fingers wiping the dried tears at the corner of his eyes.

"Yea I just..." he sighed, averting his gaze. Frankly, there was nothing he wanted more than to lock himself in the bathroom and remain hidden for the rest of eternity.

"You just what baby? Felt so good you ended up crying?" you pressed teasingly but he remained silent. Noting his lack of response you rose to standing and seized his chin as you leaned over his frame, forcing him to face you. And oh, how you loved the sight: eyes glistening with tears, brows scrunched up in disdainful expression, lips slightly parted as he tried to produce any sound except choked up babbles.

"Yea it felt that good" he eventually spoke up in a pleading voice. Akutagawa really didn't know what has gotten into him. It felt as if his brain had short-circuited and he was suffocating in desire. He was also aware of how hard he still was, tear stained cheeks flushing lightly as he took a deep breath in.

And then you lowered your gaze and noticed his throbbing erection, eyes gleaming with mischief as you tut disapprovingly.

"You're so needy, you know that baby?" you cooed while straddling his lap, earning a low hum from your boyfriend. Akutagawa's hands rested on your hips, drawing idle circles as he gazed up at you with those glassy eyes.

You leaned forward, pressing your lips against his in a tender kiss which he eagerly returned, pulling you flush against his chest and in that moment, between welling tears and burning desire Akutagawa knew he was irredeemably, hopelessly infautated with you.

[superblysubpar]

masterlist | the music

19.7k words | Sorry freaks, no smut this chapter - but the series is 18+ and so is my blog so skedaddle on out of here if you're not!

A/N: I have a really long one here - so I'll just say thank you once again and that I love you. Also, another special thank you to @sweetsweetjellybean and @loveshotzz💛💛

chapter warnings: very brief mention of religion (but not reader participating or believing in one in particular) | small mention/description of reader's maternal death and cancer symptoms | teeny tiny spoiler for the ending to the movie 'when harry met sally' | use of dialogue from the movie 'My Best Friends Wedding'

Why do we want to believe in things like fate or destiny - divine intervention? Why do some put their faith in religions with blind following? Why do we look to the stars in moments of despair, when we’re desperate for hope, when we’re lost? 

We seek out answers from something we can’t see but we want to believe in. Whether it’s a fortune cookie in your take out, a penny head’s up on the sidewalk, a community of like minded souls coming together for prayer or worship, or a horoscope you read on your morning Instagram scroll - the reasons have to be the same for choosing to believe, for the hope that starts to rise in you for the promise these things try to offer. 

We look for solutions to problems. We need reason. We need purpose. We need to feel like we’re not alone. We need confirmation that it’s all gonna work out even though nothing can really guarantee that. 

When you look up at the stars that work hard to shine through clouds and a full moon, your chest rises with air trying to fill your lungs and you wonder if they’re up there. Your eyes blink up at that indigo sky, searching. Steve sits next to you and Leigh waves, whispering their hellos. His hand rests next to yours on the plaid blanket, he clears his throat and straightens his shoulders. It’s all too stiff, too on edge, and you hate it. That attempted deep breath is unsuccessful, lungs deflating as it catches in your throat, and your thoughts wander back to the stars again. They wander to him, and them, and seek answers. 

What if they are up there, watching, like it’s one of those movies your mom was always putting on and your dad and you boo’d at from your spot playing cards. When he walked in with her with that on her finger, your mom would have gasped, she would have paused the movie, she would have yelled at you and your dad about the plot. She would have thrown popcorn at the TV and declared there’s something going on, he couldn’t, no way - there was no way. She’d have calmed herself down, rationalized there was still time left, gone to the pantry for more chocolate, kissed the top of your head and your dad’s cheek as she passed. By the end of the film, her prediction would have been right, she’d be crying and sighing at the couple who got their happy ending.

So could Steve declare his feelings for you here in a dramatic scene? Tell you it was all a big misunderstanding - that he’s sorry, that it was a rocky road but being together is worth fighting for? Could you leave here, hand in hand, as a top forty song plays and the credits roll? 

Of course not. 

Because this isn’t a rom com your mom would have loved. Life is not a movie full of soul-mates and cosmic connections. People like your parents are the exception to the rule. The couples who make it work - the ones who don’t let the trials of life take their love away like Allie and Noah, Kate and Sam, or Westley and Buttercup, are fictional characters. They’re stories to escape into when the despairing reality of yours is too much to read or write anymore. It’s exactly why you don’t like most movies or stories like theirs. Because eventually, the movies end, the credits do roll, and you have to face real life once again. Love like that doesn’t exist off the big screen, and you’re just kidding yourself when you fall into their traps. 

Knowing this simple fact of reality doesn’t stop the hope though. 

That painful, aching hope that clings to your skin like honey when you can feel the heat from his arm even through the sleeve of your sweater - like your bodies burn hotter when closer together - too close to the sun. It feeds the hope that your brain tries to squash away but your heart thuds harder for. The what if, what if, what if replacing each beat of it. Hope that makes you want to cry out ‘please let this just be a bad dream’ to the universe. Hope that tries, but can’t escape the gnawing pit in your stomach that’s growing wider, threatening to swallow you whole. Hope that makes you wonder why this can’t be a story - why can’t you just be the grandson, yelling at his grandfather that he can’t be telling it properly? Someone is getting the story wrong. He can’t be marrying her, you’re just sure of it. Screaming at him, at someone, to please, just get it right. 

You wonder if someone were watching, would they be feeling the despair you are? Is this the moment? That scene in the movies is always the gut punch - for the audience and the character. It’s meant to hurt, make you hold your breath. Made to be dramatic - yell at the screen, break your heart, make the character in the action get back up and fight. They’re moments made to ignite that hope - but really, it’s the double tap - coming right after the feeling catches flame, that’s made to shatter you completely. 

The moment that extinguishes the what if for all it’s worth. When the audience’s heart's already breaking for the grandson, only for the grandfather to ask who says life is fair? Where is that written? When the knife is entering your chest, but the mask falls and the killer turns out to be someone you thought you could trust. When you’re untethered in space only for your last moment of consciousness to be watching a friend cut the cord. The person who sucker punched you is now kicking you when you’re weak, taking it one step too far, leaving you crumpled on the mat. It’s all enough to make that fight, that urge to be angry instead of scared or hurt, disappear. It’s enough to knock you down so hard, you can’t possibly get back up - the hope is extinguished, and the story seemingly over. 

Robin squeals quietly, pulling Leigh’s hand across you to admire the ring, knocking Steve on the shoulder and saying something about the Dingus doing good. Your gaze flits down to the brown sugar and apple donuts in your lap, convinced you’re about to get sick right on top of them. Not because he’s marrying her, but because instead of being angry with him, you feel like you’ve been squashed, you’re hurt, you’re betrayed. Despite your better judgment, despite the past several years, you’ve let a man make you some pathetic, sad, heartbroken, and weak version of yourself. 

When Leigh’s hand retreats from Robin’s, lifting and curling a piece of hair behind her ear, diamond sparkling in the moonlight as she smiles over at Steve, your story’s end is written, and you need to accept it if you ever want some semblance of normalcy to return. You can’t lose him and them. But when Steve’s pinky brushes yours and you look over, his eyes resemble the broken beer bottle from the football game all those weeks ago. Shattered emerald and amber, cutting you to shreds with each shard of glass as he murmurs, “Can I tal-“

“I’ll be right back!” You whisper-shout, cutting him off and squeezing Robin’s shoulder as you get up. 

She yanks on your wrist, halting your attempt at an exit. Her eyes narrow as she interrogates, “Where are you going?”

Swallowing harshly as her blue eyes peer directly into your soul. She can probably smell the desire to run on you. Remembering your vow that Steve won’t take them away from you, a not quite a lie falls from your lips as you gesture to the concession food trucks, “You don’t have those cinnamon roasted almonds. They were my mom’s favorite and the smell is driving me crazy. Promise that’s all.”

“I swear to god, if you don’t come back, I will literally come stand outside your window on the sidewalk and scream-sing Monster Mash until someone calls the cops and I’ll drag you down with me.”

Her eyes blink, features incredibly serious despite the amusing threat. Your laugh mixes with Leigh’s and you ignore the shared moment, tugging your wrist free. “Would expect nothing less Robin.”

She motions she’s watching you, fingers to her eyes then yours, lips twitching in the corners before she turns back to the screen. 

Your feet feel heavy as they drag through the damp grass, and come to a stop to wait in line. It shouldn’t be a surprise after ordering when you hear his voice behind you. It floats through the air, soft, barely audible over the popping kettle corn, “I really didn’t know you’d be here. I wouldn’t have…” he sighs, settling on restating, “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

Your shoulders fall and your eyes stay focused on the truck. You’ve had time, since that night on the sidewalk, but your hurt still sits fresh under your layer of armor - tender like an open wound you need to keep protected. Your palms slide further under the sleeves of your sweater, clinging to the garment like the shield you’re willing it to be - you don’t want to fight with him anymore, no matter how hurt and angry you are. 

So the tone you respond with aches to sound indifferent, if not a tad harsh, reminding him you’re mad and pretending there isn’t any spark of hope within you still. It’s over, it has to be over, and all it ever was to him was something to kill time - fun and no strings exactly what you wanted. So your words are really just a reminder to yourself, another layer of the wall you need to keep up around him, “It’s fine Steve. Would have been nice to get a head’s up,” your shoulders shrug, “But, well, that’s probably too generous for the girl you were just fucking while waiting for the one, right?”

The people next to you clear their throats and you can’t find it in yourself to care, to be embarrassed. 

Steve moves in front of you, his face filling your vision. He shaved - no more scruff you like. His jeans are dark again, with fresh, new creases, and a light blue sweater pulls across his chest and shoulders. He’s picture perfect, his polished uniform in place.

He shakes his head, eyes bouncing between yours as he asks, “Is that really all it was?”

Your shoulders shrug again, because it’s easier. It’s easier to try to deny, to ignore the flutter the question causes in your stomach. Easier to bite back the words that try to form on your tongue. Because of course that’s not all it was, at least not to you. You wouldn’t feel the way you do right now if that were true. But what’s the point in telling him that though? What happens? Can you forgive each other for the words said, that, no matter how true, can’t be taken back? Things like this only end in heartbreak - because what happens if you tell him how you were starting to feel - does that change anything for him? And even if it did, that means a broken engagement, it means complicated truths coming out, it means attempts at forgiveness. And even after all of that, life won’t give you a guarantee. There is no promise of zero fights, of nothing bad ever happening. There is no happily ever after where the possibility of a break up, of losing everyone you’ve grown to care for deeply, doesn’t exist. 

So yes, it’s easier to not say any of that, because you know. This isn’t how life works. This isn’t a movie. No one is immune to life’s misfortunes. These sorts of open-ended questions and complicated emotions that come from his simple ask are unmeasurable and unreliable. Wondering and giving into those feelings only open you up to be used as a target for someone else’s shooting practice. You’ve known this, but you allowed yourself to forget, hating it was Steve who had to remind you. 

Which is why you look away from his eyes as you say, “I believe that is what was established a few weeks ago at that party Steve. You were there, remember? You were dressed as a pirate.” 

His head drops, hands running through his perfectly styled hair as he laughs, breath shaky, like the laugh is covering up any feeling in his voice. “So, that’s it? We’re just gonna act like none of it happened? You don’t wanna talk. You run away every time we get a chance to do so, a beer in my face and-“

Your hand rising in the air cuts him off, his mouth clamps shut as you make eye contact with him. “You deserved that and I’m not apologizing for it.”

He takes a step closer to you, his hand reaching towards you, then back into his hair, second guessing himself. “I’m not asking you to, and I’m not apologizing for what I said either.” Steve swallows, hands on his hips as he looks at the ground then back up at you, “What I said wasn’t a lie.” 

He breathes out the next words, both of you staring at each other with the weight of what he says hanging in the air between you.

“You couldn’t tell me.”

Your hands shake from the confrontation, from his request you left unanswered that night. The emotions that still want to bubble over, the time apart did nothing to cool either of you down. That what if, what if, what if that replaced your heartbeat grows louder, but your brain only shuts it down harder. If you hurt now, how will it feel if you keep feeding the flame only for him to extinguish it again?

The beat of your heart and those hopeful words thud in your ears as your head shakes and your voice tries not to, barely audible as the words leave your lips, “I don’t want to do this anymore Steve. We’re just going in circles. You’re getting married. You didn’t tell me. Can you look me in the eye and tell me you were really my friend while you were clearly getting engaged this whole time?”

Blue light flashes from the screen, catching the corner of your eye and illuminating his, their gaze bouncing over your face. Your bodies move closer like they can’t help it, like they know they won’t be this way again. Steve’s tongue darts over his bottom lip before his breath blows out, your name a whisper on it. The way he says your name with that look in his eyes, chests almost touching, it’s easy for your head to tilt with familiarity. Your breath out is his breath in, and it’s even easier to forget the last time you were this close. Sounds other than his harsh swallow and your heartbeat fade away. Time freezes, just a little, and the air pulses with a tangible possibility of hope. 

A shrill classic horror movie scream shatters the bubble. Your name is called, you blink, and take a step away. Guilt washes over you as you see your friends staring intently at the movie you’d practically forgotten you were there for. Leigh and Robin talk quietly and your eyelids flutter as you will whatever wants to escape down your cheeks away.

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore Steve. I just want to go hang out with my friends. I need this to be over. Can it please be over?” You stare intently at the ground, one single tear slipping past your lashes. It feels like it rolls down your cheek for an hour before Steve finally answers. 

“Okay,” he quietly agrees. 

Your head nods once and you brush past him, barely choking out a whispered ‘by the way congratulations’ as you grab your snack. Hand swiping at the stray tear as you make your way back to the blanket slowly. 

When you sit back down, Leigh’s typing on her phone. She squeezes Robin’s hand before whispering a goodbye to everyone. She jogs over to Steve, cocking her head at him. He pushes his hands through his hair again, giving her a short smile. He runs his thumb and forefinger down the bridge of his nose, swiping under it with the back of his hand. His other extends towards her as she reaches him, fingers lacing together as they walk out. 

Robin’s shoulder nudges yours and your head turns to find her with eyebrows pinched together. She leans in and quietly asks, “Is he okay? Did he say something about leaving to you?”

Your head shakes, and you extend the bag to her with a tight smile. You will just keep lying to her. Steve and you will move on, and maybe, one day in the distant future, you’ll be able to tell her. It’ll all work out.

She mirrors your sad smile, the wrinkles in her forehead deepening as she takes a small handful and turns her attention back to the movie. Or she tries, but you watch as her eyes glance down to her phone every few minutes, until it lights up with his name and she quickly starts typing a response. 

It’ll all be fine. 

“Said ‘I’m fine’ but it wasn’t true. I don’t want to keep secrets just to keep you…”

The pop song playing overhead makes your teeth grind, your skin itch, it pries at your armor. It clangs its melody like fists on the metal plates around your heart, screaming to let it in. 

Fuck Taylor Swift and her poetically relevant lyrics. 

You’re fine. 

“Mommy, why is that lady wearing pajamas?”

“Well, sometimes people, um, well maybe they’re sad or-“

“Not sad,” you call over your shoulder, but spin as you decide to face the stranger. The poor, unsuspecting stranger who is unprepared for the wrath of a person wearing blue, fuzzy pajama bottoms with ducks all over them, yellow smiley slippers, and holding several pints of Cherry Garcia in her arms. “Could just be sick. Or lazy. Could be a lot of different things, but sad is not one of them, and it’s rude to assume there’s any reason at all. I could just have wanted to stay comfy today, you don’t know!”

It’s almost laughable, if it wasn’t so humiliating or awkward. A practically audible record scratch kind of moment. Conversations of several other customers quiet then stop altogether. Eyes blink at you in concern and pity under too harsh of fluorescent lights, surrounded by neon advertisements and packaging trying to convince you the world isn’t shit as long as there’s junk food. The poppy beat overhead seems to play even louder, yet a pin could drop and people from another state would hear it. 

The mother’s hand runs through the small child’s hair next to them as she stammers an apology, “I really…I’m sorry, I just-“

“No, no, I’m so sorry. It’s fine…I…” You close your eyes and turn back around, mortified beyond a depth you ever thought possible. The pints of ice cream tumble onto the sticky counter-top, lottery tickets beneath it staring up at you and mocking ‘hey wanna test your luck even more?’. Your hand flies up into the face of the cashier as you grumble, “Not a word, Keith.”

The employee you’ve come to know on your late night and early morning snack runs snorts. His mouth closes, slurping his Mountain Dew through a straw as he rings up the ice cream. His lips leave the red plastic, squeaking it against the lid harshly, about to tell you the price you already know, when a bottle of wine is placed on the counter with a low thunk. A leather clad arm extends across your vision, a second bottle landing beside it. A deep and familiar voice from behind your shoulder calls out, “These too. But definitely not because she’s sad.”

Turning, you find Eddie just as you knew you would, his brown eyes the same as they have been since you met. Full of warmth that’s contagious, except now something darkens them, they’re colder. Reminiscent of how they looked in a bathroom that feels like you were in it ten years ago instead of a month. They’re kind, but they’re hurt, confused, and most importantly - disappointed. 

“Right,” you clear your throat and look away from them. Embarrassed, but adamant in your denial of the purchase and your appearance having any connotation with the emotion they all think you’re feeling. “These are not sad items.”

Despite the look in his eyes, Eddie’s lips twitch in a fight of a smile. He looks over your outfit and the hint of amusement disappears. His mouth turns down in a grimace. He faces Keith, hand waving across your form, “Right. Sad people don’t wear duckie pj’s to the store to buy ice cream and wine, they just don’t. People who ignore their friends though, they might…”

Honestly, the call out is nicer than what you deserve. You hadn’t dared to miss a text or call from Robin again, but all other group contact had gone unreciprocated for two weeks - convincing yourself it was easier for everyone that way. Biting the inside of your cheek, your eyes blink up at him apologetically, hopeful you can fix a small part of the mess you’ve made still. “Yeah. But if a person,” your hands wave as you speak, “Who isn’t sad,” you quickly tack on before continuing, “Did ignore their friends, it was probably for a good reason and she probably feels really bad about it and-“

“Jesus Christ, pay for your sad shit and get out,” Keith groans, snapping his fingers and then waggling them for payment. 

Eddie mashes his lips together, a genuine smile threatening to break as he hands over a bill. He salutes as he grabs the bag of items. “Keep the change, dude.”

“See you tomorrow, new shipment of Ben and Jerry’s at nine A.M!” Keith calls to your retreating forms. Eddie and you turn in tandem, flipping him off. 

“Mommy, what did that mean?”

Eddie snorts, his laugh finally bubbling out of him as you hide your eyes under one of your hands. The door swings closed behind you as the brisk November air does little to cool off your embarrassment.

His laughter trails off in a sigh and yours in a groan. When you peek at him from behind your fingers, you hold your breath as they fall to your side. Eddie’s eyes seem to poke and prod at you with their gaze, like you’re a frog laying open on a table for dissection. Like he already knows what he’s about to find, but he’s giving you an opportunity to just say it before he makes the first cut. 

Gesturing towards the bag in his hand, your eyes drop to the ground as you clear your throat. “Thank you, you didn’t have to pay. And I really am sorry for going radio silent. I’ll get better at that.”

When he doesn’t respond right away, you risk a glance up. His brows are furrowed, meeting under parted bangs, brown eyes glued to your pajama pants. Eddie nods slowly, tucking his tongue into his cheek before clicking it against the roof of his mouth. Rocking back on his heels, the plastic bag swings at his side. “Sure. What are friends for?”

His eyes meet yours again finally, and as your lips part, he keeps going, his voice a little crisper than it’s been to you before. “Cause, we are friends. Right?”

Head nodding as your brows bunch together from the tone delivering the question. That and his gaze makes something under your skin itch, your feet restless against the pavement like a horse before a race. 

Hesitation heavy in your words as you respond, ���Yeah, of course…listen, I have to get back but-“

“Great,” he spins on his heel, heading down the sidewalk like he was waiting for those exact words to leave your mouth, “I’ll walk with you, sad girl.”

Blinking at his abrupt interruption, hand still raised to take the bag from him, it takes you several seconds for his words to register. He’s already halfway to the corner, your apartment just around it and you have to take a quick few jogs to catch up with his long strides as you call out, “I’m not sad.”

“Uh-huh,” Eddie nods, flicking a zippo in his hand, converse scuffing against the sidewalk as he kicks a pebble, “And I’m the King of England.”

Tired of his tone and demeanor you didn’t invite or ask for - you don’t need this. Eyes rolling as you huff past him, your shoulder bumping his harshly as you do. Eddie scoffs, but falls back into step close behind you, not letting you get away. “Quite the attitude to have with the friend who just bought your sad girl treat, even threw in the wine.”

Your shoulders hunch at his words, eyebrows pulling together and face growing hot as you fiddle with the first key to the apartment building. “Well, I didn’t ask you to buy it and if you only did to just rub it in my face you’re not really my friend. And I didn’t ask you to come here.”

Eddie’s hand lands on the door above your shoulder as you push it open, arm blocking you from entering. “Quit the tough girl act, you’re not fooling anyone.”

Your skin burns at his accusation, hands balling into fists at your sides. “I’m not trying to fool anyone, Eddie, or do anything. I literally don’t know what you’re talk-“

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, you can keep trying to sell this shit to everyone else, but I’m not buying.” He points inside, “Let’s go.”

Face feeling hotter than when you were six and scolded in public, you stomp through the entryway, each step echoing across the old tile. As you turn to head up the stairs, if only to get away from his all seeing eyes, the realization of what your apartment looks like and how extremely not ready it is for guests has you pausing mid stride. 

When your gaze makes contact with his again, Eddie simply makes a statement. Flat, disappointed, and no question in his tone, “It’s worse than I think isn’t it.”

Before you can argue, before you can tell him to leave, the keys in your hand are snatched by swift fingers, and Eddie’s long legs are jumping up the stairs, skipping over several steps and disappearing around the landing. Chasing after him, the thundering of both of your feet is dulled by the faded and dingy carpet and the shriek of his name leaving your lips. 

Watching as he pushes the key into the lock, turning the knob, you sprint down the hallway. Your body barrels into his, but it’s too late. Eddie falters from your weight crashing into him, but he remains upright, although slightly hunched, as your body clings to his, trying to drag him down. The door swings open and he winces, and you drop to the ground, defeated. 

For the first time in a few days, you take in the state of your living space from an outside perspective. You watch as Eddie reviews it all for the first time - the take out on your counter, the empty beer bottles pushing the lid of the recycling up. The stack of Double O Seven DVDs on the coffee table. The couch covered in blankets because you’ve been sleeping there, your bed still sitting free of sheets in the other room. The bag of chips and the tub of frosting. It’s not a pretty picture. 

Eddie suddenly crouches, hands grabbing at you and you push him away shrieking, crawling into your apartment and away from him. Both of you swat at each other, hair flying in faces and grunting like you’re siblings fighting over the remote. 

 “Go-get off! What the hell is your problem! Eddie!”

He manages to grab your phone out of your sweatshirt pocket and you leap towards him, arms over his shoulders, you reach for the phone, and he holds himself up on his knees, arm extending it away from you. He manages to tilt it just right to get your face to unlock it and you growl, thumping on his bicep as he shoves you off. He presses the familiar green icon on your home screen while you accuse, “What is your deal? What the fuck are you-“

Eddie groans, holding up the screen displaying the last song you’d been listening to and getting to his feet. He points towards your bedroom. “Go put on some jeans. No more sad girl music. No more cheese out of the can. Field trip. Let’s go.”

Your hand holding a slipper that had fallen off in the scuffle points towards the open door, any neighbors paying attention getting a hell of a show. Your scowl meets his frown. “Um, you can go. Don’t basically break into my home and insult Britney and Easy Cheese in the same sentence asshole. I’m not going anywhere with you.”

Eddie raises his eyebrows, they disappear under his bangs and he looks at you as if you’re the child you’re determined to act like. He sighs, voice dripping in drama as he heads into your kitchen, “I really didn’t want to do this, but you’ve left me with no other choice.” He spins the cheap metal cap off of one of the bottles of wine theatrically, flicking the cap onto the counter before turning the bottle upside down as he stares at you. “I’d get going. The ice cream is next.”

Your eyes roll as you scoff, “You’re not gonna do shit to the Ben and Jerry’s, you and I both know it.”

He starts on the second bottle, both ringed hands holding tight to each, red liquid splashing the sides of the sink. “I will literally drag you back out of here in your sad girl jammies to a very public place. I’m generously giving you the opportunity to avoid that embarrassment, but if you insist…”

Eddie sets the bottles down in the sink, stepping over to you in two strides, hands on your waist as he moves like he could toss you over his shoulder.

Your hands push at his chest. “Fucking fine! Give me a few minutes.” You start towards your room but spin sharply on your socked heel, one foot still in a slipper that skids as your finger points in his face. “Touch my ice cream and see what happens.”

He snorts, crossing his arms. “Big, tough words coming from a girl with chocolate frosting on her chest and ducks on her ass.”

You turn away from him, slamming the door on his call of, “If you ever want to see your precious Ben and Jerry’s again, you’ll be back out here in five minutes!”

When you make eye contact with the chocolate stain in the mirror, you have to suppress your groan. 

Eddie’s Jeep tires crunch over gravel before coming to a stop in a homemade parking lot. Tan dust kicked up and floating through the air partially obscures where he’s taken you. 

The entire twenty minute drive had been enveloped in stilted silence. He had managed to dump one of the pints while you changed, claiming to have thought you weren’t coming back out, and now he was on the receiving end of one of your finest silent treatments. His hand flexes on the gear, moving the car into park. As his jaw clenches while yanking the keys out of the ignition, you start to rethink your silence. There’s a part of you that wants, maybe needs, to run back to your apartment, lock the door, and never speak to him again. But there’s another part, far larger, and riddled with guilt, that made you follow him. 

Staring out the window at the dilapidated bar, your voice feels scratchy from the lack of talking as you push out, “What are we doing-” Eddie’s driver’s door slams, and the end of your question falls into the empty car, flat, as you blink at his back walking away from you, “Here.” 

As Eddie makes his way to the building, you hoist yourself out of the Jeep and begin to follow despite the cold shoulder. You’re willing to appease him and participate in whatever this field trip is if it means you can somehow get the apology you definitely owe him out - try to make things right for the mess you’ve pulled him into. 

A faint and familiar sound echoes in the quiet and practically empty parking lot. The distinct whip of a ball and the ting and harsh smack of metal meeting it, mix with the crunch of rocks under your rubber soles. Behind the tired and washed out brick building, chain link fencing rises, hinting further to what the sounds are and where they’re coming from. The large red letters above the doorway spell out “Murray’s” in distinct vintage lettering, hollowed out with unlit bulbs reminiscent of an old theater’s marquee lights. You pause beneath the sign, stealing a deep breath because something tells you Eddie has officially pinned you to the table, and the first inevitable cut of the dissection is imminent. Your fingers curl around the gray, metal door’s industrial handle and pull, and you step inside. 

Billie Holiday’s voice croons from somewhere deeper in the building. Voice and music crackling and staticky, like it’s playing off a real vinyl. The urge to find out why Eddie’s brought you to a place seemingly stuck in the past draws you deeper down the dimly lit hallway. Rich, red paint on the walls partially covered by framed photographs line the entire space. Black and white film prints of American icons, with individual golden lamps lighting up each from their spots attached to the frames. Your feet carry you past Elvis, Jackie Robinson, then Marilyn, and Michael Jackson before you enter a spacious and circular room. 

Red vinyl booths line the curve on one side, small round tables meant for two lit by glowing lamps scattered across the floor. A stage and space for what appears to be a dancefloor sit opposite of you, nestled between the booths and a bar running across the opposite curve. Speckled and worn mirrors behind the bar reflect the wide range of liquor bottles and the different glassware in a variety of shapes and colors, clearly thrifted antiques, hanging above them. Eddie leans against the bar talking to an older man, neither of whom spare a glance in your direction. 

This room’s photographs on the walls are covers of Life and Time, clippings from other renowned news outlets - all famous headlines like when man went to the moon and the JFK assassination, the Cubs winning the world series, spanning all the way to current events. As you spin, you see the vintage photo booth, much older than the one you and Steve took photographs in at Replay, and you push the memory away, focusing on the bulletin board next to it instead.

The flier for Corroded Coffin has your attention as the song crackles on it’s end notes, the next from the album playing softly. Billie’s voice sings the familiar lyrics of ‘I’ll Be Seeing You’ and your heart drops into your stomach, palms sweating profusely. Why the hell are you here? Why this song? Why, why, why.

“Ouch. Who broke your heart?”

The unfamiliar voice asks the same question Eddie had asked you back in September, and this time you’re even more unprepared for it. Your head whips to the side, gaze looking over your shoulders that hunch. Your body turns to face them head on, but your arms cross in defense. The man Eddie had been chatting with now has his focus solely on you. Wire rimmed glasses frame eyes that stare intently at you as he wipes down a glass. His balding head of hair and the confidence he carries, along with the way he tosses the rag over his shoulder before leaning on the bar, has you feeling like you’ve suddenly entered a sitcom. 

Eddie continues to ignore you, one foot resting on the metal of stool as his ringed fingers crack peanuts. He avoids your gaze as you turn your frown on the man who seemed to have read your mind. You keep your voice as neutral as you can when you ask, “Excuse me?”

“Written all over your face, kid.” The nameless man, but you have a hunch the name of the establishment and him are one in the same, winces with his words. He pulls down three amber colored, short glasses, then a bottle of vodka. Before you can argue, he keeps going as he pours, “Well, maybe you’re not in love. Not yet anyway,” he muses to himself, “Or maybe he is and you don’t know how to let the poor sap down?”

His eyes lift from the glasses of alcohol to yours and he squints. Pausing before pouring the third glass, humming, “Wait, no, well…maybe.” Keeping his eyes on you as he tips back one of the generous shots before he breathes out with finality, “No.”

Eddie smirks into his own shot, as the man snaps in his face, but technically commands, “Name.”

Your mouth opens to stop this nonsense and analysis you absolutely didn’t ask for, but Eddie beats you to it. Eyebrows raised, mouth pursed as he offers up, “Steve.”

The man behind the bar hovers the liquor bottle above the now empty glass, blinking wide behind his frames. He sets the bottle down, pressing his palms to the bar top. Scoffing with an incredulous tone, “You’re kidding.”

“Excuse me!” You try to interrupt, but the man shakes his hands, ignoring your objection. 

“We’ll deal with that little slip in the simulation some other time,” pushing the third glass down the bar towards you as he continues, “So, Steve,” he laughs a little, licking his bottom lip, “Right. So he loves us, maybe, but perhaps it is us who loves Steve? Mm, tragic, because he doesn’t reciprocate? Or are we too scared to tell him how we feel?”

Your shoulders are up to your ears now, arms wrapping around yourself even tighter, trying to make whatever see-through, vulnerable shield this man can penetrate more resilient. Your gaze is harsh on the side of Eddie’s face, death stare glaring and attempting to burn his cheek with only your eyes as you ask again, “What are we doing here?”

“The cosmic question, isn’t it?” The bartender muses, pouring another glass for himself. He raises his eyebrows at Eddie in a silent question who shakes his head no. 

“I’m leaving.” You start to turn towards the door, but Eddie’s call behind you makes you freeze.

“Have fun walking back then!”

Your hands go to your pockets, searching, even though you know they’re empty. When you look at him, you see your phone in his fingers and his brown eyes that have turned to stone. “Yeah, I still have this. So either you can participate in the field trip, or you can walk all the way back home to your sad girl cave.”

“I’ll just have him call me a cab.” Gesturing to the nameless man with your solution. 

“Murray,” he offers with a toothy grin and head nod, confirming your assumption. 

Eddie laughs, cold, tossing a peanut shell on the bar, “Yeah? And pay for it how?”

You’ve been very, very, dumb, because it’s only now you realize the empty pockets would also mean you don’t have your wallet. Your eyes close in defeat. 

When you open them, Eddie is staring at you and it feels an awful lot like that scalpel is resting just over your heart, waiting for any final words. 

He doesn’t take his eyes off of you as he says, “I’ll take those quarters now.”

Murray rolls a tube across the bar to him, eyes darting back and forth between you two like he is watching a ping pong match. 

Eddie grabs the roll, storming past you and down a different hallway, out the back door of the bar. The chipping black paint flutters as the door swings closed, a slam as it meets the frame making you flinch. The final notes of ‘I’ll Be Seeing You’ finish and you release a shaky breath. 

“And I suppose I’m to follow him and his mysterious quarters?”

Murray’s lips twitch and he raises his hands in surrender. Your sigh and step towards the door has him dropping his hands though, nudging the still full glass of vodka towards you. Figuring it’s his way of telling you to clean and sterilize the wound before the prodding at it begins, you take a step closer. Hesitating slightly, your finger wraps around the amber glass, a deep breath leaves you as you tip it to your lips. 

He nods his head towards you and raises his own glass, and as the liquid flows into your mouth, he toasts, “To Steve.”

The liquor sits on your tongue longer than you’d like it to as you glare at him. Swallowing it down, you blame the harsh burn in your throat for the prickle that’s forming behind your eyes.

Spinning on your heel to follow Eddie, Murray’s voice calls out quietly, making you pause.

“I’d tell him sooner, rather than later.”

Looking over your shoulder, he puts the glasses in a bin underneath the bar, not looking back at you as he quietly adds, “In my experience, there’s always space to dive deeper into the story. Things are often not what they appear to be. And well,” he chuckles to himself, “Harrington’s got a lot more going on under all that hair than meets the eye I think.” Your brows furrow as Murray looks up at you, patting his hand over his heart with a smirk on his lips, “And I’m not talking about the stuff on top of his head.”

Normally, the joke about Steve’s chest hair would have your lips twitch into a smile, a roll of your eyes, but instead, his words float through the air until they arrive in your gut, sitting heavy and dragging you down. They try to ignite that hope again, but you know it’s no use in letting it light anymore. 

Your feet push forward, stomping down the hallway without a word back. As the door swings closed behind you, your eyes blink, adjusting to the harsh sunlight you’d forgotten was shining outside. The sounds from earlier now connecting to what’s before you. Several enclosed batting cages sit just beyond a wooden and covered back patio of the bar. There’s two older men with their bags of gear sitting at their feet. Each drinking a beer at a small wooden table, rubbing their shoulders. Eddie is inside one of the cages. His leather jacket hung on the fence, a blue helmet squishing down his curls. The white cotton of his baseball tee stretches over his flexing back muscles as he swings at a ball released by the machine. 

As your feet scuff against the deck and then the gravel, you take another deep breath, mouth opening to just blurt out some sort of apology to him. Eddie stops the machine with a harsh smack to a button on the side of the cage. He comes out the door, holding the helmet and bat out to you, chest moving up and down with each ragged breath. He offers a closed lip smile as he says, “Your turn.”

“Eddie, I really don’t…” you trail off until you settle on just asking, “Why?”

“Would you just do it?” He frowns, tone annoyed as he extends his arms towards you further. 

Eyebrows raised in anticipation he nods once as you take the items with a huff and stomp into the cage. As you place the helmet onto your head, and stare down the machine, you exhale and press the button. It whirs back to life as your hands wrap around the bat and you step up to the metaphorical plate, Eddie’s voice calling from over your shoulder as you do. 

“So, wanna tell me why you’re sad? Talk about anything Murray said?”

Your fingers curl tighter around the grip, shoulders going up in defense again. Your jaw clenches before you grit out, “For the last time Eddie, I’m not sad. I’m fine.”

Eddie snorts behind you as you swing at the first ball released, missing.

Strike one. 

“Sure, figured that’d be your answer. So,” he sighs heavily and you hear the fence rattle like he’s kicking it, “Why’re you avoiding us again then?”

You knew this topic couldn’t be dodged forever. It’s true, you’d been pulling away again since Halloween, and getting the save the date was the nail in your friendship’s coffin. As the wedding looms in the not so distant future, it’s easier to pull away from him, from all of them, because you know that they were and always will be Steve’s friends first. Intentions of not letting Steve keep them from you seem futile now, when you know the history and depth of friendship you’re up against. You’re not gonna say that to Eddie though, so as the next pitch is released, you swing and stammer out a pathetic lie. 

“I-I’m not.” The ball makes contact, causing your forearms to vibrate from the bad swing. Your grip tightens so the bat doesn’t fall from your fingers as the ball pops up and behind you, rattling the fence. 

“Well that’s a load of crap. Wanna know what I think?” Eddie yells, not pausing for you to refute and sarcastically continuing, “Great, I’m overjoyed to tell you.”

Your heel digs into the gravel and your eyes narrow on the whirring machine, waiting for him to sink the scalpel into you, defenseless - trapped from running away from him, stuck in this cage with nowhere to go to avoid what he’s about to tell you. 

“I think you are sad. I think Murray was right and you don’t wanna admit it to him, to anyone, and especially not yourself. Instead of an easy fix of talking about it, you wanna sit in your pity and throw a party.” Eddie’s voice takes on a dramatic, high pitched imitation of you as the next ball is released and you swing, “I’m Y/N! Woe is me! I’m all alone! Nobody loves me!”

You miss the ball again, shoulders hunching in, desperate to make yourself smaller with each of the words that he shouts at your back. Turning to look over your shoulder, you glare at him. 

Strike two. 

Eddie leans against the fence, glaring right back at you with his eyebrows raised as you hiss, “You’re being an asshole.”

“Yeah? At least I’m an asshole who’s got friends,” he gestures towards you, “You clearly think you don’t.” You twist your toe in the gravel deeper, returning your focus to the machine and taking a deep breath as he keeps going. “I’ll have Murray pour you some more vodka and you can sit here and think about how your life is horrible. Truly tragic.”

Your eyes narrow from his bored tone, lifting your chin and elbow, adamant to ignore him. 

“You have nothing and no one.”

Another exhale, your chest rises and falls with a deep inhale and your shoulders relax. Straining to hear the hint of the ball being released instead of Eddie yelling at you. 

“Maybe you’ll get a cat one day, but ultimately you’re gonna die alone!”

SMACK.

Your bat meets the ball and it soars to the end of the cage and you spin on him. Face hot, your emotions bubbling and ready to explode. Anger mingling with adrenaline coursing through your veins from the hit, amping up how the words fall out of you in an angry cry. 

“Yeah! I am Eddie! And that’s what I want! So fucking lay off!”

“Why?” 

“Because it’s easier!” 

When he yells right back, without pausing, asking you for a reason, the excuse falls out of you easily. Your mouth closes immediately after the words tumble out in your scream, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes as Eddie’s narrow. He shakes his head, volume lowering only slightly. 

“Nah, that’s just fucking running. And take it from someone who ran for a long time, it feels easy, but it’s the furthest thing from. Eventually, you are going to get tired, and your problems will be right on your heels. 

Facing the machine again so you don’t have to look into his eyes any longer, you shake your head no at him, letting a ball hit the end of your bat, popping forward limply as you try to speak with confidence. 

“I’m not running from problems Eddie, I’m just…it’s easier to be the one who does the leaving than to be the one who’s left, okay?”

The words float through the air, unable to be taken back, and their weight makes something in your chest squeeze and constrict. 

“That’s some next-level, glass half empty, pessimistic, depressing shit. And who the hell said anyone was going anywhere? You’re refusing to see that if you looked back for one second from the door you’ve been half out since you got here, that nobody else even has their shoes on.”

The squeezing in your chest only intensifies, his cut getting deeper as he searches for answers, and your bat hesitates halfway through your swing, sending a ball straight up into the air above you. You breathlessly ask, “What?”

Eddie waits until you look over your shoulder at him, emphasizing each word. “Nobody’s leaving you.”

His words hit you harder than your bat has hit any of the balls. It feels like one was pitched right into your gut, expelling all the air from your lungs and causing the tears that have been right behind your eyes to well up hard and fast. You spin to avoid his gaze again and square up for another pitch. 

Eddie doesn’t know that it’s not a promise anyone can make - life doesn’t care. 

Your head shakes, tears brimming on your lash line as you argue, “You can’t know that Eddie, not really. It’s better this way.”

SMACK.

A tear slips over your bottom lashes, trailing down your cheek as the bat makes good contact again and Eddie digs the scalpel in for his final cut. “Fine. Believe that. But you need to admit that you’re slamming the door on our faces and pretending like no one is still standing on the other side, knocking and asking to be let back in.”

The machine whirls, it wooshes with the release of a ball as another tear, and then another falls. Your vision progressively grows fuzzy, the world around you blurring as you swing again and his voice washes over you. 

“Did you know that Nancy is a freak just like you, and I’m sure she’d be happy to split some Cherry Garcia any time? God help you both for liking such a disgusting flavor.”

You let the tears fall openly, but silently, as you swing harder this time. The weight in your stomach - the knots that have been forming since the very first lie was told - twist and tug harder. 

“I know you’re not stupid enough to think I wouldn’t come have a beer with you, or take you to Target to get some new sheets or food that doesn’t have the Frito-Lay logo plastered on it.”

Another ball pops up and behind you as you clear your throat. Refusing to believe what he’s saying, you wonder if he can see the tears hitting the tan gravel beneath you and darkening it like drops of rain.

“And Robin! She’d love to watch Double O Seven with you. You should hear her Sean Connery impression. It’s terrible.” Eddie laughs a little and you twist the toe of your converse into the gravel, covering up a dark spot. 

“But no. Instead of any of that, you just gave up. You didn’t give any of us a chance. Steve Harrinngton’s dumb ass is the only thing to blame for all your loneliness, sadness, and problems. So keep ignoring the footsteps running behind you and the knocking, or open the fucking door.”

You want to believe Eddie, you really do. But what happens when you come to rely on someone, need the support to lean on, and they’re gone?

Your head shakes harder, a sob stuck in your throat as you barely murmur, “Eddie, I can’t.”

His voice is softer than it has been all day as he asks, “Can’t or won’t?”

More tears fall past your lashes. The last ball is pitched and you choke out, “I’m sorry.”

You don’t attempt to swing at this one and it hits the fence behind you. The machine whirs one final time then stops. 

“Yeah, me too.”

Heavy, suffocating, disappointment lingers in the air around you. 

It takes several minutes, even more tears falling quietly, for you to remove the helmet from your head and drop both it and the bat on the ground with a clang. When you turn around, swiping at your cheeks, Eddie isn’t there. 

Each drag of your feet inside is an active fight. Limbs heavy, heart even more so, because you know what awaits you inside before it’s confirmed. 

Murray looks up from a keg he’s tapping and simply nods to the end of the bar. Your phone and wallet sit there and you know the Jeep and Eddie will be gone when you push out the door crying. 

You’ve somehow done the leaving and were left this time. 

Strike three. 

It’s literally a symptom, or as some like to claim - stage - of grief. 

Denial. 

We lie all the time. We tell lies to spare or protect feelings, and more importantly, we lie to ourselves, instead of facing truths head on. 

Because it’s easier to lie - to avoid, to shut something down, or deny its existence when it’s too hard to look at directly. Which is interesting. Why has there not been some sort of evolutionary transformation from this reaction? And really, the longer you wait to face something, the harder the truth is going to hit you. The time you give a truth to sit untold, unacknowledged, it only grows larger. That truth takes hearty roots, and your avoidance in the form of lies, whether to yourself or others, or both, only allows it to spread more rapidly. 

Eventually, you will have to stop lying, to stop running, and that truth will have grown in strength. It has sprouted new truths or problems because your lies only fed it the fertilizer it needed to do so, and now it’s suddenly not the one thing you have to face anymore, but the multiple harder truths. 

Which may be why you’re still outside, staring up at Nancy’s brownstone, where all of your friends, or well, the people you hope are still your friends are-

“Out of the bike lane!”

You jump forward onto the sidewalk just in time for a man in bright yellow spandex to zoom past you shouting some sort of curse as you clutch the dessert in your hands tighter. 

Grateful you had a firm handle on it to begin with, it's one of the few family heirlooms you held onto along with the recipe it’s holding. Hoping to gain some sort of courage from deep within it, like your mom can offer you some through the dish, you make your way up the brick steps. 

The only reason you're here, the only reason you’re facing this day the way you’re feeling just so happens to be the one to open the door before you can even ring the bell. 

The door is flung open and her bright blue eyes fight to sparkle behind squinted eyelids that are almost shut she’s smiling so wide at you.

“Happy Friendsgiving!” Robin shouts louder than she needs to and holds her arms out in a dramatic greeting. She’s covered from fingertips to elbows in thick, orange goo, her clearly thrifted oversize old man sweater sleeves pushed up to her shoulders. You smile your first genuine smile in weeks as she goes to hug you and you both pause, rethinking it. 

“Fall in a pumpkin?” You quip as you balance the dessert in your hand to shrug off one arm of your coat. 

Robin wiggles her fingers and hands spirit and jazz style with a beam that shows off her dimple as she corrects, “Sweet potato casserole.”

“You fell in a sweet potato casserole?” Following her deeper into Nancy’s, you take in a long breath, the tight chest you’ve had since Eddie left you at Murray’s loosening with each word exchanged between you and her. But knowing you have to face him, Nancy, Steve and her, and continue to pretend nothing is wrong while around Robin, has the constricting pressure around your heart returning quickly. 

Robin rolls her eyes, turning and walking backwards and making a face at you. She huffs as she turns back around, “No. Steve is making his famous mac and cheese and apparently I was annoying him, can you believe it? So him and Nance put me on mashing duty to keep me busy like a toddler.”

“You said it, not me!” Steve calls, his wine glass stopping before his lips when he makes eye contact with you. 

Weeks of not seeing each other after the way you left things was going to be hard, you knew that. But you really weren’t prepared for how he looks today, or how it would affect you. 

He’s got a burnt orange, almost brown, thick sweater on with light wash jeans. You’re sure both are from the section of his closet you stumbled upon months ago. That part holding his clothes he doesn’t wear often for whatever reason. He looks comfortable, casual, content. Down to the tube socks on his feet and the worn brown leather of the band of his watch. Your chest aches a little as you wonder if it’s Leigh that’s gotten him to relax into this version of himself. Even his hair, longer than a few weeks ago, is different than you’ve seen from him. Far messier than usual - like it hasn’t seen products or been styled lately, and several days of facial hair evident on his jaw. He looks like a version of Steve designed to torture you - a Steve who you’ve only gotten glimpses of and you miss before you’ve even really met. 

“Hi,” he says quietly, smiling closed-lipped at you.

“Hi,” you offer with your own hesitant smile. Your fingers fiddle with the tinfoil over the edge of the dessert from your spot where you linger in the doorway.

“How are you? Do you…wine?” Steve stammers over his questions, cheeks turning pink. He spins and starts pouring you some without waiting for your answer. It gives you a small bit of relief that he’s as anxious as you are, neither of you knowing what comes next. Do you ever return to normal? And what is normal for you and Steve?

“Sure, yeah, good. You?”

Steve nods his head too quickly, spinning to face you again with the wine. “Good, yeah, thanks.”

“Good.” 

“Yeah.”

Steve blinks at you, hazel eyes bright under the soft glow of Nancy’s pendant lighting hanging above her island. As you stare at each other, unsaid words float in the air, it was silly to think it could ever just be over with him. You miss entering a room and not sharing this awkward, palpable, tension - when it was a smile or joke exchanged instead of forced greetings, a warmth and joy felt instead of dread. 

You hate that you don’t hate him. 

You hate that there’s this horrible ache in your chest, like words want to tumble out but you physically can’t say them - why can’t you both just apologize? Why can’t that save the date be ripped to shreds? Why can’t it all work out? 

“You two are acting weird.”

Robin’s voice bursts whatever bubble you were both in, and you clear your throat, looking down. Steve’s fingers adjust on the wine glass and he shakes his head. 

Steve stammers, “N-no, we’re g-”

“Good?” Robin questions, eyebrows raised, “Yeah I gathered that.”

Before either of you can say anything in response, Nancy’s voice calls from the front door, “Crisis averted! I found a bag!”

Her brown curls bounce against her cheeks as she jogs into the kitchen. Dressed up in black suede boots and flared jeans, her tan peacoat left open showing off a silky black blouse. She pauses, mid stride, bag of marshmallows held aloft and her smile faltering as her gaze darts around the room.

Feeling warm under Robin’s sudden perceptiveness, you’re grateful when Nancy springs into action, relieving the awkward tension. 

“Geez Robin, did any sweet potato end up in the dish? I left you alone with them for twenty minutes.”

Robin’s lips twitch slightly, eyes finally leaving Steve’s as she looks down at her hands, flexing her fingers, the orange goo becoming stiff and hard on her skin.  

Nancy gives you a look, her eyes narrowed in a question but smiles when Robin looks back up. She places the marshmallows on the counter and grabs her hand. “Well, Y/N, can finish up.” She directs her next words to you, head nodding to a pan on the counter, “Put those marshmallows on top and stick it in the oven. Steve, your cheese isn’t gonna grate itself. And you,” Nancy tugs Robin out of the kitchen, smiling sweetly at her, “Are gonna come get cleaned up with me.”

Robin’s entire face turns pink, freckles standing out on her skin, from the way Nancy stares at her intently, like no one else exists. You look down, hiding your smile when Robin coughs, sputtering out something that you’re sure is supposed to be a yes. She eagerly nods and Steve huffs loudly, which makes her turn to glare over her shoulder at him, but it quickly turns into a smile as you call out, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” to their retreating forms. 

Their footsteps fade and Steve reaches out with one hand, looking at the dessert as he asks, “I can grab that from you?”

As the door to her bedroom clicks closed, you breathe out an exhale, unsure of how much longer you can keep it all up. His eyes are warm as his fingers brush the dish and you pull it back from his reach a bit, whispering, “It’s really fragile.”

Steve’s eyes bounce over your face, setting the wine down, both hands reaching for the dessert as he promises, quiet and sure, “I got it.”

Your fingertips graze each other as he takes it, and the electricity of just one more touch from him is enough kindling for the hope to spark. The heat from his stare has your cheeks warming and his turning pink. Steve’s lips twitch slightly in the corners as he glances down at the dish, then back up at you. 

“So, this just from Mariano’s then?” 

Your eyes roll hard at his assumption, scoffing as you turn to rip open the bag of marshmallows and keep your back to him. “You would ask if it was from there instead of Jewel.”

Steve knocks the faucet off from washing his hands, shaking them into the sink and flinging water across the stainless steel before drying them. He sucks his teeth with a wince as he turns to the counter, his shoulder next to yours. “Yeah, okay that’s fair.”

You laugh quietly, popping a marshmallow in your mouth in between placing them haphazardly across the orange mixture. Steve sighs next to you and gestures to the dish. “See, this is why I asked. No way you baked something. Didn’t think you could do anything in the kitchen except keep your take out menus impeccably organized.”

“Impeccably huh? That your word of the day on the calendar Robin got you?” You toss another marshmallow in your mouth with a smirk. 

“Actually, no today’s word was assiduous.” 

The veins in his hands flex as he grates the cheese, and he gives you a look as he says the word with confidence and emphasis, eyebrows raised.

You stall, taking a sip of your wine and hiding your smile in the glass before asking, “What, am I supposed to be impressed or something?” 

He dumps the cheese into the pot and turns to you, cocking his head, tongue in his cheek before he frowns. “You’re not?”

Steve’s lips twitch, his facade breaking easily and you both laugh. Your shoulders relax further and so do his. Why does it have to be so easy with him, yet so hard?

“Actually, I think it will be you who’s impressed,” you start, making the marshmallows a little more purposeful and pretty for his sake. 

“Oh yeah?” 

You hum, nodding, “I made that pie from scratch.”

“No you didn’t.”

Looking up, you see him shaking his head. He makes eye contact with you and he shrugs, adamant, “Nope. No way.”

Your hands land on your hips as your tone turns indignant. “Yes I did! I made the crust from scratch, cold butter into flour and everything. Rolled it out, doctored up the filling in a pan on the stove. Brown sugar, the works.”

His hand stops on the second block of cheese, eyes narrowing at you as he questions, “Really?”

A laugh leaves you from the tone of his suspicion as you slide the pan holding Robin’s dish into the oven. “You sound like my dad when my mom made it the first time.”

Steve doesn’t say anything and your lip tugs between your teeth as you remember the moment between your parents. Maybe it’s the holiday, maybe you’re just tired, maybe it’s the few sips of alcohol that let the story fall out of you so easily. 

“She was really awful at cooking,” you laugh, taking a sip of wine and waving your hand in the air, “I mean like, awful. She could serve you a grilled cheese that was somehow burnt but the cheese was cold? She got better, but anyways, I really don’t know why she thought she’d be any better at baking…”

Steve’s eyes meet yours briefly as he takes his own sip of wine and you look away, grabbing some of the cheese and deciding to help as you keep talking. 

“I don’t remember how she decided to do this, but my dad was out of town for work, and she wanted to make him something special, and to her that was a pie, I guess? But she was adamant that it be from scratch. Made and baked with love. And so we did. We went and got all of the ingredients, and we destroyed the kitchen, but it was the most fun I’ve ever had with her. We listened to Dolly Parton and drank wine all day, totally got flour and butter everywhere, I told her about classes, and the guy I was seeing…”

Your eyes drift off the counter, remembering it was right before you knew she was sick and your chin trembles as a watery laugh leaves you, “And then my dad got home. Oh my god, his face. He, he…” you blink away tears as you start laughing harder, “He just dropped his duffle bag on the ground and shook his head looking around in shock and my mom yelled ‘We made you a pie!’ and my dad just raised his eyebrows and said ‘Sure looks like you made somethin’.”

The last words come out shaky and it isn’t until you feel a pressure on top of one of your hands that you realize you had been grating the cheese down to almost nothing, stealing it from him. Glancing up through blurry vision, tears continue to fall down your cheeks as Steve quietly asks, “But it was good?”

You snort, more tears leaving you as you shake your head no. “It was inedible,” you laugh harder, “Like raw, but somehow dry and clumpy, so bad.”

Steve squeezes your hand, eyebrows furrowing together as his confusion settles deeper in his face and he starts cautiously, “So…you…made an inedible pie for us tonight?”

Your head shakes more and you take a deep breath, laughter and tears slowing. “No, after that, she, um…” closing your eyes, you take a deep breath and push out, “She needed to keep her hands working…” 

When you open your eyes again, Steve’s staring intently at you, waiting. You wonder why he can wait patiently for this story, look at you like he’d wait an eternity for you to tell him the ending, but he couldn’t wait for you. But, would you have wanted him to? When you’re certain that the potential of losing him, all of them, completely, isn’t worth the risk. Would he have waited forever for you to change your mind?

Your voice breaks as you finish, “Her chemo…she started to get neuropathy, and making the crust and keeping her hands and brain busy helped. So she kept practicing until it was perfect. And now it’s one of the last things I have from her. The dish too, we went and searched for the right one…” Fingers of your free hand form quotation marks as you roll your eyes with a laugh, remembering her ridiculous insistence on it and the day of estate sales and thrift stores.  

It’s silent as the unsaid ending washes over you both, the importance - the weight - of the dessert and the story. The immediate need to take it all back rises up in you hard, wishing you could put the entire thing back inside yourself and rewind the last few minutes. The vulnerability leaves you cracked open and exposed to him and you’re not sure you can handle his reaction. 

“I’m sorry,” your brows furrow, “I don’t know why I just…”

Steve’s fingers wrap around yours tighter and he squeezes. Your eyes meet the moss and honey you want to avoid because you’re sure they’re looking at you with that look. The pitying one, the one that everyone gets before they tell you a sorry that doesn’t help. 

But Steve’s eyes shine with something stronger - admiration and amusement as he winces, “So, see, that story tells me that your mom practiced and practiced to make a perfect pie not you and-”

Your hand smacks at his chest lightheartedly, laughing around a protest. Steve holds his hands up in surrender, “Hey, hey, okay!” 

Both of your laughter subsides and he smiles, a genuine smile, one side of his lips twisted up as he looks at the pie then you. “I’m sure it’s great. I’m excited to try it. Thank you for telling me that…I wish I could have met…”

As he trails off, your fingers brush against his on the counter, your bodies shift closer, letting the story and laughter pull you into each other’s gravity once more. Maybe it doesn’t have to be hard - there’s a reason you can fall so easily back into each other. A reason you can offer up a story you normally keep close if he’s the one listening, a reason you can forgive. There has to be a reason your body wants to be closer to his, a reason you want to feel his lips on yours again. Maybe there are cosmic connections, unexplainable phenomena of the universe, fate and destiny and invisible strings. 

Hope flourishes inside of you, it catches on every bounce of his eyes over your face, the way his finger nudges against yours just like they did in that car ride to a lake so many weeks ago. It sparks and drifts into the air, it floats around you like embers from an actual fire as he breathes your name out and your body takes one step closer, making you chest to chest. One easy tilt of your head, one bend from his and maybe it’d all be okay again.  

The doorbell rings, making both of you jump apart. The reality of the situation hits you, like someone dumped an entire bucket of water over the hope as Steve looks toward the door and frowns. You keep letting yourself end up in this position and eventually it’s going to hurt so much you’ll never be able to come back from it. 

You’re not his, he’s not yours, and it’s too late. Another girl calls him baby, he calls her honey, and they go on and have the life you were certain you never wanted - all because you can’t let him in the way he wanted you to. This isn’t a movie, there is no rewind, there is no pause, and it’s time to move on. 

“I’ll go get that, you have cheese to…uh…” 

“Y/N, wait-”

You’re already out of the kitchen, speed walking to the front door. Dreading the girl you’re certain is on the other side, you start to pull your shoes back on. Maybe you could slip out with an excuse and leave. Your destiny isn’t Steve, it’s to always run, to always be alone. 

The door swings open and you look up from your crouched position, one shoe on. Eddie is standing in the doorway, holding a bag of Hawaiian Rolls and looking at you, eyebrows raised in wait.  

He holds open the door and gestures outside as he asks, “Should I leave this open?”

Your stomach swoops, thinking of the chance he’s giving you, the opportunity to do what you want, no questions asked. But your heartbeat thuds loudly in your ears at the opposite side of the coin - the other chance he’s giving you. 

A deep breath is exhaled as you shakily ask, “That depends…are you still knocking?”

Eddie shrugs. “Maybe. Only one way to really find out right?”

Nodding once, you stand. A limped step over to the door with one shoe on, and you close it. Your palm rests flat against the wood as you take another calming breath. The sounds of the others in the kitchen are muffled as you turn around and look up at Eddie. You kick off the shoe, take a step forward, and mime opening a door.

Letting a tear slip past your lash line, you shrug, standing in the metaphorical open doorway and hold your breath. 

He smiles, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “Thank god, my arm was getting really tired.”

Another watery laugh starts to escape you and you wrap your arms around him in a hug. “I’m sorry. For everything, for dragging you into all of this and for leading you on and…and…”

He extends his fingers, counting his points as he sighs, “You forgot for being stubborn, for not asking me to be the Inigo to your Buttercup, for-”

“I’m sorry.” You force every ounce of meaning behind the words as you squeeze his waist tighter and he finally meets your hug, long arms wrapping around you. 

“We’re all good sweetheart, don’t sweat it.” He pats your shoulder and takes a step back, cocking his head, “But that’s not all…” he taps his finger to your forehead, “What else is going on up there? Why were you leaving?”

“Y/N, please don’t…” Steve trails off as he comes into the entryway. You duck your head and sniff quietly, hoping there’s no evidence of your tears that escaped and break away as Steve clears his throat. “So-sorry. I thought you were…nevermind.”

Steve turns quickly on his heel, back towards the kitchen where the sounds of Robin and Nancy arguing about something echo louder down the hall. Eddie sighs, rolling his eyes at Steve’s back, and gestures for you to go before him, quietly whispering, “We’ll chat later about that.”

“Why does it smell like that? What did you put in it?” Nancy is bent down, looking at the dish you placed in the oven. Her hair is damp, curls weighed down against her cheeks, but her sleek outfit is back on, sans coat, sleeves rolled up. 

Robin’s hair has a towel twirled on top of it, though she’s otherwise back in her jeans and sweater, her hands on her hips. “I don’t know! I did exactly what you said!”

“What’s going on?” Eddie asks, tossing the bread onto the counter. 

“You don’t smell that?” Nancy shakes her head, hand held out to the air in exasperation. 

Steve’s back is to you as he dumps cooked noodles into his pot of melted cheese and Eddie shakes his head no. Your nose starts to wrinkle though the longer you sit in the space. 

Your hands raise, “I swear I just put the marshmallows on.”

It takes Nancy gagging on a bite she tries to eat of the casserole and Steve going through his spices next to his pot to realize Robin used paprika instead of cinnamon. A lot of paprika. 

She throws her hands up in the air as she storms out to the deck, where you’ve all decided it’d be better to eat, bundled up from the cold, than inside trapped with the smell. “You know what, I never asked to cook anything so eat you’ll eat your paprika sweet potatoes and like it!”

As everyone sits at the table, Eddie looks around and asks, “Shouldn’t we wait for one more?”

“What?” Steve asks him, tone a little sharp, sitting down in the seat across from you.

“Your fiance? Isn’t she coming?” Eddie prods, meeting Steve’s cold attitude with an equal sting and rolled back shoulders. 

“I’m sure she was earlier,” Robin mumbles into her wine glass, “Ow.” She glares at Steve who kicks her under the table. 

Nancy rolls her eyes as Steve shakes his head no, clearing his throat, “She’s…we haven’t…she’s with her family already.”

Robin sighs from her spot next to you and your eyes meet Steve’s before jumping down to your plate. The pressure around your heart squeezes even tighter - maybe it was only easy with him because she’s not here, and that is not always going to be the case. Your fingers itch, neck rolling from the tension. You want to get up and walk away, but Eddie’s knee nudges yours and your shoulders relax slightly. 

Nancy raises her glass, changing the subject, “Okay, before we dig in, I want to say that I’m very grateful for you all, and here’s to many more years of Friendsgiving.” She smiles at Robin when she uses the name. 

Robin beams, holding her glass up too, “Here, here! Now everyone take two scoops of the potatoes.”

Glasses clink and laughter shared, it's easy for you to believe Nancy. Easy with Steve smiling across from you and Eddie and Robin bickering about the food next to you, with her not there, to believe that you’ll be a part of their stories. Maybe - 

“So, Dingus, it’s time to spill all the details about Leigh.” Robin leans forward on the table, her eyebrows raised as Steve’s glass pauses halfway to his mouth. “We don’t know anything and you’re getting married in like five months.”

Nancy and Eddie’s bites and glasses also freeze, not so discreet looks at you from both of them. Nancy finishes swallowing and shakes her head, “Robin, we know enough! Let Steve-”

“No we don’t! I don’t know how you met, or if she’s moved in, and how he proposed and why on earth he didn’t tell his best friend! I have him cornered finally and you’re all gonna help me. Don’t act like you guys don’t want to know either!”

“Robin,” Steve starts licking his lips as he looks at her then you, “Can we not do this right now?”

“Time’s up bub,” Robin frowns, shaking her head, “I promise we like her, she’s cool. But you’ve been dodging the questions and me for weeks now. Start with the easy one, how’d you meet?”

Steve looks at you like he’s in physical pain and you look down at the liquid in your wine glass, swirling the red wine around as you wait for the story that is sure to kill you. You wish he’d just rip the band-aid off, get it over with.  

“We, uh, met through my parents.” Steve swallows a large gulp of wine. 

Your head whips up at the comment and Steve stares at you, frowning before he looks up at the sky. 

Robin’s brows furrow as she asks, “Your parents?” Equally shocked as you are. It isn’t a secret that Steve and his parents aren’t always on the same page. 

Steve rubs at his forehead, closing his eyes before he sets the wine glass down. He straightens, rolling his shoulders back, “Okay, it’s all going to come out anyways so…our parents set us up. It’s been arranged for awhile, we didn’t really date or anything, we’re getting married because that’s what we do. She’s from a good family and I’m from a good family, it makes sense. For business and life and…that’s it.”

The table is silent as Steve’s lips twist, waiting for someone to say something.

Your heartbeat isn’t loud in your ears, your stomach doesn’t swoop - it’s like all noise has left the planet. It’s like someone actually hit pause as his explanation and the last few months catch up with each other in your brain until they meet in a loud explosion. It’s an actual glass shattering sound effect. Heartbreak and hope and disbelief and anger swell inside of you like a wave ready to devour anyone who was stupid enough to enter the unpredictable ocean. 

It’s surprising to everyone, including yourself, when you’re the one to break the silence. The question leaves you so quietly, you weren’t even certain you asked it out loud until he looked at you. 

“So you’re not in love with her?”

As Steve stares at you, the table floats away, it’s just you and him. His mouth parts, but no response falls from it. You stand abruptly, chair scraping against the wood deck harshly as you push back, muttering something about needing to put the dessert into the oven. Your stomach that’s been twisted into knots for months feels like someone pulled one loose thread and it’s unraveling inside of you. A box of bouncy balls released, an unpredictable canon of confetti, trapeze artists, butterflies, boulders, and a deep ocean swallowing you. All of it, finally coming together and creating catastrophe. 

It’s like every single moment you’ve been angry with him is turned up to eleven, but so is every look and touch. Every single one feels like a lie, a slap to your face - he was just using you because he was indecisive, scared, afraid to give up his single life. Steve Harrington was just like every other man. Your entire last few months swirl around inside your brain, replaying every moment, every emotion like a favorite movie. But it’s like someone took that film and told you every single thing wrong with it. Like they pointed out how everything you loved was just covering up the real and horrible plot - bright lights and pretty sets to convince everyone they had a good time, when in reality it was cheaply made and not worth it. 

Your hands shake as you start to rip at the foil covering the pie, and his voice calls out behind you, “Please let me answer that question. Please let me explain.”

A scoff leaves you, eyes closing as you bite back, “It’s fine Steve. Clearly I was just some placeholder for you the whole time.”

“Placeholder?”

You spin, hands in the air as you search for words to make him see how much this hurts you. “Yeah, yes. Some, I don’t know. Last hurrah!”

“What?” The word comes out sharp, like he truly doesn’t understand what you’re saying. His cheeks are pink, his hair blown from the wind outside, eyes wide and blinking at you like you’re crazy.

“You heard me! I was just some fun fuck before you sealed the deal on your spoiled brat fate.”

Steve’s mouth falls open, then quickly closes, taking a step closer, hands clenched into fists as his brows furrow. His jaw tightens with each word, “I’m not a spoiled brat!”

Another scoff, a cold laugh as you wave your hand again. “Oh please Steve! You used me to bide your time and prolong the inevitable! You were just avoiding looking at the contract you signed!”

Steve stands over you, both of your chests rising and falling in time, the air inside the kitchen warmer from the oven being on all day and your words shouted at each other - the sparks leaping from your bodies and engulfing each other. 

“I didn’t use you! You offered! It was all your idea! I’m so sick of this-”

You shove at his chest and he grabs your wrists, as you mock him, voice dripping with fake pity, “Oh, poor Steve Harrington. I have to get married and say goodbye to my single life, but let me use this girl-”

“This isn’t about me, I have to make decisions that affect my whole family, I can’t just say no! And what was I supposed to do? The person I want doesn’t want me!” HIs voice cracks as he drops your hands, fire cracking and sizzling between you both. His admission, the chance to tell him he’s wrong, that you do want him, makes your heart beat turn rapid, like it’s actually trying to punch its way out of your body. 

You shake your head, pushing down the flames of hope threatening to burn you alive, pushing him away. “You saw an opportunity to postpone but not fully deny. It’s fine Steve, I get it. It was the safe option.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Grabbing the pie, you sob, “Security. Money. You couldn’t say no to them. And then when I offered to fuck you no strings attached? Man,” you scoff out another laugh around your tears, “You probably thought you won the lottery, huh?”

Steve grabs for the pie, his eyes wet as he shakes his head. Voice hoarse as he argues, “You’re so unbelievably wrong. I couldn’t fucking wait for you to maybe, hopefully, open up one day! I have to move on! And it’s not like she’s a bad person, and I don’t know why we’re arguing about this again, because clearly you’re with Eddie.”

You tug harder on the dish but Steve doesn’t release as you cry out, “Oh! No! Don’t even try that! Eddie and I aren’t together and we never were! You’re using that as an excuse! Tell me Steve. Tell me you love her, that you want to marry her.”

“I-”

“Is that what your future looks like? Huh? Ten years down the road, it’s her? That’s what you imagined and not your parents?”

“Y/N, it’s not that simple!”

“It is! What do you want, Steve?”

You need him to tell you and he needs you to tell him and neither of you will - because you’re scared, stubborn. Two suns burning too hot and close together, and it was inevitable for it to end this way. You both stood on the edge of that cliff and saw the end you’d meet and you jumped anyway. Was it worth it? 

“I can’t believe you two.” 

This is the moment. 

It wasn’t when he showed up at the football game with her. It wasn’t the party. It wasn’t the engagement.

It’s the look Robin is giving you both from her spot in the doorway. It’s the pie and the glass dish hitting the floor in shards of sapphire blue and orange peaches. It’s Steve and you both turning to her, shaking your heads no, saying her name in the same pleading way.

Her bright blue eyes turn to glass as she chokes around a tearful laugh, “I knew, I knew you both were hiding something, I just…why? Why couldn’t you just tell me?”

Nancy reaches for Robin’s wrist, “Robin, they didn’t mean to…”

Robin recoils, swiping at her cheeks. She looks at Nancy, then at Steve whose head falls, his hands in his hair. Eddie looks down too when Robin turns to him and she steps back again. “Everyone knew, huh? You all have been lying to me this entire time? Why? I don’t…” She shakes her head again and runs past you both, down the hall and slams the door. 

Steve starts to go after her when a small frame stands in front of him like she’s twice his size, hand pressing to his chest. Fury burns in Nancy’s eyes as she blocks the hallway. Her voice low and far more angry than you’ve heard it be before. “I think you’ve done enough.”

“Nance, come on, that’s not fair,” Steve steps forward again and when she stops him with two hands now, his voice turns sharper, “Don’t act like you’re the only one who cares about her.”

“Yeah, well you’ve got a funny way of showing it Steve.” Nancy looks at you, “I think you should leave. All of you.”

Eddie grabs your elbow, speaking quietly, “I can drive you home.”

Steve laughs, “Oh, I’m sure you can.”

“Steve,” you start and he interrupts you, hands running down his face. 

“No. It’s fine. It’s all my fault right? I’m the only one in the wrong?” He pushes past you, shoulder hitting Eddie’s hard and the door slamming even more so behind him. Pictures rattle against the wall, Nancy and her family's smiling faces tilted in their frame. The world turned off its axis. 

It’s Nancy’s quiet knock from down the hall, Robin’s shouted ‘leave her alone’ and Eddie’s sigh of ‘fucking, christ’. It’s that there you stand, the door closed behind him, the mess you made, literally, surrounding you. 

This, the consequences of all of your actions - is the double tap. 

You let the mess build, you let the avoided truths take deeper roots and spread lies to cover them up. All because you wanted the hope to stay - you wanted it both ways - despite telling yourself different, despite lying to yourself for months.

Now, it’s too late. You’re just a girl who isn’t in a rom com with a happy ending. You’re alone, and the hope that maybe you wouldn’t be for once isn’t just gone, it’s ripped from your fingers. 

The book is closed. The knife drips in the killer’s hand as the victim’s chest stops heaving. The spacesuit floats through a noiseless and lifeless galaxy. The body doesn’t get up from the mats and a silence falls over the crowd. 

“Fuck!”

Your hands smack the steering wheel, a sob leaving you as your forehead falls against it. 

You’ve been driving around for hours, hopeless. Your heart hasn’t stopped its erratic and hard beats since you ran out of Nancy’s. Somehow your body still courses with adrenaline, fight or flight still at war inside of yourself. Every time you think about the look Robin had on her face, every time you think about how much you hurt her, or how you may not see her again, you feel real, visceral, pain and panic. Your hands start shaking, the crying starts its cycle over from scratch, and you have to pull over until the snot sobbing stage settles into a calm, sort of silent cry. 

This is a mess, and it’s your mess. Despite wanting to put all of the blame on Steve, you simply can’t run from this truth anymore. It was you who came up with the plan. Steve was hesitant immediately, bringing Robin’s thoughts up right away. It was you who came up with the Red Hot Ranch code, who kept going. It was you who called it off and started it up again despite knowing how it would all inevitably end. It feels like you pushed Steve off the cliff and thought it was okay because you were diving after him. 

As you stare out the windshield, you know you have to stop running. Eddie’s words ring through the air.

Open the fucking door. Nobody’s leaving you.

You have to at least try, right? You have to apologize to her, to tell her it was all your fault so if she at least doesn’t forgive you, maybe you can offer a crack in the door to her forgiveness for the others. The others who simply got caught up in your lies, tripping over the tangled knot of roots they took.  

You’re certain Robin and you met how and when you did not by chance, the universe gave you each other for a reason. You’re certain that there are soul mates, they’re just not in the form you always suspect. And you’re certain that if you don’t try to make things right, you’ll be miserable and truly alone for the rest of your life.

Robin once told you that she was there, and that she would be there when you were ready and you hope the offer still stands. Maybe you can’t make everything right, you can’t rewind, but you have to at least try to make the ending bearable. 

When you turn the key in the ignition though, your car sputters. Your face twists into an expression of disbelief, only deepening when it does it again and your mouth falls open in shock when it suddenly starts to rain, mixing with snow that melts immediately on the ground. You laugh, looking out the windshield at the bleak and miserable sky, washing out the city in a dull gray. 

“Of fucking course,” you mumble under your breath. Getting out of the car, you sigh as you lock it. You shield your eyes as you stare up at the sky and laugh, “You’re real funny. Great joke.”

Maybe it was a sign from the universe that you needed to really work for it, maybe it was bad karma, maybe you really deserved it, maybe it was even supposed to be a blessing - washing away the past to clear the slate for the future. 

Regardless of reason, you don’t take the train, and you make the slow and wet walk back to where you came from. 

The buzzer for her place rings with no answer. You know that she’s home because the light is on, and you intercepted her take out. 

“Buckley I’ll keep buzzing, your egg rolls are getting cold!”

When she doesn’t answer again, you sigh, pressing your wet forehead to the cold brick and hold it down again, pulling out the big guns. “Okay, Robin, I, listen. I am so sorry. And if you want to hate me and never see me again, that’s totally fine, I understand. Because honestly, I am…I am scum for lying to you. I am pond scum. I’m lower than pond scum. I am the fungus that feeds on the pond scum.”

You release the buzzer and when there still isn’t a click of her responding your chin trembles. Maybe you really did fuck it up that badly and there is no coming back from this. It was silly of you to think she’d ever forgive you, especially when she has Steve. You’re about to set the food down and buzz again to tell her you’ll leave when the front door opens. 

“You’re lower actually.” 

A sob leaves you as Robin stands in the doorway, arms crossed over her favorite Hawkins Band sweatshirt. The fuzzy lime green socks with banjos on them that you got her for her birthday on her feet.  

You nod, swiping at your tears with a free hand. “You’re right. Lower than the fungus. I’m the pus that infects the mucus that cruds up the fungus that feeds on the pond scum.”

Robin’s lips twitch, but she rolls her eyes before they look at the ground. “Quoting Julia Roberts is really unfair. You know how much of a sucker I am for her. Cheap shot.”

A crack in the tightness in your chest starts to pry open as you whisper, “I almost bought roses and had this plan to blare classical music from my car but it broke down and…well, here I am anyways, asking for forgiveness and a chance to explain.”

She raises her eyebrows, waiting, and your chin trembles as your voice shakes, “Robin I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to lie to you about it all for so long. And there were so many times I wanted to tell you. I was selfish and wrong and scared I would lose you - that you’d pick his side and shut me out - but I’m here trying now…please don’t hate me forever. And don’t hate Steve. He did nothing wrong. Or Nancy, or Eddie. It was all me and I’m so, so, so, sorry, please let me explain everything and give me another chance to be even half the amazing friend that you are.”

It’s silent, for what feels like forever, until her eyes meet yours. Shining from tears and her nose wiggles as she sniffles, “You were going to Pretty Woman me?”

You nod, tears roll down your cheeks and mingle with the rain that coats them. 

Robin sighs, choking on her own tears as she laughs, “You just get me.”

She engulfs you in a hug and both of you cry into each other’s shoulders as she says, “I’m still mad you all lied. You’re not off the hook. I think giving me limitless veto power for movie nights is extremely fair and nonnegotiable.” 

Your body feels lighter than it has in months as your arm tightens around her as you agree with a teary laugh, whispering another apology while silently vowing to never let her go. It doesn’t matter what happens next, because at least you have her, and you know you always will. 

Robin trips on a heel as she emerges from her closet. Tilting your head at the dress she holds up, your nose scrunches as you shake your head no. 

She sighs, throwing it on the no pile and groans, “Ugh! This is hopeless!”

As she flops onto her bed with a huff, you laugh and swap places with her, “No, no, come on. Tell me again.”

Robin sits up, staring at her dresser with a furrow forming under her bangs. “I want to look professional, put together, but not like it’s an interview, you know? I want them to take me seriously, but I want to look like me. Ergo, I am doomed.”

Your fingers trail over her clothes, eyes searching again after they roll. “Ergo, you’ve been facetiming Dustin too much.”

A black dress catches your eyes, velvet and cinched at the waist. Pulling it from her closet you hold it up. “What about this? I’ve never seen you wear it. Is it new?”

Her head tilts, “Huh. I forgot I bought that for…” she trails off and looks at you with a sad smile. “Right. Yeah, you don’t think it’s too low cut?”

You shake your head no, taking a deep breath at her change of subject, thoughts drifting to if she bought it for the wedding or something related to it. Maybe you could ask, but you’ve sort of had a non-verbal agreement to not discuss Steve the last month and it’s been working. After explaining everything to her, including how you felt about him getting married, your complicated feelings, it just felt easier to not discuss anything relating to him. 

“Throw a nice necklace on, you’ll be perfect babe,” you make an a-okay symbol with your fingers, “The Wheeler’s aren’t gonna know what hit em.” You smile and look at the clock on her nightstand, handing the dress out to her, “Get to it though, or you’ll be late.”

Robin makes no move to get up, holding the dress in her hands and staring at it. 

She shakes her head no. “I can’t do this.”

Sitting next to her, the bed bounces lightly and you grab her hand. “You absolutely can do this. It’s just meeting the parents and siblings, all of whom you’ve met already.”

“But not as her girlfriend. When I met them she wasn’t even out. What if they hate me? What if I spill something? What if I order the wrong wine?”

Laughing, you hold her panicking face in your hands, taking a deep breath to encourage her to do so too. “Robin. Breathe.”

She does, her exhale shaky and you smile, head tilting as you let her face go, fixing a curl you smooshed. “You really love her don’t you.”

It’s not a question, but Robin answers anyway. She nods vehemently, words tumbling out of her like she can’t help it. “God so much it’s scary. But also not? I want to spend every second with her. I want to tell her about every dumb little thought that pops into my head and I want to hear what she ate for lunch every day. I want to wake up and fall asleep next to her and that’s insane! How can you love a person like that so quickly? Like everything in your body is screaming for it? It’s…it’s that kind of love I’ve only heard about before? That kind of love…” she trails off, maroon polished fingers covering her smile before she keeps going, “It’s easier than breathing. It is breathing, you know?”

As she says the words that prick at something inside of you, prodding on thoughts you’d locked away, her skin pales, looking like she’s going to be sick. “Oh my god I really can’t do this. I can’t-”

“Robin. One step at a time. Change your outfit, you can do that right?”

She laughs, head falling to your shoulder, a sing-song lilt to her voice, “We’ve been here before.”

“Yeah and look at what happened.”

Robin sits up, biting her lip, nodding once and standing. “Right.”

As she changes, you assess her jewelry box. Your eyes roam over the mirror of her vanity, smiling at the pictures. You pause at the one of her and Steve that’s new to you. He has his tongue out, her arm around him and your fingers touch the corner, an ache in your chest wondering what they were doing and what stories they’ll have from the day. 

“Have you talked to him?”

Her question startles you and your shoulders lift. Clearing your throat, you hold the necklace out to her. “No, um, I haven’t. He’s good?”

Robin starts to hook the necklace as she hums, “I think so. It’s hard to tell some days.” She hesitates, her face pinched into a familiar look to you, the one that looks like she’s physically holding words in, a true test for her. She bends down to buckle her heels as she asks, “Is it always going to be this way? Avoiding talking about each other? Seeing each other?”

“No, I don’t think so. I just need some time. I’ll be okay.” Shrugging with a smile, you grab your purse and coat. 

Robin’s blue eyes sparkle under shimmering gold eyeshadow and she tilts her head, a smile forming on her lips as she nods, confident in her words, “You will be. One step at a time.”

“Cute,” you muse, and take a step back. You twirl your fingers for her to spin and she rolls her eyes but obliges. The black velvet dress cuts off at her calves, hugging her curves in a sexy but modest way and the gold pendant on her necklace matches the blocky old-fashioned heels. You yell out, “Ow-ow!” 

Robin laughs, waving you off and grabs her phone. “Okay picture!”

“Ew, Robin no! You look so good and I am literally in my sweatshirt with the mustard stain on it.” 

She shushes you, “Tough tater tots toots.”

She pulls you in as you laugh, both of you easily falling into a goofy pose as she snaps a selfie. She nods her approval and grabs her coat, “Oh yeah, that one’s definitely going on the board.” She clicks her phone closed and you both head towards the stairwell. 

As you step out of her apartment building, Nancy is getting out of an Uber, an emerald peacoat wrapped around her and she stops, eyes only on Robin. 

“Hi,” she whispers, smiling, “Wow. You’re so beautiful.”

Robin’s face turns as red as her nails and you duck your head. “Well, I think that’s my cue to leave. Have a good night,” you squeeze Nancy’s hand, “Tell your brother and El hey from me?”

She squeezes it back, confirming she will, and holds the door open for Robin, then jogs around to the other side and you have to smile at her lack of wanting to scoot across the seat or maybe it’s just her old fashioned, secret romantic side coming out. 

As you start to walk away, you hear your name and spin back around, Robin is leaning out of the window, smiling wide as she asks, “Benny’s tomorrow? 10?”

“I expect a full report!” You cross your arms over your chest, fore and middle fingers crossed in a good luck to her that she mirrors as the car drives away. 

The walk to the train from there is short, your car still out of commission, and you pop your airpods in, debating how your evening will go. Eddie is already home for Christmas with his uncle in Indiana, Robin and Nancy together tonight, and Steve…

Before them, an evening alone like this never would have bothered you. Eating what you wanted to eat, watching what you wanted to watch - you got good at being alone, enjoying it actually. Now, there’s a funny little feeling that pulls at a thread inside of you, trying to unravel the work you’ve done. 

As you wait for the train, pulling your winter hat tighter over your ears, you watch a couple come up the stairs. They have shopping bags in their hands, dressed in warm, wool coats. Giggly, pink cheeks, gloved hands clinging to each other. They sit just down from where you stand against the railing when you get on, huddled together as they look at a map on his phone, and you wonder what their story is - where they were, where they’re going, and if they love each other. It seems like they do, and you wonder if it’s the kind of love Robin explained.

How can anyone love like that aside from fictional people in the movies? How can you love someone so deeply and intensely, without fear of it being ripped away?

But maybe people do fear it being ripped away, and they love regardless. Fear doesn’t make love disappear, it makes it stronger. Because what if that person is gone one day? What if you never told them how you felt? What if you never even got the chance to see if you could love like that? Isn’t it better to try than never know?

As you look out the train doors, the sky is turning a soft pink and purple. The sun is setting over the city in one of those perfect nights, slow, like each color being revealed is a purposeful brushstroke, hand painted. A sign. 

Sunsets. Steve. A good song. Steve. Your friends. Steve. Your family. Steve. 

Easier than breathing. 

An undeniable, unavoidable, unforgiving wave of heartbreak rolls over you. But it’s not alone, it’s hope, it’s questions and answers, it’s relief and clarity and you know what you have to do. 

You unlock your phone, a desperation and need to get all of it out now, fueling each press of your thumbs to the screen. Maybe the story is wrong, but you’re the main character, narrator, and author and you can change it if you just put in the work to do so. Tears begin to fall down your cheeks, and you let them, unashamed, finally free of the place you’ve kept them locked away. Pressing send on the message, you hold your breath, hoping she’s not already too preoccupied with Nancy. 

The train doors open and you rush down the stairs. Each step slams against the sidewalk, sending shocks up your spine, cold air filling your lungs as each stride brings you closer to him, but not fast enough. You have to try to change the story, you have to tell him.  

But when his location is just out of your reach, when you see him, you slow down. 

Steve stands beneath the gold twinkling lightbulbs of the old brick theater, the white marquee sign displaying the title ‘When Harry Met Sally’. He has a black beanie on, hair sticking out and curling slightly. A dark gray peacoat flutters against the back of his thighs in the wind, open to reveal the yellow sweater he has on and your feet come to a skidding stop. His phone is pressed to his ear as he looks up from where he was scuffing his Nike against the sidewalk and makes eye contact with you. 

Your heart beat has thoroughly been replaced again as your hands start to shake, each slow step to him stretched out and lingering, lasting for what feels like minutes instead of seconds. 

What if. What if. What if.

The phone slips, hand falling to his side. His brows furrow just under his hat and you want to reach forward and brush the worry away with your thumb. His greeting leaves him quietly, a puff of his breath and the word floating in the air just a few feet from you.

 “Hi.”

Gesturing with a trembling hand to the sign above that you can no longer see, fully under the gold lights, you blurt out, “Did you know that it came out in 89’? So technically it’s a bad 80s rom com. I was wrong.”

Steve shakes his head, the twinkle of the lights highlighting the brown in his eyes, warm and sweet and deeply confused as he starts, “What are you-”

“I was wrong about a lot of things, Steve. And I know I’m late in saying that. I know I’m late for a lot more, but I think it’s better to say it late, to say it now, than to never tell you and wonder for the rest of my life.”

Steve’s lips part, your name a whisper on them, but you take a deep inhale and prepare to get it all out fast and without fear of needing a breath akin to the way Robin speaks, just so you can leave yourself open and vulnerable despite knowing that it could, and most likely will, hurt. 

“I’m sorry if Leigh is inside or she’s gonna be here soon, but I have to tell you. I…Steve I’m sorry. I wanted to be friends with benefits because I was selfish. You were right. I wanted it both ways. At first, you were just this guy who was hot and funny and knew what he was doing and I didn’t want to lose that. But then, then I got to know you and that’s when it got complicated, because I really didn’t want to lose you then.” You swallow as Steve freezes in front of you, no longer stepping towards you and his shoulders hunch like he’s holding his breath as you keep going.

“I wanted you, but I was scared to commit, scared that if I did commit, I’d lose you all anyways. And I still am scared. Terrified,” you laugh a little as tears start to roll down your cheeks, “But I think being scared is worth it if I’m doing it with you. Because…” Inhaling, you take a step closer as Steve blinks at you, willing the words to keep coming.

“Because I think we could be something special if we gave it a real chance. And I think that we can’t know what’s going to happen, maybe it all blows up in our faces, but at least we tried and we’ll know and we won’t spend our lives wondering what if.” Tears blur your vision as you leave it all out there, words that feel like they’ve wanted to tumble out of you forever just keep coming, faster and faster, your hands gesturing wildly with each one, stepping closer and closer to him.

“And I want to try so badly Steve. I want to hold your hand in public and go on dates and tease you and make memories with you and I think we could fall in love, I think I was already starting to. Like real love. Like that undeniable, scary, kind of love, and I’m sorry you’ll have to wait for me to get there to say it, but if you give it a chance…I think we’re worth the wait. I don’t care that I’m saying all of this too late, I don’t care that you’re getting married because at least I said it and if you wanna stand up there and say I do to her in May then that’s fine, I can move on, maybe, I think, because at least I’ll know I tried and-”

“Woah, woah, woah.” 

Steve grabs your shaking hands, interrupting you. Cedar and mint hit your nose as you inhale, his cologne lingering on his scarf. His adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. One hand leaves yours, fingers curling under your chin as he murmurs, “I’m not getting married.”

“You’re…” you hiccup a laugh through your tears, “What?”

He tilts his head and clears his throat, repeating it as his thumb brushes a tear from your cheek, fingers squeezing your hand. “I’m not getting married.”

“You’re not getting married,” you repeat it again, quieter, letting the words sink in. 

Steve shakes his head no, the back of his knuckles brushing more tears from your cheek as he lets out a shaky breath. “I called it off the day after…after everything.”

“Oh,” you swallow, eyes blinking up at him under wet lashes as the reality of the extremely vulnerable words you practically just shouted at him sit unreciprocated still, unable to be taken back. 

Steve’s lips twitch on the right, like he’s fighting a smile, eyebrows furrowed deeper as he sighs, “Yeah. Quit my job too.”

“What? Steve, why, what-”

His fingers trace your jaw as he shakes his head again, rolling his eyes but the smile fighting on his lips wins. “This girl that drives me crazy basically quoted The Notebook scene at me and I decided I’d rather have the life I wanted, have her, or have nothing at all. But I didn’t think she felt the same way, and I wasn’t going to push her again.”

You smile, a laugh bubbling out of you as you shake your head, “You’re crazy about me?”

Steve laughs, his hat bumping yours as your foreheads touch. You drop his hand, both of yours pressing to the soft yellow material against his chest. His breath warm against your cheek as you ask, “So what happens now?”

He pulls away, forehead leaving yours and creating a small space between the two of you, you already want closed again. The lights make the green almost disappear from his eyes, golden, sunshine pulling you in and making you beg for more of it to light you up, a tether, your gravity, just like they’ve always been. 

Steve clears his throat, hands reaching up to cup your cheeks, thumbs brushing over the apples of them as he declares, “Well, rule number one, we tell Robin.”

“Deal,” you tilt your head, playing his game. Your hands slowly crawl up his chest, wrapping around his neck, playing with the collar of the coat as you throw out, “Pet names?”

Steve nods dramatically, pinching his eyes closed, “Oh yeah. So many.” He leans in, nose tracing up the line of yours slowly, foreheads knocking together as the tips of your shoes meet. “I’m gonna call you babe and honey loudly at the grocery store for no reason other than I can.”

“Yeah?” Your top lip hits his with the lift of your smile and question.

He nods. “Yeah.”

Steve’s hands cup the back of your head, tilting you open for him as he ducks down, mouth hovering above yours as he speaks like you’re the only two people in the world. 

“But right now? Right now I’m gonna kiss you.”

“Which bad 90s rom com you steal that one out of, Harrington?” You whisper against his lips. 

Steve smiles, gaze tracing the curve of your lips then meeting yours as he takes a deep breath. 

“You liked it.” 

And maybe the marquee lights twinkle above you a little brighter as you finally meet in a kiss. Maybe snowflakes start drifting down from the clouds lazily, covering everything in a fresh start right at the moment his hands wrap around your waist and pull you impossibly closer, your back arching from the passion of his kiss. Maybe a terrible top forty song blares out of someone’s car as it drives past, your foot popping off the pavement a little when he pulls away for a breath only to lean and kiss you deeper and slower. 

The universe can’t guarantee anything for you and Steve, but it is giving you a chance. There is nothing, not even love, that can keep away the inevitable struggle, heartbreak, or loss life will be sure to throw at you. Which is scary, but doing it together, his hand in yours, makes it less so. Yes, it won’t always be easy, but the hard work you’ll both put in when it isn’t, means it’s real. There is no one other than yourselves who can decide if your relationship could be like the movies. The two of you are the only ones that can calculate if there’s still time for a happy ending in your story. Only Steve and you can be certain that the fear of heartbreak or pain is worth taking the risk, because if you don’t, if you let the chance slip away, you’ll never know if one day you could have called it love. 

WCIL Taglist: @loveshotzz @myobmaya @sweetsweetjellybean @pastel-pillows @littlesubbyflower @johnricharddeacy @freezaz123 @selfdeprecatingnerd @big-ope-vibes @manda-panda-monium @hellkaisersangel @yogizzz @soulmatecashton @happytimeunicorns @mandyjo8719 @lunarxeclipse @buckleylips @beckkthewreck @differentdeputyfishpaper @supardupar @micheledawn1975 @imjuststeddietrashatthispoint @sagelittleplace @totally-bogus-timelady @steves-babysitter @fallinginlovewithqueue @aftermidnightwriting @omgshesinsane @pootcullen @definitionwanderlust @nostalgiafool @palmtreesx3 @scoopshxrrington @live-the-fangirl-life @eddiesguitarskills @mannstarkey @keepingitlokiii @silkholland @redbarn1995

[fanficapologist]

Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter Eighty

Perhaps this is what it meant to rule? To be a Princess? Something which Maera was woefully unprepared for. Whilst her mother was the daughter of a Prince, Lady Gael was educated in the ways of a Lady of the Stormlands, prepared since youth to be able to fulfill her role in life, as a wife mother and Lady of a noble House. But Maera? Being a Princess was not on the cards for her.

Although being a member of House Targaryen certainly had its advantages, Maera could feel her personality and freedom being crushed underneath the burden of her responsibility and authority, meaning she could never be her true self. Duty called for her to put on the mask of whatever was necessary for her subjects, whether that be kindness, diplomacy or ruthlessness. It was incredibly exhausting.

That evening, Maera found herself back in her chambers at Harrenhal. The darkness outside was punctuated by the soft glow of candles lit throughout the room, casting flickering shadows on the stone walls. The warm, golden light created an intimate and soothing atmosphere, a stark contrast to the harsh events of the day.

Maera sat on her bed, now clad in a soft nightgown that felt cool against her skin. Her freshly washed and redressed wounds throbbed faintly, a constant reminder of her recent ordeal. Her dark brown and silver hair, previously pinned up, now flowed freely in tight curls, cascading over her shoulders and down her back, thanks to the maid who had attended to her.

Spread out on the bed around her were numerous pieces of parchment, bottles of ink, and letters. Maera had decided to use replying to correspondence as a distraction from the tumultuous thoughts that plagued her mind. The act of writing, of focusing on something tangible and methodical, provided a small respite from the emotional and physical pain.

The letters varied in importance and content, but most were regarding mild matters. Some were messages from allies, updates on the war, and requests for guidance. Others were personal letters, filled with words of concern and support from members of House Wylde. Each piece of correspondence demanded her attention and her response, giving her a sense of purpose and control.

Only a few were left unopened. One bore many foreign stamps and seals, which Maera recognized as Essosi, before eagerly opening it.

Little Sister

I hope this correspondence finds you well. I am writing to you with some news that may ease the Greens efforts at sea.

After much deliberation from the Magisters, they have agreed to send a fleet in support of freeing the Gullet so trade may continue with Kings Landing. Whilst I am sure this is just a bid to get money back into the Magisters pockets, it will still work out in your favour.

We await your command, Princess.

Yours Faithfully,

Dermot

Maera let out a breath she did not know she was holding, smiling gratefully at the news. The magisters of Essos had promised their ships, though likely to serve their own agenda, it was still a significant boon to the war effort. Maera put the letter aside, eager to inform the war council of this development.

Another letter was from little Princess Jaehaera, who had written about her younger brother Maelor’s mischievous antics. According to Jaehaera, Maelor had taken to pulling her hair when the nursery maids weren't looking, a fact that both annoyed and amused Maera.

Attached to the letter was a small painting of Ēbrion. The dragon, as depicted by Jaehaera, resembled a pig with rabbit ears and chicken wings, splatted with blue and black paint that had bled together in a whimsical, childlike manner. Despite the crude rendering, Maera giggled at the sight, her heart warmed by the thoughtfulness of her beloved niece. She quickly penned a reply, expressing her longing to be reunited with them soon.

The final letter in the pile lay there, almost forgotten in the shuffle. Its red wax seal bore the symbol of an archer, and Maera’s green eyes widened as recognition dawned. It was from House Tarly.

With a mixture of apprehension and urgency, Maera hastily opened the letter, bracing herself for threats or troubling news from the new Lord of Horn Hill. To her surprise, she found nothing of the sort.

The letter began without a formal greeting, no indication of who it was from. Yet, the distinctive loops on the L's and the emphatic crosses on the T's were unmistakable. Wynni.

How could you?

I am sold to a family like a brood mare to further our father’s influence across the Westeros, the only reason I am now convinced he had children.

I arrive in a land I am unfamiliar with, to live with people I do not know, and hastily married and bedded by a stranger. I am forbidden by my husband’s family from conversing with my siblings when House Tarly turn cloak, and left completely and utterly alone, abandoned, an orphan.

Then when I finally begin to find happiness with my husband, as we begin to form a bond, you take him away. And in doing so, I have lost his child in my womb.

They are to ship me back to Rain House as House Tarly feel I am responsible for your actions and will no doubt betray them. My marriage, my child, erased. I will never, ever, forgive you.

Maera began to shake, her breaths coming quickly in a panicked manner as she read the saddened and angered words of her sister. Relief washed over her knowing that Wynni was alive and well, after not having any contact with her in months. But the knowledge that Wynni was furious with her for murdering Lord Alan, and the pain of her sister’s miscarriage, filled Maera with dread.

Her hands trembled as she set the letter aside, her heart pounding in her chest. Maybe Wynni did not know about the attempt her husband had made on Maera’s life? Even so, sensing Wynni’s hurt and anger on the parchment cut Maera deeply. She took a few deep breaths, trying to calm the storm of emotions swirling within her.

With shaking hands, Maera began to clear away all the letters, quills, and ink from her bed. She carefully stacked the correspondence, placing them on a nearby table. She blew out the candles, plunging the room into darkness except for the faint moonlight seeping through the windows.

When Maera eventually lay her head on her pillow, tears began streaming down her face, silently sobbing as the weight of the day's emotions overwhelmed her. The child in her womb kicked violently, and though she stroked her stomach in an attempt to soothe the baby, it was not enough to distract her from her sorrow.

She wished so dearly to be back at Rain House with Sabine, Wynni, and their many other brothers and sisters. Maera longed to curl up beside Wynni in bed, as she had when they were children, when Wynni was scared of the dark. She wanted nothing more than to stroke her little sister’s hair, hold her tightly, and tell her everything would be alright. But it wouldn’t. They were now in the adult world, and the horrors they faced were so much worse than the dark.

Maera was unsure how much more of this she could take. The Dance of Dragons seemed to be not only tearing apart House Targaryen but also her own family. The strain, the betrayals, and the relentless conflict felt like an unbearable burden. Eventually, as exhaustion took over, Maera drifted into a fitful sleep, her tears still wet on her cheeks and her heart heavy with longing and despair.

“Princess, should you not be abed?”

The next day, Maera limped into the council chambers on the arm of Lord Unwin Peake. Her injuries still caused her great pain, but she had found a new strength within herself and was determined to be present and more engaged during the meetings. The ache in her body was a reminder of her resolve. As she entered, the other council members rose from their chairs in respect, although some looked shocked to see her, as evident by Lord Vance’s questioning of her presence.

“I have been abed long enough, thank you Lord Vance,” she replied firmly as she shuffled carefully to her seat at the head of the table, focusing on each step to hide the winces of pain that threatened to show. She couldn't afford to appear weaker than she already felt.

Once she was seated comfortably, Lord Unwin made his way to his own seat. Maera glanced around the table at the council members as they took their seats. Maester Cain had a look of concern on his face at her attendance, clearly worried about her health. The elder Lord Vance looked annoyed, perhaps questioning the prudence of her presence. Lord Butterwell scratched at his beard curiously, awaiting the Princess to speak. Maera detested the looks from the men, feeling their judgment and doubt pressing upon her. She straightened in her chair, determination flaring in her eyes. It was time to prove herself.

“Before we begin, I must apologize sincerely to all of you,” she began with diplomacy, her hands resting calmly on the table. “My husband leaving caused me to disengage from the matters at hand.” A momentary look of sadness washed over her face at the thought of Aemond, but she quickly hid it from the council members, repressing the complicated feelings she had towards the Prince for the meantime. “But since the attempt on my life, rest assured I return with a steady head and I am focused on what is at stake.”

The men, apart from Lord Unwin, exchanged hesitant glances. Lord Butterwell cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Princess, myself and Lord Vance are unsure if your attendance is…appropriate.” Maera clenched her jaw but attempted to remain composed as the Lord continued to speak. “While we value your presence in Harrenhall, you are with child and have suffered immensely. Is it wise to further burden yourself?”

Maera glanced around the room, gauging the reactions of the others. Of course the old fools did not want her there without her husband. She was a woman, and so obviously incapable of being with child and managing affairs with the castle walls, as well as making decisions about her own, and the Realm’s, future. At least that is probably what a lot of the noblemen thought.

Maera bit her lip to stifle a scoff at the Lord’s notion, thinking to herself that no wonder Rhaenyra was so eager to win the throne for herself, or else she would be cast aside to only focus on her family and her husband’s wellbeing, not having any say in government affairs. Despite everything that had transpired between the Blacks and the Greens, in that moment in the council room, Maera empathised with her half-sister in law.

Taking a steadying breath, she addressed Lord Butterwell’s concerns. “Do you recall the fate of Alys Rivers, my Lord?” she asked with a tilted head, a harsh tone to her voice.

The Lord gulped nervously, his eyes darting away from hers. “I do.”

Maera nodded, her gaze unwavering as a grin spread to her face. “Good, then we can all agree I am not some helpless maiden who needs protection from updates of battle and gore.”

Lord Vance huffed in frustration, his fingers drumming impatiently on the table. Maera pressed on, asserting herself. “My presence here, and that of my dragon’s, are what is holding this fortress. If you feel you can match Ēbrion’s power and defend Harrenhall from the Blacks and their own dragons, then please, feel free to speak it now.”

A tense silence filled the room as the men avoided her gaze, their unease palpable. Maera’s eyes flicked to each of them, her resolve unshaken. Lord Unwin watched her with a hint of admiration, his respect for her evident in his steady gaze. Yet this was not enough for the Princess to assert herself and allow the meeting to truly begin.

She sighed deeply, leaning back in her chair with frustration. If she was going to get these lords to work with her, she would have to try a different technique. Were she a Prince, a direct approach would be suffice, but as she was no man, it would not hold any weight; she needed to be more tactful.

“I will not sit here and insult you and claim I fully understand all matters at hand, because I do not,” Maera said, her voice steady and sincere. “You have a wealth of knowledge between you all, my Lords. And whilst I am aware that I am not my husband, I represent him and the crown whilst he is not here.”

By admitting her own shortcomings, as well as acknowledging the void Aemond’s absence had left, an absence that she could not fill, the Lords slowly appeared more receptive. Although she did not necessarily believe that a Princess’s role was separate from politics and battle plans, it had always been the way of things. Some even thought the order had been bestowed on humanity by the Gods, and to challenge that was seen as blasphemous.

As the Lords glanced at each other, Maera continued on. “I would be honoured if you would teach me, be patient with me, work with me, and as a united council, we can make decisions on behalf of the Realm.” Maera saw Lord Unwin nod approvingly in the corner of her eye. “That way, there will not be a disruption in proceedings whilst Aemond is away.”

Through giving the lords the illusion of power within the meeting, Maera ensured she held her own. She made them feel important and involved, fostering a sense of collaboration rather than confrontation.

“Can we come to an agreement, my Lords?”

Maester Cain's look of concern softened, and even the elder Lord Vance seemed to begrudgingly accept her presence. Lord Butterwell, still scratching at his beard, nodded thoughtfully at her words. The awkward tension began to dissipate, replaced by a more productive and cooperative atmosphere.

Maera knew that winning their trust wouldn't be easy, but this was a promising start. She was determined to navigate this delicate balance, using her newfound approach to strengthen her position and secure the support she needed.

When the meeting finally began, gradually, the lords began to engage more openly, offering their insights and suggestions whilst also considering Maera’s opinions and own knowledge. Minor matters were discussed, such as the delivery of wheat and barley to the fortress. The lords deliberated over safe routes for suppliers to take during the war, their combined experience ensuring that vital supplies would reach Harrenhall without unnecessary risk.

The Butterwell lord mentioned a shortage of blacksmiths in the area, which had led to fewer swords in the hands of their soldiers.Lord Unwin, ever resourceful, suggested procuring additional blacksmiths from King's Landing. The lords quickly agreed, and the matter was efficiently brought to a close.

As the lords continued to chat, Maera's attention drifted to the large map spread out across the table. Black and green figurines representing the warring factions dotted the map, and she couldn't help but smile at the memory of herself and Aemond knocking them off the table during their passionate encounter.

Sadness and frustration washed over her. She was furious with Aemond for his actions and decisions, yet she missed his presence deeply. This conflicted her, making her even angrier at herself. Balancing these emotions was a constant struggle, one that only added to the weight of her responsibilities.

As Maera studied the map intently, noticing how the green figurines seemed even sparser than before, a comment from Lord Vance caused her head to snap up.

“We have some troubling news to report upon the Westerlands border,” the older nobleman began, his tone grave. “Whilst attempting to get the Lannister army across the Red Fork, Lord Jason was killed.”

Maera sighed deeply, her shoulders slumping. It was another blow to the Green forces, and she could not help but feel guilty for not patrolling the borders the last few weeks, even though her condition prevented her from doing so.

“Ser Adrian took charge and managed to get the remaining host to Acorn Hall in order to regroup,” Lord Butterwell added, his expression serious. “Unfortunately, the rivermen met them again on the battlefield, and even though the Greens were victorious, Ser Adrian was slain.”

Maera was stunned, her eyes widening. Her mind raced with the implications, her thoughts immediately turning to her sister, Sabine. Ser Adrian had been kind, loyal, and a good husband. Thankfully, Maera’s sister had given birth to two sons and could regent for the eldest until he came of age, ensuring her safety. Maera dug her nails into her palm, feeling another flare of anger towards Aemond. Yet another of Alys's visions had proven wrong, adding fuel to her simmering rage.

“We must send our condolences to Lady Johanna and Lady Sabine for the loss of their Lord husbands.”

“Yes, Princess, but that is not the only matter at hand,” replied Lord Unwin, causing Maera’s frown to deepen as she shifted her gaze to him. He continued, “The Red Kraken has taken it upon himself to pillage and plunder the shores of the Westerlands.”

Maera’s expression hardened as she absorbed the news, her fingers tightening around the sleeve of her dress. The room fell into a tense silence, the weight of the situation pressing down on everyone present. She remembered Aemond's attempt to procure an alliance with Lord Dalton Greyjoy. The Ironborn Lord had stayed true to his word, adhering to tradition by reeving and raiding along the coast. It was a stark reminder of the unpredictable and brutal nature of war.

“Lady Johanna has written to her good brother to plead for aid, and the Master of Ships has granted it,” revealed Maester Cain.

“Leaving us with less ships along the Gullet,” added Lord Vance.

Maera looked at the map, glancing at Essos and the Straits. The news from her brother, Dermot, had come at the right time, and Maera was thankful she could present a solution to the council. Staring at the map, she saw a small box of green figurines beside it. Confidently, she picked up some extra figurines and dotted them on the coast of Essos and some near the Straits of Tarth. This piqued the council's interest, some lords leaning forward and awaiting Maera to reveal her plan.

“My brother has written to me that the Magisters will send a fleet to our cause. This should bolster the numbers around the gullet and leave us less vulnerable,” the Princess declared, moving the figurines she had placed to the Gullet of the Crownlands. “I can request more ships be sent to from Morne to compensate for the Lannister fleets’s absence. Are in agreement?”

The council listened attentively, nodding in agreement as Maera spoke. Her proposal was sound, a well-thought-out strategy to mitigate the threat of the Velaryons. As she placed the figurines on the map, representing the deployment of forces, the council members began to discuss the specifics, their initial hesitation easing into cooperation.

Lord Unwin agreed to correspond with the Master of Ships, Ser Tyland, to make him aware of the strategy and gain his consent for the arrangements to be made. Despite the weight of her grief and anger, Maera found solace in the fact that she could still lead and protect her people. Her resolve was unwavering, and with each passing moment, she felt more determined to see her plans through and ensure the safety and strength of her House.

The flames in the hearth of Maera's room flickered and danced, casting a warm, golden glow throughout the chamber. Shadows played across the walls, their movements mirroring the crackling fire. The heat radiated outward, creating a cozy, intimate atmosphere that contrasted sharply with the cold stone walls of Harrenhal.

As Maera sat in her chair, she felt a sense of accomplishment. The contributions she had made at the war council meeting filled her with a renewed confidence. She realized that she could indeed handle these responsibilities on her own. Her strategic mind, combined with the power she wielded—a dragon, a fleet by inheritance, and the diplomatic nature of a politician-made her a force to be reckoned with.

However, Maera wished to put all that aside for a moment. She wanted to spend quality time with the child in her womb. She felt a strong kick beneath her black and golden loosely fitted robes, a reminder of the life growing inside her. Gently, she stroked her swollen belly, a tender smile spreading across her face. The worries and burdens of leadership momentarily faded away as she focused on the small, yet powerful movements of her unborn child.

In this quiet, serene moment, Maera found peace. The future remained uncertain, filled with challenges and conflicts, but here and now, she was content. The firelight continued to bathe her in warmth, its soft glow reflecting in her eyes as she connected with the tiny life within her, drawing strength and comfort from their shared bond.

Maera’s previous bedridden recovery had only brought her closer to the child growing inside her. During those long, lonely days confined to her chambers, she often talked or sang to the babe as it rhythmically kicked against her hand. Isolated for most of the time, the babe had become her constant companion, a source of comfort and connection.

She conversed with her bump in both the common tongue and High Valyrian. Although there was no evidence in medical texts that a child could hear voices from outside the womb, Maera liked to think it could. Every time she spoke or sang, the child would respond with a punch or kick, as if acknowledging her presence and love.

The Princess couldn’t believe how quickly the pregnancy had progressed. Less than two moons remained until the child’s arrival. Despite all the changes she had already undergone, she marveled at how much she had grown to love this unborn life with a fierceness and intensity she had never experienced before. The anticipation of meeting her child filled her with a mix of excitement and trepidation, yet her love remained unwavering, a bright beacon amidst the turbulent seas of her life.

The large black and green dragon egg remained in its iron pot for most of the day near the hearth, nestled above piping hot coals that blazed fiercely, incubating the beast within. The intense heat radiated from the coals, enveloping the pot and creating an almost unbearable aura of scorching warmth. Servants of the castle dared not venture too close. The searing heat from the pot was overwhelming, making it impossible for them to lift it, let alone touch the egg itself.

However, Maera was unfazed . The blood of the dragon ran hot in her veins, rendering her unaffected by the scathing heat. She approached the pot with a calm determination, her hands immune to the burning touch as she lifted the egg. Cradling it gently against her round stomach, Maera felt no stings or burns.

As she held the egg, the child within her seemed to sense its presence. A series of wild kicks thudded against her belly, striking the shell of the egg. The sensation made Maera giggle, a joyful sound that resonated in the warmth of the hearth. The connection between her, the unborn dragon, and the child she carried was palpable, a harmony of life thriving in the heat.

“This egg could hatch and you could have a dragon of your very own. You will be so lucky to have one born to you, ” Maera whispered, gazing down at her bump as the child kicked against her hand. “My grandfather, your great-grandfather, Vaegon, was nicknamed ‘The dragonless’ as he did not claim one. He is now a Maester somewhere in the Citadel I think. No longer a Targaryen by name.”

As Maera spoke softly to her bump, she could hear the low calls and growls of her dragon, Ēbrion, drifting through her window. The great blue and black beast was still holding vigil in the burnt lavender field, remaining close to his rider. His massive form cast a shadow over the charred landscape, his eyes ever watchful and protective.

The Princess chuckled at the welcome noise. “I had to claim my dragon. Never in my life did I think I would ever be a dragon rider, that I would be just like my grandfather. And yet now, I feel I was born to be. That it is within my blood.”

Maera longed to ride Ēbrion again. She missed the sensation of the wind running rapidly through her hair, the invigorating scent of fresh air, and the exhilaration of soaring high above the ground. The freedom of the skies called to her, a siren’s song of liberation and joy.

She hoped fervently that Maester Cain would soon deem her injuries healed enough for her to take flight once more. The stab wounds to her thigh and arm were improving each day, but even the simplest tasks such as walking and dressing remained challenging. Each movement was a reminder of her ordeal, yet her spirit remained undaunted, driven by the desire to reunite with Ēbrion in the skies.

“I am still new to riding a dragon, but I am getting better everyday. It just takes some practice.”

In that moment, a wave of sadness washed over her as she pictured the one-eyed Prince. He had been her mentor in the art of dragon riding, teaching her everything she needed to know. He had shown her the different types of saddles, how to read a dragon's body language, the significance of the bond between rider and beast, and the precise techniques for steering the reins. Each lesson had been a shared moment of connection and trust.

Maera missed those times, times when her heart was lighter and less burdened by the troubles that now plagued her. Aemond had his faults, certainly, but she had trusted him then. He was her guide and partner, the one who helped her navigate not only life with a dragon, but the complexities of the royal court since her status had changed. But now? After everything that had transpired with Alys, Maera could not see a clear path forward. Betrayal and doubt clouded her thoughts, making it difficult to reconcile the man she had loved with the one who had caused her so much pain.

She was bound to Aemond, not through some fantastical prophecy or a greater calling from the Gods, as the dead witch had once suggested. No, their bond was forged through marriage and solidified by the child growing within her belly. This connection, both legal and familial, tied her to him in ways that were both inescapable and deeply complex.

“You have the dragons blood within you too,” the Princess assured the babe. “And it is not just my guidance you will have. The other person to teach you…will be your father.”

Familiar footsteps echoed just outside Maera’s door. She did not flinch or outwardly react, maintaining her calm focus on the babe and the dragon egg she cradled. The room was filled with a warm, serene ambiance as she whispered softly, undisturbed by the approaching presence.

The door to her chambers creaked open slowly, allowing a cool draft to sweep into the room. Maera turned her head to look at the figure standing in the doorway. Her heart sank and pounded loudly all at once as she instantly recognized the shadowy figure.

“Issa daria?” My Queen?

Notes: Heavy chapter. Lots happening on the lore front, make a note.

Tags: @0eessirk8 @magicseahorse @blue-serendipity @abecerra611 @saltedcaramelpretzel @marvelescvpe @watercolorskyy @shesjustanothergeek @thelastemzy @kckt88 @darylandbethfanforever9

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

[riki-riks-chick]

hii! do you write only for smut or for sfw too? If so, I was wondering if you could do a spiderman!jake x reader. Maybe an evil Spiderman (sorry i don’t know much about marvel 😭) kidnaps reader cause he knows that’s Spider-Man’s weakness then Jake saves the day 🫡

Third Person POV~

 "Sir watch out!" Jake had almost "too" quickly grabbed an older man, saving him from the speeding van that had almost just hit him. The man had gasped at the sudden movement, thanking Jake as he handed him his cane. "Thank you, young man.. I remember when I was that young and agile."

Jake can only smile at the man's words before speeding off. He's already gotten into enough trouble, but he's determined to keep his promise to you. 

He'd decided to take the "quicker" way, opting to web sling his way over the foot traffic crowding the streets below. He was hoping no one would see him because his mask is in his backpack, but it was worth it if he could get to you faster.

When he'd finally made it to your designated meeting spot, he was confused to see you gone. You had texted maybe five minutes ago, showing a picture of the pretty picnic you'd set up, but he wasn't seeing anything right now.

He had immediately felt that something was wrong, his spidey senses tingling as he pulled his mask out of his bag so he could slip it on just in case. He'd called you first, not wanting to assume anything bad happened, but when you didn't answer after multiple phone calls, he got worried.

He was ready to run off and attempt to find you, but when his phone dinged with a message from your number, he rushed to open it. The message read, "Come to this location and your pretty girlfriend lives." 

After that came a location and another message that said the floor to go to. The rooftop.

Jake didn't waste any time, slinging himself across multiple buildings until he reached the mentioned one, pulling himself up to the rooftop.

He'd glanced around before finding you dangling over the edge of the roof, held only by a very familiar, green-hued hand. 

 "What do you want with me, Green Goblin?!" He yelled, his eyes never leaving your form as you turned your head to look at him, clearly sobbing behind the tape that covered your mouth. "I want you dead." Green Goblin replied, tilting you further over the edge as Jake attempted to grab you with his web, missing due to how quick Green Goblin was able to move you. 

 "Now, now... Did you really think it'd be that easy?.." He snickered as Jake cursed under his breath, watching Green Goblin rip the tape from your mouth. "Come on sweetheart... Tell your boyfriend that if he gives up, you'll live."

"Don't do it!" You yell, crying out of fear as Green Goblin tilts you over the edge once more. "Make your choice Spider-Man."

Jake stood stunned, he couldn't fathom the decision at hand. Without Spider-Man, the world would cease to destruction and chaos. Without you he wouldn't be motivated to save the world that his world lived in.

Green Goblin had snickered, pulling you back up before heading towards the edge of the building. "I see you need some time to think. I'll see you once you have your answer."

And then he was gone, leaving a green cloud of smoke and fog as Jake groaned. He almost immediate left the rooftop in a daze, heading to his most trusted allie, Park Sunghoon.

"Come on, Sunghoon.. I can't beat this guy alone! He has Y/n!" Jake yells as Sunghoon groaned. "My Iron Man days are over. You know that better than anyone else."

 "Just do it for me!" Jake pleads, his eyes growing teary at the thought of losing you. Sunghoon sighs, glancing towards another longtime friend. "Cap.. I'm in if you're in." 

 "Must you drag me into everything?.." Jay asks with a sigh as Jake thanks the both of them. "You guys are great. Oh my god."

 "Slow down.. Jay and I will track him down. He's probably in some hidden warehouse or something. When we find him, don't act on emotion. He'll probably set up a trap for you to fall into. We get Goblin first and then your girlfriend." Sunghoon explains as Jake nods. "I understand."

Later that night, Jay and Sunghoon had managed to track the Goblin down. They had almost immediately suited up and made their way to the location, telling Jake to stay back while they scoped it out.

He waited patiently, hearing a loud scream as he immediately ran in, seeing you hanging over a large pool of only god knows what.

"Spider-Man.." Jake's heart aches at the smallest detail of you still not calling him by name, but by Spider-Man to keep his identity concealed. You were always so thoughtful, and he hated it because you would give your life for his so easily.

"I'm gonna save you, just hold on.."

"Spider-man! Over here." He turned his head, seeing the Goblin as he immediately went into combat mode. Slinging his webs, throwing fists, and drawing the Green Goblin away from you to enable Iron Man and Captain America to save you.

He kept The Goblin busy, fighting him until he sees Jay carrying you out of the warehouse. He then webs Green Goblin as he gets distracted, tying him up and then knocking him out. 

He then throws him into the pool you were previously suspended over, which he found out was acid. 

He then slings himself out of the warehouse where you're safe with Captain America and Iron Man. "Baby..." He smiles, hugging you as he takes his mask off. "I'm so sorry I let him take you like that.. I was so worried."

 "It's okay.. I'm glad you're safe." You smile, kissing him. "Let's get you home.. Okay?.."

I'mma keep it real i hate this. Took FOREVER just to suck. i hope anon that requested this likes it tho

[allylikethecat]

"subpar smut" me when i LIE you're a smut queen i swear

Oh my gosh I am going to cry that is actually so very kind of you to say and also a very undeserved title. But thank you SO MUCH for your kind words oh my gosh.

I am very confident in my angst writing but smut has been an entirely different ball game for me and something that I am very insecure and not the slightest bit confident writing.

I wrote a fic in a different fandom a while back that had an attempted spicy scene and someone bookmarked it with the note on the bookmark "subpar smut" and that for some reason very much just stuck with me and trashed the little smut writing confidence I had even though I am very sure they didn't mean it that way- like the bookmarked it they obviously liked at least something about it lol

Moving forward I am so self conscious writing it and so paranoid that it isn't going to be good and then I was like... maybe if i set the bar low people won't be *too* disappointed and we can laugh together instead of at me. Anyway then I had the bright idea to write an omegaverse fic and I don't think one can write an omegaverse fic without smut. So I tried very hard to practice and get over my fears but I also don't have a beta reader anymore so I just kinda threw this into the world and hoped for the best.

I'm so sorry for how long and rambling this is but basically that was the long version of me trying to say THANK YOU and that your words mean a lot more to me than you might think. I really, really appreciate the kindness and support and I hope that I can continue to improve! Thank you SO MUCH for reading and this WONDERFUL message! I hope you are having the very best Tuesday and that you have an absolutely wonderful rest of your week! Thank you so much again!

❤️Ally

[ellie-24]

USS Randall Ramblers Part 6

This is a birthday present for one of the coolest people I know @whositmcwhatsit . She had a wonderful birthday present for me earlier this month and then cleverly reminded me that her birthday is coming up as well. Wink wink nudge nudge say no more.

I ain't much but it's honest work and I hope you enjoy it.

Also thanks to @thatbanditqueen for beta-ing and helping me transform this into proper English!!

And thanks to the wonderful writing support group @be-my-ally @vintageshanny @from-memphis-with-love @lookingforrainbows @missmaywemeetagain @powerofelvis @shakerattlescroll @peskybedtime

Word count: ~7.4 k

Warnings: smut so 18+. MDNI

Previous Part

Bad Nauheim, December 24th 1958

It all just felt like a dream. A surreal dream.

Mary was only supposed to come over and visit him in Bad Nauheim for his 'Welcome back' party after his maneuvers in Grafenwöhr.

She was supposed to be back in Frankfurt to celebrate Christmas with her family.

She was supposed to sleep in her own bed in her own room at Hotel Grunewald.

Now, after a very long, nerve-racking phone call involving her, her father, her mother, Vernon Presley and of course Elvis himself the previous day, she found herself staying until Boxing Day.

And even though she wanted to obey the rules her parents had laid down before she went, she somehow found herself sneaking into his bed after dark every night.

There was no denying that being the centre of his attention had to be one of the greatest feelings in the world. Who was she to say no to him when he'd give her those puppy eyes, which he knew made her knees weak every time, and ask her to spend Christmas with him? Or to spend the night in his room, in his bed?

But for now, she wouldn't want it any other way. And although it was wrong, something about the way he'd pull her close to him in his sleep just felt right. Consequences didn't matter when she could feel his pillowy lips press against her forehead while she was drifting off to sleep.

She could just live this dream forever.

With an irritated sigh Mary raised her arms to shield her eyes from the horribly bright light suddenly shining right into her face, disrupting her peaceful slumber.

When this didn't have the desired effect she began to blindly wave around, in an attempt to slap away the flashing sensation. Her hand promptly hit something cool and hard with a dull thud and she let out a small gasp at the stinging pain in her wrist.

"Careful, Cherry, you're gonna break it."

"Huh? Elvis, I was asleep." She mumbled with a frown while rubbing her aching wrist.

"You're awake now honey, that's perfect." He held out a flashlight to her. The very one he'd held right into her face before. "Do me the honor, please."

"What?" She muttered, pressing her hand against her forehead, trying to make sense of his words. Her eyes fluttered closed again.

He shuffled closer, making the mattress bounce up and down for a second. "I wanna show you something, come on." He insisted and started tugging at her wrist before handing her the flashlight.

"What?" Mary repeated while squinting her eyes at him, still feeling disoriented.

He snorted. "You're asking an awful lotta questions honey, just trust me."

Mary reached out and grasped his arm, slightly pulling him towards her again, wanting nothing more than to just cuddle up against his chest again.

"It can't wait till morning?" She asked with a hopeful tone and tried to stifle another yawn. Unsuccessfully. The thought of leaving his cozy and most importantly, warm bed already made her shiver.

As if on cue, damn his psychic abilities, he pulled the blanket off of her. "Come on, Cherry, don't be no party pooper." He insisted with a small grin.

"I don't see a party." Mary grumbled, goose bumps all over her body as she got up, the flashlight still in her hand. "Okay, you won." She offered, playfully swatting at his chest.

Swiftly dodging her attack he wrapped his arms around her shoulder and pulled her close to him. "Thanks baby, now come, won't regret it."

It was one of those situations where she was asking herself how she ended up here. Sneaking through the dark corridors of the hotel at four in the morning for who knows what reason.

Well, actually she knew exactly how she ended up here. Being with Elvis always involved some kind of nocturnal activities. He didn't sleep much, that much she'd gathered in the time she's spent with him already. And he didn't like being alone.

He still had his arms around her as he guided her down the first flight of stairs. Suddenly, he let out a snort and stopped at a random guest's door. "Watch this." He raised his hand to knock, a mischievous grin on his face.

"Elvis, don't you dare!" Mary hissed and glared at him, once again remembering the talk she had with with had with Otto, the hotelier, regarding Elvis and his friends’ behaviour. Especially Red and Lamar who, in their free time while Elvis was at the base, had nothing better to do than test his patience with one childish prank after another. More than once Otto had considered kicking out the entire entourage. And to be honest she didn't blame him.

"What exactly did you want to show me?" She asked quickly to keep him from really knocking at that damn door.

He lowered his hand and nudged her forward with a smirk, down the next flight of stairs. "Otto has told me all about the ghosts haunting this place, honey, it's some scary stuff, I'll tell ya. There's the one about that young woman falling off the balcony a hundred years or so ago. Apparently her name was Mary and she also happened to be the prettiest girl in town, just like you, honey."

"Not funny!" She didn't want to sound scared, but those creaky old stairs and the flashlight in her hand, though very bright, being the only source of light made her feel like she was in a Hitchcock movie.

"Not to mention the Christmas spirits." He continued.

Mary stopped and raised an eyebrow, facing him. "You really think I'm gonna believe you? Sorry Elvis, I don't believe in ghost stories."

"Careful honey, starting to sound like ol' Scrooge."

"And you're sounding silly. Why are you ruining the holiday with ghosts? I've always loved Christmas. Look-" She gestured outside the large window next to the stair landing, looking at the snow covered street at the old light pole adorned with milky white Christmas lights. "It's so pretty."

It was peaceful, silent for a while as she simply watched the snow fall, it was hypnotising. Silent Night.

"Boo!" Elvis' hands wrapped around her waist from behind, scaring her.

Mary let out a soft shriek and felt the flashlight slipping from her grasp. Knowing what was about to happen but unable to do anything about it with her bad reflexes, a small curse just left her lips as she squeezed her eyes shut and covered her ears, awaiting the inevitable bang. When the flashlight collided with the carpeted floor, a dull thud echoed through the hallway. It gave out, shrouding them in complete darkness.

For a few seconds neither one dared to move, both frozen and awaiting someone coming down the stairs and scolding them like they were two kids sneaking out of bed to steal some candy. After a few seconds of undisturbed silence they agreed with a mutual sigh of relief that the noise apparently didn't rouse anyone from sleep.

"Great, E!" She finally whispered with a small breathless laugh, a hand over her rapidly rising and falling chest, her eyes only slowly adjusting to the darkness. She stretched out her arms, not wanting to run into the wall on accident as he bent down next to her.

"Cherry, did ya have to throw the damn thing away?" He chuckled, though there was a hint of frustration in his voice while he was looking for the now broken flashlight.

"Did you have to scare me?" She shot back with a snort. "Can you find it?" She asked after a while of him crouching on the floor.

The only answer she got was a low hum.

"What is it?" She inquired when she suddenly felt his feather light touch on her exposed calfs, making her gasp. "Elvis?" She asked, an edge to her voice.

Elvis didn't respond - instead he slowly lifted the soft, white fabric of her knee-length nightdress and threw it over his head in a swift motion.

"Elvis!" She nearly squealed, scandalised, before looking around frantically and pressing herself against the wall behind her, kind of hoping to just melt into it.

"Hmm?" He hummed, his nose brushing almost carefully against her thigh.

"Oh god, what are you-" A quiet moan escaped her when his hands ran over the back of her thighs, inching higher and higher until they rested right beneath her butt.

"Someone's wearing no panties. Naughty."

"Well I didn't expect-" Mary let out a little cry when he pressed a small kiss to her inner thigh, her toes curling against the carpeted floor.

"Gotta be quiet, otherwise everyone will hear ya." He mumbled, his hot breath fanning over her bare skin.

"E, that tickles!" She whispered, trying her best to sound stern.

"Just want a little taste of my sweet Cherrypie." There was this pleading tone in his voice that would just transform her into a puddle. Mary actually thought her legs would give out as he lightly nibbled at her soft skin, his big hands now fully sprawled over her butt, pressing her closer to his face.

"But, you can't-" She breathed as her back arched against him. Treacherous body.

"Can't show my favourite girl how much I'm smitten with her? And her legs? And her-" Mary's hand shot up to muffle the shriek escaping her when his lips brushed over her mound.

"Oh god! Not here!" She argued weakly, her voice as shaky as her legs.

Mary's eyes had finally adjusted to the darkness and she saw his head appeared from under her nightgown. He grinned up at her. "I won't tell if you won't, honey." He drawled nonchalantly.

A huff escaped her - frustrated and excited at the same time. She was at such a disadvantage with him and they both knew it. But she couldn't say she didn't enjoy the power he had over her. A word, a touch and she was at his mercy, but she trusted him. So she decided to just let herself fall into his touch.

He sensed her silent agreement and tightly gripped the back of her knee before lifting it over his shoulder, supporting her weight - and giving him easier access. Then he used both hands to slowly, agonisingly slow, push the soft cotton up her legs, only to pause and consider, his full lips pursed. She made her impatience known by pressing her calf against his strong back, urging him closer.

He clicked his tongue with another smile and shook his head before swiftly gathering the fabric and bunching it up at the center of her stomach. He looked up at her, his eyes twinkling. "Mind holding that for me, Cherry?"

She nodded mutely, then shook her head, not sure about the correct way to answer his question. Everything seemed a bit hazy as she closed her fist around the fabric.

He tapped the side of her thigh and winked at her. "Just have to look at ya, honey." His voice was just above a murmur as he took in her body for a moment, illuminated just the tiniest bit by the dim streetlight and the reflecting white snow. That concentrated look was back on his face as he rested his cheek against the side of her thigh. He did that quite often when they were close like this, like he was trying to take a mental picture.

The thought did nothing to diminish her arousal and she couldn't resist running her hand through his soft hair until it rested on the back of his head. With a wanton sigh she tried to push his head towards her, needing to feel his touch, his lips.

He obliged and leaned forward. Eyes closed in anticipation, she shuddered when his nose bumped against the soft flesh right beneath her belly button. He placed a few kisses right where the waistband of her panties would be had she worn any till his eyes found hers again. "I'm real glad you're here, Cherry. Don't know what I'd do without ya."

She nodded, his words only increasing the building pressure in her lower belly, her hips rolling in an effort to get some friction. He chuckled as he got her message. "Gotcha, no more heartfelt talk. I'm a man of action after all.” He started teasingly running his tongue over her slick folds.

"Don't stop, god, please don't stop, E." She chanted, holding onto the wall behind her, fingers dragging over some weathered paint that had begun to peel off.

"You're so wet for me." He groaned, his lips closing over her little nub. His hand roamed over her hips, over her stomach as his searing touch making her body convulse. Nerves and excitement mixed together, each little sensation and fluttery touch intensified by the notion that someone could walk in on them any second. Somewhere deep inside she was still rather scandalised, both by his sudden advances and her own lack of ability to care about it.

But all coherent thoughts were abandoned when he cupped her breast, squeezing lightly. A flick over her nipple with his thumb made her buck against him once more, her mouth hanging open in a silent cry. He suckled on her, increasing his speed, churned on by the way she was letting herself fall more and more; Literally - judging by the pressure on his shoulder where her thigh rested he had to use his hand to hold onto her hips or she'd collapse under his touch. It just took a few more strokes from his hot tongue and his strong hands squeezing her soft flesh until she came undone, stifling a loud moan that would surely give them away.

She finally sank down on the floor next to him, her chest heaving. "Elvis, please I want you." She breathed, not really recognising her own voice.

He caught her by her waist as she attempted to straddle him and carefully set her down again before shaking his head and kissing her forehead. "No, Cherrypie, not like this, not now."

"When?" She urged, her hand on his cheek, making him look at her.

He turned his head and kissed her palm. "Soon. For now I just want you to stay as you are." Upon seeing her frown he grinned and tapped her nose. "Now, don't give me that look."

She shook her head and leaned in to press her lips against his. With a dreamy sigh she opened her mouth when she felt his tongue urgently gliding over her bottom lip. Again, he didn't allow her to take control as he explored her mouth. She could taste herself on him and couldn't help herself but smile into the kiss. Eventually he pulled away from her. "Easy, not trying to win a race here."

Mary wrapped her arms around him. "So, was that what you wanted to show me?" She whispered, still breathless, cradling his head to keep him as close as possible.

"When I was down there, I just couldn't help myself honey."

A bashful laugh escaped her at this admittedly charming way of dodging her question.

"And look what I found." He proudly held up the broken flashlight.

She threw her head back. Silly man. "So much for your supposed 'ghosts'."

He licked his lips with a grin. "Don't know 'bout you, but I sure as hell heard some moaning."

"You're impossible!" She gasped, then let out a small laugh. "But I do love you, E."

"Love you too, Cherrypie. Come on now." He got up and held out his hand. Instead of leading her back to his room he made his way down another flight of stairs until they arrived in the hotel lobby.

The large christmas tree in the corner and it's decorations cast a warm glow over the room. She tapped one of the wooden nutcrackers hanging off the tree, reminding her of her favourite ballet, while Elvis made a beeline towards the connected dining room and peered out of the window. He craned his head as if looking for something specific, his hand perched up against the glass.

It slowly dawned her that whatever he was doing right now was probably the actual reason for their little nightly excursion.

"I knew it. Of course that tramp is still here." He muttered after a while.

Mary came up to him and tried to follow his gaze. "Who?"

"It's her damn car." He gestured outside.

Oh. Dee Dee.

"Daddy's probably gonna make her leave before everyone's getting up, thinking he's real smart about it." He started pacing around while Mary just helplessly stood in the corner watching, not knowing what to do or say to him.

Elvis continued, his face contorted in anger. "First he invites her to my party the other day, now they're doing, hell, I don't wanna know what they're doing." He threw up his hands and plopped himself down on the couch with a sigh. "Next thing you know, he's gonna move her in here and I gotta pretend to be all happy about it. As if I got no other fucking problems to deal with."

"I'm sorry. I wish I could help you somehow."

"Man, I just don't have the time for this kinda bullshit." He ran a hand over his face. "Colonel's been going on and on about damn publicity photos in uniform, that Christmas in Berlin picture he's already planning with Hal Wallis, trying to save what's left of my career-" His breath hitched for a moment in a humorless chuckle. "-Then I gotta worry about us getting kicked outta here-" He slaps the sofa at that. "And I somehow gotta serve my country at the same time."

She sat down next to him and exhaled heavily through her mouth. Again and again she was confronted with problems that seemed way too big for her. She could understand that he felt overwhelmed and alone. But she didn't have the slightest clue what to say to him to make him feel better. Maybe it was time to make peace with the fact that the best she could probably do was just listen to him and be there for him as best as she could.

"I'm here for you, anytime you wanna talk, I'm here to listen." She reassured him and placed a hand on his chest.

"I know honey. I appreciate it." He grabbed her calves and promptly placed her feet in his lap. "Damn, like little icicles." He let out a little laugh and started rubbing them absentmindedly.

She smiled at him and wiggled her toes. "Well, I was rushed out of bed as if the world was ending."

"Sweet Cherrypie, always makin' a big fuss outta nothing." He playfully pulled on her big toe and she had to resist the reflex to kick him.

"You're-" She huffed out a laugh but remained silent with a shake of her head. It was quiet for a while until she decided to open her mouth again, her face apologetic. "Sorry about your flashlight though."

"Honey, don't worry, already made up for it." He winked and ran his hand from her ankle up her leg. "It's nice just being here with you. I wish you could be here with me all the time."

"I know." She agreed.

"You should move here."

Her eyes widened. "What?"

"Think about it, I hate you being so far away from me."

"Frankfurt's only an hour away, E."

"Pretty much the other side of the damn planet, honey. You're not here when I need you."

"Elvis. You know I'd love to be with you. All the time. But it's not that easy."

"Of course it is."

"I got a job, my family. My life is... in Frankfurt right now. I can't even afford my own place on a secretary's salary. A learning secretary. And who says I could find a job here?"

"You'll work for my father. He'll take you under his wing, he needs a secretary. And you can move in here, live with us."

She blinked, not entirely sure how she felt about the idea of working for him.

"Elvis, I don't know-"

"You'll move in here. And then we can always be together." He repeated, reinforced his point as if that'll just change her mind. To her own confusion she actually found herself considering it. "It'll work out, honey, you'll see." Upon seeing her hesitation he comfortingly brushed over her hair. "I just want ya close to me. I wanna take care of ya."

Mary leaned into his touch and sighed, overwhelmed at his proposal. It was madness. And working for him might effect their relationship. The one they hadn't even officially defined yet. Her understanding was that they were still dating and now he wants her to move in. Under the premise of working for his father.

Now it was her turn to run a hand over her face - in confusion. She knew she wanted to say yes. At least that's what her heart wanted. It didn't take much to convince her to leave everything behind and stay with him. Still, she tried to be rational about it. "Elvis, I'm really not sure-"

He placed his finger against her lips and shook his head while shushing her. Her eyes drifted down towards his beautifully puckered lips. "Nah, stop it, baby. At least think about it. Don't say no right away, that ain't fair."

She opened her mouth only to close it again, not sure how to put her thoughts into words. It might mess up everything now if she asked questions, but she willed herself to go through with it. "What would this mean for us?"

He leaned in closer and she nearly had trouble holding eye contact with him. "What are you talking about, honey?"

Mary raised her eyebrows and gathered her courage before trying once again. "I mean for our relationship."

He smiled, albeit looking a bit bewildered. Either he really didn't understand or he just straight up refused to. "We'd be together way more often honey, don't know what you're getting at." He shrugged with a frown. As if she started talking Chinese all of the sudden.

Mary inclined her head. "It wouldn't be weird?" A pause. "We haven't been dating for too long." She added, her voice small, almost not wanting him to hear it.

He sat up straight, setting her feet onto the ground. "Honey, I just don't understand where this talk is coming from now."

She guiltily eyed his fingers, how he was fiddling with the ring on his pinky finger. He seemed tense and agitated, his posture reminding her of a soldier standing at attention. That's the last thing she wanted right now. In an attempt to appease him she carefully explained. "I'm only saying we should think and properly talk about it before rushing to a decision that we might regret."

Suddenly he shot up from the couch and turned away from her. So much for defusing the situation. "Damn, I can't talk to you right now. Not making any goddamn sense, woman! No one's making any goddamn sense."

Mary panicked at his sudden outburst, not wanting to upset him. "Elvis, I'm sorry-"

"Nuh-uh!" He pointed his finger at her and she froze. "Need to clear my damn head." He muttered and turned, making his way back upstairs.

She slowly got up as well, successfully blinking away the tears that were burning behind her eyelids. The silence as she followed him was nearly unbearable, but she didn't dare saying another word. As he opened the door to his room, she turned the opposite direction, towards her own room.

"Now where do you think you're going?"

Mary released the door handle as if she had burnt herself and faced him, feeling caught for whatever reason. She thought it was obvious that she wasn't gonna join him now. "Uh, I thought-"

He sighed. "Cherry, just come over here damnit."

"...Okay." She whispered, utterly perplexed and at a loss for words.

However, his behaviour made sense to her when she awkwardly laid down on her back, careful to keep a safe distance and he scooted closer to her - not so close as to fully press his body against hers, but so that he could rest his hand on her stomach. As much as he apparently didn't want to deal with the confusion and worry he felt, there was something else that he undeniably hated more. Being alone with those thoughts.

Mary spent the next morning like every morning; helping Mrs. Presley in the kitchen, who insisted on cooking and cleaning despite the hotel having staff for that. She was a tough one and Mary looked up to her, talking to Minnie Mae was a source of comfort to her, their talks often trivial and relaxed. Maybe that's what she liked most about their time spent together.

This morning however there was a certain edge, a tension in the air. At first she thought she imagined it, still a bit shaken by Elvis' and her last interaction. That was until she realised it was Christmas Eve and everyone was, indeed, rushing around and being busy preparing tonight's dinner party.

The presence of Red and Lamar didn't necessarily help the uneasiness she felt. Most of the time she tried to avoid them as best as she could, trying not to let on that the two men always kind of intimidated her and she'd just rather stay off their radar. They were currently lounging at the kitchen table, the topic of discussion was, unsurprisingly, Elvis, she didn't really hear them talk about anything else. She'd listen but hardly contribute. Right now they were wondering about his dismissive attitude during breakfast this morning.

Mary dried her hands on her apron and paused for a second. She didn't even hear Elvis getting up and leaving for the base that morning. He couldn't have gotten any sleep, after all it was nearly morning when they went back to bed. Why did she feel bad? He was the one that woke her at four in the morning, god knows if he's gotten any sleep before that.

Loud shrieking and laughter on the street outside suddenly caught her attention. Thankful for the distraction from her spiraling thoughts she turned her head towards the noise.

"He's back." Red announced without even looking up, pulling a thread from the tablecloth in front of him.

Indeed, he was. Outfitted in his full army uniform, Elvis got out of his white BMW and raised his hand to greet his devoted fans who were waiting - in the cold- in front of the hotel. Mary watched the scene, taking in the wonder and adoration on everyone's face as they gathered around him. The unbridled love they had for him and the enjoyment he got out of did warm her heart momentarily. It was a beautiful thing to witness.

He was like a magnet, putting everyone under a spell he didn't quite understand himself. It seemed like all the people in his life wanted him, claimed him for themselves. And she saw that he did his best to accommodate everyone, striving to fulfill everyone's needs without really considering his own. There were so many people expecting something from him, wanting something from him and she wasn't sure how he navigated all that pressure.

His outburst earlier made a lot more sense now that she saw him trying to please as many people as possible at the same time. He was taking his time, trying go give everyone his attention, shaking hands, giving hugs, signing whatever they asked him to.

When he linked arms with two pretty girls and walked them up to the front porch she told herself that she wouldn't let it bother her. He must doing something like this all the time. It was just part of who he was. She had to get used to it, whether she liked it or not.

"Oh he never takes the girls inside." Mrs. Presley exclaimed, putting down the silver spoon she was busy polishing.

"Must be feeling that Christmas spirit." Red offered.

"He's a giver ain't he." Lamar added, turning the page of his newspaper that he was pretending to read for nearly an hour now.

Mary felt her face grow hot and pursed her lips. He led the giggling girls inside, settling right in between them on the couch, where they'd sat last night. She refused to get upset about the fact that he hadn't even come over to greet her. He'd definitely seen her as he walked past her.

From the corner of her eye she saw him leaning towards the girl on his right, his fingers buried in her hair, playing with her fancy updo, while she was exitedly saying something to her friend in German.

Mary dried another plate and put it away before fully glancing at him. He shot her a pointed look before leaning in and kissing that brunette's cheek, who was now giggling uncontrollably.

She felt like someone had just dumped a bucket of ice water over her head. And again, her thoughts went back to last night's argument. Or whatever it was. She herself wasn't a hundred percent sure what it was. All she knew now is that suddenly, in that very moment, she felt more far away from him than ever. Did he do that on purpose?

It felt similar to that day where her friend Helga showed her an article in the Bravo magazine about his supposed girlfriend, Anita Wood, he left behind in the States. Her initial reaction was shock before she told herself to get it together. He would've told her something like this, she was sure of it. She wouldn't put the tabloid's drama over his word. On the other hand he didn't tell her that Elisabeth was supposed to be at his 'Welcome back' party. But she was just a friend, right?

Again and again she was reminded that he could never truly only belong to her. He was a superstar after all. When she was alone with him she tended to forget that very important detail. She knew she had to be tolerant in that regard if she didn't want to lose him.

After a deep breath she turned back to Mrs. Presley, asking if she could help her with polishing the cutlery for tonight. It was hours later after the two girls left with signed photographs and him retreating back to his room without even looking her way that she couldn't take it anymore.

Making her way upstairs and knocking at his door strangely felt like admitting a mistake, but his silent treatment felt decidedly worse. "Elvis?"

He had changed into a white knitted cardigan and black dress pants and she stood up a bit straighter when he leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed, looking down on her with an unreadable expression on his face.

Mary eyed him carefully before clearing her throat putting on the most nonchalant tone. "How was your day?"

"Spent the day at the base decorating the company Christmas tree and singing Silent Night until eventually the last poor fella in that building got tired of it"

Apparently he had no interest discussing last night's incident, preferring to just act like it never happened.

For now she'd accept it. For now she'd come to the conclusion that she's overwhelmed him as much as he'd overwhelmed her. She figured giving it all some time would be the best course of action.

"I could never get tired of hearing you sing." She answered truthfully, looking at him through her lashes.

He gave her a quick once over before breaking into a smile. "Aw, little one, always knows what to say. Come here, missed you." He opened his arms, inviting her into his room. After giving her a quick peck on the lips he held her close to his chest.

Both relief and confusion flooded her at his unexpected response.

"You missed me?" She asked in a muffled voice, her face still buried in his sweater.

He hummed, the vibrations of his chest against her cheek. "Very much."

"You were in good company from what I saw." She stated, taking a step back.

He followed her and put his hands on her cheeks. "Aw, honey, those girls, they mean nothing. You're my bestest, favourite little girl, you know that."

Mary shrugged with a frown. "They're your fans, I guess I understand."

"You don't have to be jealous, Cherry."

"I know." She quickly answered, her tone firm.

He grinned. "The look on your sweet face says otherwise, you know that?"

"I'm not pulling a face!"

"You are! Right here-" He pecked her forehead. "And here!" Another peck to her lips.

"Okay, okay-" She chuckled, playfully pushing him away. "I got it! Jesus."

He cupped her chin, rubbing his thumb over her bottom lip. "Keep that happy face for tonight, wanna show you off."

"You do?"

"And I want you to look extra pretty tonight." For some reason his tone made the question feel like an assignment.

Mary blinked and looked at herself in the mirror before mindlessly playing with a few strands of hair, twisting it between her fingers before gathering it at the back of her head, feeling reminded of the times she had to present something at school with hardly anything prepared. "Oh, you know, I thought I could try this updo-"

He pressed a quick kiss to her exposed neck, making her giggle. "Honey, I'm sure you got that all figured out. What are you gonna do with your face?" His fingers softly grazed over her cheekbone.

She blinked at his statement before frowning the slightest bit and dropping her hair back down. "What's wrong with my face?"

"Aw, absolutely nothing, honey, it's perfect. My little baby's pretty as a picture, yes she is." He assured her while squeezing her cheeks and making kissing sounds as his face inched closer to hers.

"Silly." She giggled before quickly glancing back at the mirror, a questioning look on her face.

"No need to pout, Cherry. We left that behind us, remember? It's just, uh, your eyes are so expressive, I just want everyone to notice them. And I happen to know how to make em' look real good." He explained with a shrug.

Mary pondered his words for a second, still feeling a bit uneasy from his sudden mood shift.

"Come on, let me do this. Gonna look so pretty."

Upon seeing his pleading face she broke into a small smile and with a nod she leaned in to plant a quick kiss on his full lips. "Alright... but please don't make me look like a clown, okay?" She joked.

He pretended to consider it for a moment, brushing a strand of hair away from her face, before breaking into a grin. "Tempting, gotta admit that, Cherry."

As he gathered all the supplies from a small leather bag he'd retrieved from his drawer, Mary sat down on the chair, fiddling with her hands in her lap.

"Okay just look ahead baby, look at me." He instructed. Before he started he lowered his head and gave her a stern look, raising an eyebrow. "Okay, hold still now, would ya?"

Mary shakily exhaled, feeling nervous all of the sudden and nodded when he cupped her chin, his thumb softly caressing her skin. He leaned in closer, his scent completely surrounding her, making her heartbeat picked up in a second. She had to look down, feeling bashful under his intense gaze.

"Eyes on me, honey, look at me."

"Sorry." She quickly cleared her throat before focusing back on his eyes. However it didn't take very long until her gaze drifted to his full lips and she was utterly cativated by the way they hung open the slightest bit in concentration. It didn't take long for him to let out an impatient sigh. He lowered the brush and tapped her nose to get her attention. "Cherry, I need ya to look ahead for this to work."

"Okay, okay, alright, I'll do my best now." She mumbled, failing miserably at sounding determined. The fact that her face felt like it was on fire didn't really help. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the snow covered park across the hotel, yet she was convinced there were beads of sweat running down her back.

He cooed and lowered the brush. "Aw, I love it when you're all shy like this, honey. But ya got no reason to. It's just me, you know that."

"I know." Just you. Just Elvis Presley, she thought.

"Now close your eyes." He whispered softly.

Her eyes fluttered shut at his words and she nearly jumped when he carefully started applying the eyeliner on her upper lid.

"Cherryyyy, stop moving around." He gently chided her.

"I'm trying." She answered, suppressing a laugh. "It tickles."

Even though she couldn't see it, she could almost feel him smirking at her statement. Those were the same words she'd uttered the night before in a very different context, a shaking mess under his touch.

"You want me to help you keep still again?" He put a hand on her thigh and gave her a squeeze, making her gasp.

"I think I'll manage." She nearly squeaked in response.

After a few minutes that felt like hours he leaned back, finally finished, his eyes roaming over her face. "Oh, look at you, looking all pretty." He cooed and brushed away a strand of hair that had fallen over her eyes.

Mary blushed and inspected herself in the mirror, touching her face and blinking a few times. She raised her eyebrows and saw the finely drawn black wing. Her eyelashes fluttered, the mascara making them look impossibly long. "You're really good at this."

"Lips, honey."

She laughed when he retrieved a red lipstick from the bag. "I understand the mascara and eyeshadow but why on earth do you have this lipstick?"

"Might have sent Lamar to get it, should've seen his face."

"Oh god."

He cupped her chin again, his eyes narrowed, assessing his own work before moving closer again, making his chair creak slightly. She blushed as he reached out to apply the lipstick and had to fight yet another smile.

"Don't ya move now. I mean it, Cherry." He warned as he noticed the corners of her mouth twitching. A muffled sound escaped the back of her throat in a weak attempt to defend herself, but he quickly shushed her. "No talking either, I know that's hard for you, but I'm not done here."

Mary narrowed her eyes at his comment, but took a deep steadying breath, willing herself to do as he said while fighting a grin. It never ceased to amaze her how he could say something like this, yet remain utterly charming. It was almost scary how much he'd wrapped her around his finger.

Her expression became blank however as he actually started working on her bottom lip. It suddenly hit her how intimate the whole situation was and the tension was nearly too much for her to handle.

Mary's sudden compliance pleased him, she could tell by the way his gaze suddenly drifted from her lips towards her eyes with an almost unnoticeable quirk of his brow.

"There, cherry red lips for my sweet Cherrypie." He gently patted her cheek as he finished.

She let out a deep sigh of relief at finally being able to relax her face and breathe normally again and leaned closer to the mirror. With a tilt of her head from one side to the other she examined his work, still in disbelief that the woman in the mirror was actually her. A small smile spread across her face. "Oh wow"

He looked down at her with a satisfied smirk and promptly licked his lips when their eyes met. "Quit looking at me like that honey, or I'll make a mess of your lipstick."

With a blush she looked back at her reflection once again, appreciating how her blue eyes did look more expressive and how the bold red colour on her lips made her feel like a famous singer or actress. Someone with confidence.

"Aw, you look so beautiful. I could just eat you up." Elvis leaned in to playfully nibble at her neck.

"Thank you." She breathed, feeling her cheeks and neck get hot, as she squeezed his arm that was sprawled over her chest. They looked nice together, she thought, before he carefully tapped against her hips, urging her to get up.

"Now, baby, get changed, yeah? Put on your prettiest little dress, okay?"

When she returned to his room, still grateful that she had shamelessly over-packed her suitcase, she saw him sitting in front of the mirror, busy fixing his own hair.

Mary stepped closer and sat down on the edge of the bed, right behind him. For a while she just looked at him, admiring the way his nimble fingers gently held onto the comb in a practised grip. The way he just ran it through his shorter-than-usual hair with ease looked almost graceful and Mary couldn't resist scooting a bit closer to him until she could wrap her arms around his middle. She hoped she didn't bother him too much when she laid her chin on his shoulder. It seemed like their argument never happened.

"Anything you want, honey?" He asked eventually, a small gleam in his eyes.

"Why are your eyelashes longer than mine? It's not fair." She sighed, her fingers lightly dancing over his arms.

"They come in real handy, I'll tell ya. Making aaaall the pretty girls swoon." He drawled before reaching behind to lightly pinch her waist with a wink.

Mary giggled and leaned forward to press her her burning cheek against his cooler one. "They are swoonworthy." She agreed and continued studying his face in silent awe, once again marvelling at how utterly perfect he was. It was infuriating.

He smirked at her through the mirror when he felt her breasts pressing into his back. She felt him shift slightly. "Trying to start something, little one?"

His sultry voice sent delicious tingles through her entire body and she smiled briefly before shaking her head. "I love you." Her tone was gentle as she rubbed her hands over his dress shirt, slowly caressing his belly.

Her whisper made him coo and he slightly turned his body to face her. "I love you too, sweetheart. So much. See? We're made for each other, Cherry." He softly nuzzled her nose with his. "That's why ya should stay here. With me. It's easy like that."

Her mind involuntarily drifted to Elisabeth. And Anita. "It's not as easy as that." She answered, withdrawing just the tiniest bit, trying not to look remorseful.

He quickly shook his head. "No, no, no, just a second ago ya were being so sweet and now this again. Don't ruin it now."

"I'm just being honest." She shrugged.

"Me too." He insisted, pulling her close to him again.

A mean 'Are you?' nearly escaped her but she quickly swallowed before actually saying it out loud.

"I love you. That ain't enough for you?" He asked and furrowed his brows, his hand softly caressing her.

Mary bit her lip and lowered her head. After clearing her throat she looked up into his eyes again. "Of course... And it means so much to me that you want me here with you. Believe me, there’s nothing I’d rather do than just move here and spend every minute with you.” She smiled carefully and leaned in to hug him tightly. “You just surprised me, and leaving my family is a big deal. I’m sorry.” She mumbled into his shoulder.

“Aw, Cherry, it’s alright, don’t worry.” He held her close to him, gently rocking her back and forth with him. “And I-I know it’s a lot. Just want the best for you, gotta get that in your stubborn little head.”

She opened her mouth but he shushed her. “Just trust me on this. Let’s not talk about now, though, Cherrypie. It’s Christmas Eve.”

Mary nodded in agreement, but she knew they’d have to come to a decision soon. After all, as much as it felt like one; it wasn’t just a dream.

.................................................................................

Taglist: @karel-in-wonderland @kingdomforapony @richardslady121 @18lkpeters @godlypresley @everythingelvispresley

[victusinveritas]

Writing advice from Nick Mamatas.

Some science fiction/fantasy creative writing students I have encountered, a field guide

1. World-Savers: these are generally older students, have no real interest in SF/F, are writing a book to express political or metaphysical ideas they consider to be radical and necessary for the future of life on Earth. In reality, they're writing long Platonic dialogues about their ideas, and authority from various culture and pop culture tropes (aliens, noble savages, fairies, resurrected presidents)–to the extent that their work has a plot at all, it involves a Christ figure transforming the world via a sacrifice. The ideas aren't very radical either: "pollute less" and "love your neighbor, unless they're a dick" are common. Occasionally the message for the world has to do with something more prosaic: reverse budgeting, the evils of Affirmative Action, the importance of installing solar panels, how dare Eileen divorce me and fuck like three guys in the six months after she moved out, etc. These students are utterly confused by actually existing SF/F stories they read, and often interpret them in bizarrely sexual ways. They don't believe in numbering the pages of their manuscripts, and often attempt to submit work in PDF so it won't be stolen.

2. Children with Money: recent college grads, or drop-outs, these people have read Harry Potter, Twilight, and perhaps three or four other best-selling young adult series and nothing else. They are easily upset, especially when someone suggests reading more. Their main interests are YouTube personalities, video games, and a sort of Puritanical pansexuality that actually makes smut boring. They often "forget" to read the work of other students, and have no idea how to use a printer. They warn the other students that their story might be "too intense" because it contains, for example, a depiction of a car accident. Their stories are routinely awful, and always contain a character named "Aidan." Sometimes their parents come to class to make sure I am "not a serial killer", as though they could possibly tell from looking at me. (Oh, "Mamatas" IS a white person name...I guess?)

3. Anointed Ones: They contact me, or the people running the workshop, beforehand, to make sure that "the class is right" for them. They have file cabinets full of their stuff, and after many decades of toil, they are ready to reveal their work to the world. They just need a mentor, and an ally—could I be the one they've been searching for lo these many years? Prior workshops were full of callow teachers and jealous students. Why they were only allowed to submit ten pages a week! Some of them have actually read fairly widely, but you wouldn't know it from their work: three adjectives per noun, a fetish for speech tags other than the word "said" or no tags at all. Often these stories include as characters philosophical prostitutes with very sensitive nipples. They never miss a class and often show up more than thirty minutes early. One time, I had to hide in a closet to avoid an extensive pre-class conversation with one.

4. Frightened Proles: These have read Stephen King and Dean Koontz and sometimes even horror writers from this century. They generally have working-class jobs and write about working people who encounter the supernatural on the late shift. They really hope they can sell their novel soon, but they know it'll take a lot of work. (Ten more drafts oughta do it!) They wear baseball hats to class and look like enormous eight-year-olds. They get very excited when I mention professional wrestling or do a taiji move in class. Their significant others are often nameless—"my girlfriend" "my wife." They buy my books and bring them to class for autographs. Some of them get published after, especially flash fiction.

5. Repairables: decent writers, often involved in the SFF "scene", who need to be fixed after a bad experience with Clarion or another workshop or an overeager editor at a semipro magazine who told them some idiot nonsense they decided to believe because they were told it was "unprofessional" not to consider editorial feedback. These either get published...or lost to MFA programs, video game jobs, fandom, podcasts, or other writing-shaped pursuits. Most of them are ferocious name-droppers; the ones who heard of me beforehand know to keep quiet though.

[elvisabutler]

who's my princess?

fandom: austin butler rating: m pairing: austin butler x older female reader word count: 2169 warnings: jokes about being a sugar baby. heavy use of the nickname princess and baby boy. praise kink. faint d/s elements but not quite, you'll see in the fic. oral ( female receiving, attempted male receiving. ). public sex acts. no use of y/n. author’s note: welcome to day 4 of ally’s wet hot smut summer, praise kink with austin butler x older female reader. so here's the thing with this fic, i have been struggling to write it— and austin in general for the past week/two weeksa. to the point where i actually skipped ahead to rooster x reader titty fucking that i already posted on another account. i'll post it here once i finish my austin degradation kink day, promise. anyway what i ended up finally settling on with this fic was doing austin with an older female reader. you can read how much older however you like or if you want could ignore my reference to it being an older female reader. it also erred more toward plus size but can still be read a little more explicitly as not plus size. anyway, i hope y'all enjoy this fic even if it's a lil more niche for the fandom. as always, i do enjoy your comments and reblogs and tags and they are my writing life blood to be quite honest. there was also three different versions of this moodboard and i am still not sure i'm in love with this one. also i'm not completely back from my impromptu vacation but i wanted to post this before i tossed it in a fire or something.

"They think you're my sugar baby, you know," you murmur against the shell of Austin's ear, watching as his jaw muscle tenses just so at the implication.

His eyes slide across the room, taking in the looks people are giving the two of you. It's not that he isn't used to the looks, the slight judgment that people pass when they think he's merely just a kept boytoy but this time it hits different. For Vanessa, as much as he loved her and as much as he supposes she loved him there was always quite a kernel of truth there. It rubbed him the wrong way some days but at the same time it allowed him to slowly prove his acting chops without necessarily worrying about if he'd have a place to stay if things went horrendously wrong. But for you? For his gorgeous girlfriend? Oh, he wasn't a boytoy in the slightest. Sure, you could have made it so he was a kept man again. You could have allowed him to live in the lap of luxury and only come up for projects that were artsy and true cinema that he could sink his teeth into. No, instead he told himself he'd treat you, he'd make sure you were taken care of by him. You were older, you didn't need a partner to spoil you and cater to your every want and need. You didn't need these things but he was determined to give them to you. After all what sort of romantic partner would he be if he didn't spoil the love of his life.

"Hm," he hums softly, turning his head just enough to look you in the eyes. "Of course. They know I'm younger than you. They think I found another sugar mama to support me. If only they knew. Think they'd believe us if we told them?"

There's something so inviting and enrapturing about Austin's gaze that has you shivering just ever so slightly in delight and arousal. "About what?"

It's a dangerous game you're playing, teasing him like this but you can't help it. You want to rile Austin up in the same way he has with you on so many occasions. His tongue darts out to wet his lips before he bites his lower one. "Is my Princess playing dumb? Is she trying to be coy? Tease me?"

You smile softly and shrug, attempting to look as innocent as can be, "maybe. What are you going to do about it, baby?"

"Baby?" Austin moves to pull turn you around and pulls you closer to him, his hands settling on your plush hips and squeezing. "I think there's only one baby here, and it's not me, Princess. You don't have to tease to get what you want, you know that. My good girl knows that."

A shaky inhale is your only response for a moment as Austin smirks, his eyes dancing with a certain mixture of arousal and amusement that he only gets when he looks at you. Things between you are always a little playful, the joys of being old enough to not care about what other people think of you but it's still a delight to see after failed relationships before him. Maybe that's why you hadn't had a relationship that lasted this long before him. Maybe the universe was just having you wait for him. It takes you a moment to collect your thoughts even as you feel your arousal slowly dripping from your vagina, slowly dampening the underwear you're wearing.

"Your good girl does, but maybe I want to be bad today. Maybe I want you to show me and everyone else how desperate you always are for me," you practically purr out the last words and Austin's grip tightens just that little bit more as he moves one hand down to your behind and squeezes partially as a warning and partially as a promise.

"How desperate I am for you? How drenched are your panties? Would they stick to that pretty little pussy of yours? That pussy that was made for my cock? The one that could never be satisfied by any other cocks before mine?" His words are quiet but so deadly that you can't help the whine that leaves you even as your hand moves to cup the front of his slacks. You're in public but between the two of you, you're making your way to an empty corner with no one the wiser about what's happening. It should be mortifying the way Austin has you acting like a teenager and yet you remember that you're doing the same for him. You're both acting as if you don't have a care in the world, as if Austin and you both aren't at least partially in the public eye.

The thing is in this moment it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter because all anyone is going to see is you and him having your hands all over each other because you're so in love and practically obsessed with one another that you're both needy. Even if the way you're needy is subtly different between the two of you.

"Somewhere private." The words tumble out of your mouth when you finally make it to that corner and realize that your hand is trying to undo his slacks and his hand is trying to lift of your dress as if no one would be watching. Austin looks at you with blown pupils and huffs out a breath of air from his nose before he nods, grabbing your hand and pulling you out of the room and into regrettably the nearest closet he can find.

You start to drop to your knees, thinking this has to be something quick between the two of you, a quick blowjob that'll ruin your panties that he'll steal and put in his pocket for the rest of the night until you can get home. Except Austin's grip on your arm stops you, pulls you back up into a standing position even as your eyebrow arches upward in a simple unspoken question.

"I didn't ask for you to suck my dick, Princess," he murmurs, leaning over you just enough that he practically pins you to the door. "You want to be good for me, don't you? Make up for how bad you just were?"

In another time and place you'd maybe be embarrassed about how quickly you nod. In another time before Austin you'd have scoffed and shook your head. As it is all you want is to hear Austin tell you how good you are with those plush lips of his. All you want to feel his lips upon your skin, sucking hickies on it, his teeth biting your skin and leaving small indentations. You merely want all of Austin in this moment. "What—what do you want then?"

A simple question and a request for direction. You can't be his good girl, his bestest girl, his flawless girl without direction. You might be accidentally bad.

His hand moves to cup your chin and pulls you in for a featherlight kiss before moving down to your neck kissing there. You don't realize what's happening until you feel his hands cup your breasts as he places kisses along the tops of them exposed by your dress. You see his body starting to inch closer and closer down to the floor as he trails kisses down your body, setting every inch of your skin they touch ablaze with a fire that burns starting from your aching vagina. It clenches around nothing, wanting something— anything— near it and being deprived even as his lips are so close to it that he could tongue you through the fabric of your dress.

"Aus—" you start to whisper his name only to be cut off with a shaky exhale as you feel his fingertips against your calves and against your knees. You feel his fingers press into your plush thighs and bite your lip to stop yourself from whining only to have Austin remove his hands from them. "What—"

"Good girls are loud for their boyfriends. For their baby boys," he smirks and you can tell even in the low light of the closet. Any other time and you might lightly tap his face to smack it off of him but right now it has your thighs clenching together and him laughing. "You're my good girl, aren't you, Princess? My goddess of a woman. The cougar who sunk her teeth into me? I just want to hear you. I want everyone to know that I'm bringing you such immense pleasure with my tongue that you can't help but scream."

You are about to say something before Austin's head is under your dress faster than the words can come out. They're quickly forgotten in the haze and loud groan that leaves your lipstick covered lips as his fingers— those long fingers you've sucked and nipped at before— find themselves buried in your pussy. Austin plays you like a musical instrument, earning sighs and whimpers and every noise in between to form a symphony that bounces off the walls of the closet. You feel your orgasm starting to inch closer and closer before he pulls out his fingers and you keen loud enough that you hear people on the other side of the door wondering what's going on.

Austin chuckles and if you could see his eyes you're certain you would see them blown with arousal but still somehow sparkling with pure mirth. His laughter is a warm gust of air against your thigh but somehow a cool balm against your dripping cunt. Your thighs are sticky with arousal but not release and you almost want to cry before you feel Austin's breath focusing closer and closer to where you want it. "It's like a fountain down here."

The words are said with a bit of awe before he continues, "this all for me pretty girl? All for me, ma'am? If breathe just right can I get another drop?" He teases even as he lets out the smallest puff of air against your clit. "Oh. I can. So responsive. Such a good responsive woman. Couldn't ask for anyone better to be on my arm and in my bed. Maybe I should marry you. Keep you all to myself."

"Austin, please." You plea as your hands move to his hair, ruining whatever hairstyle his stylist had crafted in one fell swoop of your hands clenching at the strands.

"What my Princess wants, my princess gets," he jokes before his tongue finds its way to your throbbing clit.

The noises between your legs sound obscene with his tongue and chin and everything sliding against the arousal between your legs. He eats you out like a starving man, one of his hands moving to curl inside you as his mouth sucks your clt. It's too much and too little all at once. Your thighs tighten around his head as your hands tighten in his hair and you hear Austin moan as he shifts just enough to have his cock press against your calf. He's in control but at the same time so are you. You're making him so desperate he needs to hump your leg to get relief and he has your cunt spasming even though you haven't come just yet. You're sure you're saying words or perhaps it's just gibberish as Austin's fingers curl just so, pressing against that spot that has the coil in your lower abdomen wounding tighter and tighter. His thrusts against your legs are becoming more stuttered and your hands yank at his hair to try and pull him away so you don't come all over his face only to have him use his one free hand to grab your ass and force you grind down on his face. Somehow the brush of his nose against your clit and the way his tongue moves just so in tandem with his fingers against that spot of yours has you shouting his name even as you try and muffle it just a little. Your body shakes with aftershocks, thighs twitching against his head and lower stomach feeling like it's pulsating from the intensity. It takes both of you far longer than you'd like to admit to catch your breath and even as you do, Austin looks every bit as wrecked as you do before he opens his mouth.

"Think they still think I'm just your sugar baby?" The joke comes easily and with a soft smile. "Because that was some loud screaming, Princess. I was proud of you for it."

You can't help but look off to the side in embarrassment before you feel Austin's hand on your chin, forcing you to look at him. You swear you smell your own scent on his hand and you can't help but lick your lips. "Maybe, but I don't— Let them. Because it doesn't change that I'm your good girl, does it?"

"Never."

taglist: @ab4eva, @blurredcolour, @butlersxbirdy, @precious-little-scoundrel, @eliseinmemphis, @prompted-wordsmith, @lookingforrainbows, @araxw, @thatbanditqueen, @ellie-24, @austinbutlersgirl67, @heartbrake-hotel, @ccab, @18lkpeters, @slutforsomegoodlettuce, @dkayfixates, @kendralavon7, @chasingwildflowers, @slowsweetlove, @kxnnxy, @meetmeatyourworst, @purejasmine, @stylespresleyhearted, @powerofelvis, @amydarcimarie, @thegettingbyp2, @austinswhitewolf, @richardslady121 and @mrs-butler

[1eonsk]

I don’t have a cool title for this, but I listened to this playlist on spotify while writing this! I’m also not usually a bottom Leon stan but it just felt right. I’m not confident in my smut writing so fr give me feedback pls. Enjoy!!

(if we want more parts lmk)

((sorry for any typos i wrote this at work))

Leon x Reader x Ada btw

“Am I gonna have to catch you here again yln?” Leon says, annoyance on his boyish face.

Officer Leon Kennedy has been in the force for about six months, you and an ally being his case for about four of those months. He always seemed to be right on your toes. Finding you in robberies, car jacking, unregistered firearms, you name it, he’s caught you.

And somehow, someway, you always found your way out. Leon can never find out why, the sheriff started to get on his ass for just how many times you haven’t been charged. The saw it to be fishy, interrogating Leon more times than you’ve been in cuffs.

You sit in the interrogation room, hair pulled back blowing your baby hairs out of your face. A small smirk on your face, Leon sighs. You know damn well Ada should be here by now, although seeing the blue-eyed police officer was the highlight of your day. His stare meets you head on, face void of emotion, minus a slight pink hue on his cheeks.

“I dunno Mr. Kennedy, don’t you have fun with our little chases? Cat and mouse play is not what I thought you were into.”

His pink cheeks become warmer, a small giggle leaving your lips as he scoffs, “Keep it clean yn.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Ada’s voice rings through the intercom. Your smile turns into a grin, while Leon’s face pales. He quickly turns to see the door opening.

Ada’s black body-con dress hugs her curves, her face softening making eye contact with you. Leon stands quickly, pulling his gun out and aiming directly at Ada. She smiles, placing her hands up in a surrendering motion.

“There’s no need Kennedy, we’ll just be on our way out.”

“Like hell you will!” He says, face hard.

“Oh c’mon Kennedy!” You whine, pouting. “Just let me go this once? I’ll be a good girl from here on out! I swear it!”

Leon’s face darkens with pink yet again, this guy can never catch a break from your flirting can he? Your smile turns into a smirk when he shakes his head, pointing his gun at you next.

“yn, this is the last time you’ll see her outside of prison bars. You’ve done way worse things than robbing a bank, and yet, thats why you’ll finally be put away. For good.”

Suddenly, Ada lunges at Leon. As they fight over the gun you easily make your way out of the cuffs. The bobby-pin in your pocket becoming a normal occurrence. Leon is pinned face down on the table, Ada close to his face. Your stomach warms, seeing him pinned down like this feels way more criminal than anything you’ve ever done.

“Don’t worry Leon, I’ll keep our baby out of trouble. Be a good boy and give us a head start at least, yeah?” Her voice low, making your stomach churn with lust.

“You go first babe!” You say happily, moving to hold Leon down. You press a kiss on Ada’s lips, making sure Leon sees.

His eyes burn with desire, whether or not he says it out loud it’s not hard for everyone to see. He attempts to wiggle out of your grasp.

“See you at home, behave this time. No more stolen cars.” She pushes hair out of your face.

“But-”

“No. Stolen. Cars.” Her voice is firm, eyebrow raised. You nod, pouting.

As she sways out of the room, Leon begins to struggle harder. He grunts as you push down harder. You lean close to his ear, hearing the subtle change in his breathing. Your stomach churns again. Desire fills your every thought.

“Please be good, I swear I can make it worth your while.” Leon stiffens, hitting his forehead against the table.

“My job is to catch criminals, not make deals with them.” He says through gritted teeth.

You smile softly, moving your forehead to rest against his shoulder. He stiffens more (if possible at this point.) Your hand grips his wrists harder, letting out a loud sigh.

“If you would give us one night, all of this could go away.”

You let go quickly, sprinting out of the door. Moving quickly out the door Ada left open, you hear Leon shouting something. He’s too close.

You make it out on the street, navigating quickly and smoothly through the traffic and people walking. You hear Leon shout your name, turning to face him.

His face is overcome with a glare, bright red cheeks. Your smile turning into a grin, pulling your hair down from your pony tail you bow dramatically and begin sprinting. You move through a familiar alley, hearing Leon close by. You hide in a doorway, waiting for his footsteps.

“Shit! What the fuck!” He shouts, covering his face with his hands. He reaches for his radio, but isn’t able to send out his message before you dive at him. Tackling him to the ground.

“Gotcha!” You move to pin his hands behind his back again, sitting on his back.

“See! Isn’t this fun?” You say cheerfully. His grunts become louder, more frustrated. “I’m sorry, for what I’m about to do. This is the only way I can get you to cooperate with me.”

You knock him out, his grunts and curses end abruptly. Ada appears from seemingly no where. Her face grim, she leans down and pushes hair out of Leon’s face. Staring you down with an angry look.

“What? This really is the only way we could do this and you know that.” You frown, she presses a kiss to your forehead.

“Let’s move quickly then yn, get him into the car.” She stands as you move to lift him. “Maybe this time, he’ll listen.

Leon wakes to an unfamiliar room. His hands are cuffed to the bed frame, mouth gagged with a cloth. You sit at the edge of the bed, staring off with tears in your eyes. He grunts as he tries to pull his hands away from the bed frame. Your head snaps to him, tears falling from your eyes. You move quickly to the side of the bed, petting his hair and removing the cloth.

“I’m sorry, please don’t be upset. You wouldn’t listen to us, please just give me a moment.”

He looks down at his chest and his heart drops at the sight of no clothing, just his underwear. He whips his head to you, growling.

“What did you do-?”

“No-no-no! Wait, we didn’t touch you! We don’t have air conditioning and it’s hot so- I took them off- you were sweating a lot!” You say, panicked.

“What am I doing here? Who the fuck is we?” He says, anger on his face. He’s breathing fast, Leon looks around attempting to gather his surroundings.

“It’s just us Leon.” Ada says. You stare at her with more tears falling out of your eyes. “She just thought it would be better for you, after I specifically told her it was a bad idea-”

“I just thought.. it-” you say, more tears welling in your eyes.

“Getting me naked was not the move yn.” Leon says. He doesn’t know why, but he feels inclined to cheer you up. He meets your eyes, his gaze dropping to your lips for a moment before looking into your eyes again. He hates that you’ve engrained a soft spot in his heart, although he’s never going to admit to that. You sniffle, moving to sit in front of Ada, your body facing Leon.

“It’s okay sweetheart,” Ada says, petting your hair. Her fingernails scratch softly at your scalp, you shiver.“Talk to him, this is what he’s here for.”

Leon watches closely and she drags a finger nail down your cheek, to your neck, then to your chest finally meeting your-

“Officer Kennedy,” You say, interrupting his thoughts he definitely shouldn’t be having. “I want you, we both do.”

Silence fills the air, he tilts his head in confusion.

“Uh-Okay? So why am I tied up? I still don’t get why I’m even here. What’s going on?”

Ada’s hand stops groping your breast, you both freeze. A good minute of silence later she snorts pulling her hands to her face. You blink rapidly, shaking your head. No, no way. He has to get it right? Is he fucking with the two of you?

“Kennedy, babe,” Ada speaks, her smile apparent in her voice. “She wants you to join us.”

“I’ll never become a criminal. Especially not at this rate.” He says without missing a beat.

Ada snorts again, your mouth drops open. Leon’s cheeks become a bright red. His head tilting again, still confused. You turn around to Ada, a question in your expression. Leon takes the both of you in as you talk quietly.

You have nothing but a tank top and underwear on, Ada is still fully covered in her dress from earlier. The soft candlelight makes it hard to see the two of you very well, but he can spot makeup on the both of you. There’s faux fur on the cuffs, and a vibrator on the bed-

“Oh.” Leon says suddenly, his face darkening with even more color.

You and Ada turn quickly to face him, a blush on your cheeks as well. Leon looks embarrassed, he feels stupid. His head drops and he sighs. When he regains his composer, he meets your eyes, rolling his in annoyance.

“All you had to do was quit fucking up my city’s crime rate and ask yn.”

Your face morphs to shock, even darker can be seen even in the subtle lighting. His eyes drift to your legs, you shift uncomfortably. Ada places a hand on your shoulder and you stop. His eyes meet Ada’s gaze.

“Are you in charge Ada?” He says, his voice an octave lower. Your stomach churns.

She places her hands on your shoulders. Pushing the thin straps down, slowly. Her hands are soft, she smells like vanilla. You whine when she removes her hands just shy of touching your breasts. She kneels next to your ear and whispers something Leon can’t hear. You begin to crawl towards him, settling on his lap. His breath hitches as you lean forward, pressing your lips to his softly.

This kiss feels too intimate, soft and unsure. He pushes forward, his hands grip the cuffs. You can feel him hardening beneath you. You press harder, and the kiss quickly becomes hungry. You pull back, placing your hands on his chest to keep him still.

“If I take off the cuffs, you won’t run?” You say, your face serious. You still sound unsure, still torn up by having to know the poor kid out to get him here.

He’s taken aback by the question, his hard on should’ve been enough proof he wouldn’t. He looks deep into your eyes. Not able to sense any sort of malice.

I guess they both really do just wanna do this.

He nods, eyes on yours. He shifts, a small noise leaving his lips. You smile happily, going to remove the cuffs. He sees Ada moving quickly behind you. Her hand covers yours, staring directly in Leon’s eyes.

“Not yet, keep going.” She says, her voice firm. Your head whips to her, a pout on your lips. She stares into your eyes, shaking her head. You frown harder and remove your hands.

You both lean towards him, your lips on his while Ada begins to suck on his neck. He lets out a breath. Leon gasps when you push your tongue into his mouth, at the same time Ada uses her teeth on his neck.

Your hands move to his underwear, running a finger down his member. He shivers and you pull away. Moving quickly to remove your shirt, his underwear quickly following. You sit on his thighs, using your hand to stroke him slowly.

“Is this okay Officer?” You say, looking at him through your eyelashes.

He moans softly, nodding quickly and bucking his hips. Just how wrong is this?

He pulls at the handcuffs again. Ada stops covering his neck with hickeys, and moves to slowly remove the cuffs. Leon pulls her into a heated kiss, you moan around his cock and Ada pulls away. Leon whines but moves to grope your breasts, another moan leaving the both of you. Ada hums, moving to sit with Leon between her legs. Her dress is hiked up past her thighs, Leon shivers at her warmth.

“Isn’t she gorgeous?” She says into his ear, a whine leaving your lips. Leon nods quickly. She pulls his hands away, the both of them watching you move quickly around him.

You move faster around his cock, Leon whimpers loudly. As you take him, Ada smiles kissing his neck again, she moves to push his hand into your hair. He grips hard, you move quickly up and down his cock, your head bobbing and tongue moving like clock-work.

“That’s my girl yn, just like that.” She says, both you and Leon whining.

“We practiced this,” she says, her voice level. “We used our toys and all she talked about was how much she wanted you. We loved teasing you Kennedy, it made her so wet.”

Leon gasps loudly, throwing his head back. He moans, before attempting to push you off. Your head rises with a pop.

“Please- I want- can I-”

“You wanna fuck her Kennedy?” Ada interrupts, her nails lightly scratching his stomach. He nods quickly.

“Yes- please? I’ll be so good please!” He begs, he almost sounds like he could cry. You’re breathing quickly, shifting your legs. Leon feels Ada nodding at you, and he moves to push you under him.

“C’mon baby, give him what he wants, you’re both being so good for me.”

You lay down, your head on Ada’s thighs. She runs her fingers through your hair. Leon kneels at your cunt, positioning his cock at your hole. You whine, feeling him press forward.

“I’ll go slow.” He says, eyes staring at himself entering you.

“No, she can take it. The whole thing, now.” Ada says, her voice commanding.

You whine as he presses all of himself into you. You moan and the same time, Leon’s infinitely louder. He’s breathing fast, head bowed, eyes closes. He looks at Ada before thrusting carefully, before speeding up.

“There you go,” She says, “Take him, you’re doing so good. My pretty babies.”

Your gasps, Leon’s moans, the slapping of skin fills the room. It’s music to Ada’s ears, motions for Leon to slow down. As you being to whine she removes herself to sit in the corner of the bed, vibrator in hand. She removes her clothing, you and Leon both watch her intently. His thrusts remain slow, the both of you still breathing erratically.

She places a hand on her breast, toying at her nipple. You whine, looking at her desperately. She nods at you letting out a breath. You follow her movement, moaning at your own hand on your nipple. The vibrator buzzes to life, and she places it on her clit. She nods, not looking away from Leon’s cock in your cunt.

His thrusts grow aggressive quickly, your head falling back on the bed. Ada moans, the buzzing making your whole clench. Leon gasps, his thrusts growing erratic.

“So fucking wet.” He says, voice sounding so whiny. So good.

“So good Leon.” You say, looking into his eyes. “Making me feel so good.”

You pull at your nipple harder, wrapping your legs around Leon’s waist. He moves even faster, crying out when you rub at your clit.

“‘M- I’m gonna-” His voice breaks into a whine, leaning forward to take your other nipple into his mouth. You moan loudly, your other hand moving faster, rubbing at your clit.

“Cum for me, both of you.” Ada says, sounding desperate herself.

“C’mon Leon, fill me up. I want it. Please? I’ve been so good.”

The thrusts grow sloppy, his hands gripping your waist hard enough to bruise. Leon finishes first, shooting himself into your hole. As you feel yourself being filled, you clench around his cock. Ada is the last to finish, moaning loudly, her legs twitching and her head falling back.

Ada is the first to move, cleaning the cum from your cunt. A soft smile on her lips as Leon falls next to you, pulling you into his arms. Ada lays on your other side, wrapping her arms around your waist. She kisses your shoulder, all three of your legs tangled in blankets.

Leon voice breaks the silence, “So… Does this mean you two will stop doing illegal shit?”

“I’ll think about it.” You say, giggling when he groans.

[navstuffs]

In the Shadows

Pairing: DARK!Aemond Targaryen x DARK!GN!Reader

Summary: You are brought to be one of the servants in the castle during King Aegon II's reign. No one seems suspicious of your true intentions except the middle child of the queen, Prince Aemond Targaryen.

Warnings: LONG ONE-SHOT. DARK THEMES SUCH AS TORTURE, PHYSICAL/EMOTIONAL ABUSE WHILE READER IS A CHILD, NON-CON, DUBIOUS CONSENT, MENTION OF SMUT, BLOOD. both reader and aemond are NOT good ppl!!!!, i use y/n three or four times, SPOILERS TO THE BOOKS

Authors note: so i thought i wasnt going to write about aemond but here i am to cope with my obsession. i have a mini-series with aemond written but i am extremely self-conscious if im writing him the right way. so this is my first test attempt at doing this. i havent read the books (ik, i have to) so if any there are any mistakes, feel free to correct me. GIF CREDIT TO THE CREATOR

JUST PROCEED IF YOU ARE ABOVE +18. PLEASE, READ MY WARNING TAGS CAREFULLY

Italic texts are reader's thoughts

It was a rainy day when you first arrived at King's Landing to be a servant in the castle. Since Aegon II's coronation, there had been a complete change in the servants. The gossip around town was that the Hightowers were worried about princess Rhaenyra Targaryen trying to kill the King. So the Queen requested most of the servants from her father's house to be brought, loyal to the Hightower's cause.

And that included you. You were perfect for the job really.

You had been saved by an unnamed Lord Hightower from slavery when you were just 7 years old. You owed him huge gratitude so you devoted yourself entirely to him. It didn't matter if Lord Hightower reeked of farts and piss. It didn't matter if he hit you until you were just different shades of purple and blue or you were passed out. It didn't matter that Lord Hightower spit on you and burned you with a hot iron from the kitchen. That he starved you. It didn't matter that he left you in the darkness even if he knew you were afraid of it. Your devotion was bigger than all of that. Bigger than anything he could or could possibly do to you.

You loved him so much that at 10 years old when he sold you to a league of people that worked in the underworld, you knew you couldn't let him live without you. He wouldn't survive. So you took matters into your hands. You made the old man a favor, really.

Watching him die slowly in his own bed, while you stabbed him in the neck, with a dirty knife you found in the kitchen.

Watching as the blood spilled all over his bed, on your face, on your clothes.

He tried to get up, falling to the floor and you just continued piercing his back until your arm was tired. You didn't know why you were crying, why you were laughing, why he looked so afraid of you.

"It is interesting how life works" You mutter to yourself, waking up from your past. Your eyes have no expression as you watch the young girl in front of you gasp for air, even though you are holding her throat strongly. You watch as life goes away from her eyes as they pledge for a single reason as to why you were doing this.

"I hope you know it is nothing personal" You whisper as her body falls into the floor.

The darkness, before your biggest fear, was now your biggest ally.

-x-

You were perfect for the job. When the suspense of war was heard across Westeros, Prince Daemon Targaryen reached his ex-lover Lady Mysaria for help. He needed someone inside the castle. Not a typical spy or one that would call much attention. A good one. That wouldn't make anyone look twice at them.

Lady Mysaria knew the perfect one: Shadows. In this case, you. You met Lady Mysaria sometime in your teenage years, working as an assassin/spy. Lady Mysaria wanted some random Lord killed because he kept abusing innocent slave girls. She offered you a good price and you even shared that could have been done for free. Since then, she always called you to the most delicate jobs.

When she presented you with the offer, you almost didn't accept. It wasn't really your place. She shared that there had been a coup inside the castle to take it out Rhaenyra to put Aegon II in place. That angered you. You knew Hightowers pretty well and you knew how kind they could truly be.

You accepted the job. You killed a young servant who was going to work in King's Landing, taking her place. From an outsider's look, you were just an average servant. You weren't pretty, nothing too special to call the eyes, or to be even remembered.

No one inside the castle knew what was coming for them.

-x-

You met Queen Alicent as soon as you arrived at the castle. She was taking care of the inspection of every single one of the new servants, asking them questions and making sure everyone was the right fit. Queen Alicent was accompanied by Ser Criston Cole, someone Lady Mysaria warned you to be alert about.

Queen Alicent seemed very satisfied by the servants and for some reason. You couldn't believe your luck when you got chosen to be part of the team who took care of Prince Aemond Targaryen's quarters. You were not meant to be seen or even cared for. Your job was to take care of his room, keep it tidy and not disturb him. Only talk to him if he refers to you, not look him in his eyes during it, and always look down, referring to him as 'Your Grace' and 'Prince Aemond'.

In the first days of the job, you didn't see the man. You had glanced at Princess Helaena a few times around the castle and sometimes she was joined by Queen Alicent and Otto Hightower. You hadn't seen the King yet or his younger brother.

Your ears were always open though. For any information, any sign of valuable piece you could give to the Blacks.

-x-

The first time you properly met King Aegon II and Prince Aemond they were celebrating someone's death. Queen Alicent seemed shocked and didn't join them but you were called in to be part of the team to serve them.

"More drink for my brother, servant!" Aegon II screamed at you. You immediately obeyed "So he deserves the best wine and the best whores of the kingdom, for killing the bastard, the son of a whore, Lucerys Velaryon!"

Your hand gripped the bottle a little harder, pouring the wine, without looking up. That meant Princess Rhaenyra had lost a child. There was acid in your mouth, but you kept yourself calm.

When you got up, Aemond's single eye was focused on your face. You demonstrated no expression, turning away when you heard the Prince's voice.

"Wait."

You stopped in your tracks maintaining a neutral expression. You heard Aemond's footsteps circle around you, his eye probably analyzing you.

Stay still but not so much.

Look afraid.

Aemond stopped in front of you and all you could see were his shoes. No sound was coming from him so you dared to look up to find him staring at you with curiosity.

"I think your King needs more wine" He murmured, with malice, his eye not leaving your face.

"Yo-your Grace, please forgive me!" You bowed in a sign of respect to Aemond, your face warm with embarrassment. An amateur move. You turned to Aegon II and bowed down, on the verge of tears "Please forgive me, Your Grace!"

You walked to Aegon II serving his cup and the King drank everything at once. Aegon then grabbed another cup, offering it to you.

"Your Grace?" You muttered, confused.

"Serve yourself! Drink! Tonight we celebrate and honor my brother Aemond the Kinslayer!"

You hesitated. You could feel Aemond's eye on your next action. You made your decision, grabbing the cup with a shaky hand, and filling it up. Then, you filled Aegon's cup. Aegon had a sick smile on his face as if appreciating your apparent fear. You two wait for Aemond to make a toast and you drink your wine.

I can't wait the time to slit King Aegon II and Prince Aemond's throats.

-x-

When the news small prince Jaehaerys was killed burst inside the castle, you pretended shock and sadness like the rest of them. You cried and shed tears in front of everyone, cursing the blacks as most of the other people in town did.

In reality, you knew exactly what happened and when it happened. You played some part in it, helping Blood and Cheese inside the castle, leaving some doors open here and there. Whispering some secrets into Lady Mysaria's ears.

If someone tried to trace you back at you, it would be almost impossible. Lady Mysaria was the only one who knew of you. That was your job, that's what you were good at, working in the darkness.

Being Shadows and fulfilling your mission.

You felt nothing for the young prince's death except a little apprehension for Lady Mysaria. If she was caught, your cover would be blown but the woman had fled the scene during the night. You knew you had to keep quiet and just pretend you were sad.

Wait until the time they would turn their eyes to their servants.

Which was exactly what happened a day later after Prince Jaeharys was found dead. All servants close to the family were brought into a room. Your apparent nervousness was fake but very convincing. You knew exactly what was going to happen next.

When Queen Alicent, Aegon II, and Aemond entered, they were surrounded by guards. Your initial reaction was to bite your lips to not smile. They all appeared miserable, especially Queen Alicent. Good. That was going to help you support what came next.

"As you might all know, our small prince Jaeharys has been killed. We are now looking for any information or leads on their killers."

The servants looked towards each other, some already on the verge of tears. Aegon rolled his eyes impatience, pointing Blackfyre to a young girl who started sobbing.

"You! You have seen anything?"

"No, Your Grace, I swear!"

"Are you sure? Hasn't she worked with Helaena, mother?" Aegon accused, his sword getting close to pierce the girl through her chest. She didn't answer, still crying "I would have all of you killed. But my mother reminded all of you have always been loyal to House Hightower. So if no one wants to speak, we will make you speak! Whatever means necessary."

One by one, servants would be taken to be questioned in a closed room by the King and Prince Aemond. All you could hear were screams and most people would be taken out passed out ou, their faces beaten up, with numerous cuts on their bodies. Your anxiety and adrenaline pierce through your body but no fear. You had to keep yourself calm. That was actually a good moment of opportunity.

When you were called in, your legs and hands were trembling. You looked at your fellow other servants remaining in the room to be questioned, their faces filled with confusion and despair.

That is what the greens represent.

This what they do to their own.

When you entered the room, your breath started getting faster.

Not too much. Just a little so they think you are afraid.

Blood. There was so much blood everywhere. In the ceilings, in the chair, on the floor, on Blackfyre's blade. You didn't look at their eyes as you waited standing, two guards close to you.

"Who killed my son?"

You licked your lips before speaking, your voice failling you.

"I-I do not know, Your Grace."

"Look in my eyes and say that."

You looked up and saw Aegon filled with rage and sadness. You had to bite your lips not to laugh. Oh, you could kill him now. Him and Prince Aemond. You could kill them and savor their blood and laugh and watch the life leave their eyes. You would die in the process but would die fulfilled and would take as much of them as you could.

"Answer me!" Aegon screamed, slapping your face with his hand open.

Rage.

Control yourself. Control yourself.

You wanted to close your fists but that wouldn't be seen as fearful, letting your arms apathetic at your side. You continued to bite your lips. Tears start to flow with all anger boiling inside your stomach. Aegon waited, his nostrils flaring up. Man child. You hoped he was going to lose all his kids. Was he drunk?

"I do not know, Your Grace" Your voice shook but Aegon wasn't convinced. He points Blackfyre to your cheek and cut slowly and deep along your still-burning cheek, making your face bleed. Your tears continue falling down as you bit your lips even harder, finally tasting the blood.

"As requested by my mother, I won't kill you. If you are loyal to the greens, you won't scream at any moment. You make one single sound and I will see that as a confession of guilt and you will be put in jail for the rest of your miserable life. Now, shall we start?"

-x-

Five nails were brutally ripped from your fingers.

They took your clothes off, they burned your body with hot irons. Your chest, your belly, your legs.

They beat you up until you almost passed out.

You reaffirmed your innocence.

You didn't scream.

Every time they asked if you knew anything, you screamed no. You begged for mercy when Aemond inquired if you had anything to do with Prince Jaehaerys's murder, but not one single scream during any of your torture sessions.

King Aegon and Prince Aemond just watched. They didn't participate but Aegon's eyes were shining the whole time. After they put into your chair, semi awoke and still naked, Aegon stepped up with Blackfyre ready on his hands.

"I must say, I am impressed. You have lasted more than anyone. Not once a single scream, not once single whimper" Aegon declared, admired. Aemond had his arms crossed, his expression serious. Or fascinated. You didn't know.

You barely could see them anyway. One of your eyes was closed with the beating. Your whole body hurt, bleeding on the floor. You were about to pass out with the pain again but you weren't going to give them the pleasure to see that.

"A true demonstration of a Green."

"Or just guilt." Aemond clarified, close to his brother.

You didn't want to smile on their faces so simply stayed there, catching your breath. You could still kill them. Cut Aegon's throat and strangle Aemond. Then kill the rest of the greens. You could. You could!

"I...I..." You murmured, your voice not coming out. You tried to clean your throat, lifting up your hand. Aemond and Aegon waited.

"I only humbly live to serve my King. The true King and Ruler of Westeros." You managed to say with a sore voice. Even your vocal cords were hurting.

Aegon was stunned. He never saw someone be tortured so badly and still affirm allegiance. He watched his brother Aemond get closer to the servant's body.

Aemond was close to your face. You still managed to look down, maintaining your respect, your body at any moment in giving up. You had to stay awake. You had to fight back. You knew if you passed out they could kill you. Aemond was so close you noticed the details of his scars. And he was analyzing you intensely. Again.

Keep focus.

"Let this one go, brother. I think this one is Loyal to your Kingdom. They really don't know anything."

You bit your dry lips once again and even closed your hands in fists, not that movement seemed to matter now. All they would see was a servant relieved from no more torture. Inside, you were celebrating. You really had fooled them. You had fooled those imbecile Greens!

You finally passed out from the chair, your body falling to the floor. The guards carried your body to be taken care of, holding every side of your arm. Out of all servants that had been tortured that day, you were the only one who remained as a servant.

-x-

After four days of recovery, you were ready to be sent back to work. The new servants looked at you with respect as you had a new scar on your face, proving your loyalty to King Aegon II. Lady Mysaria was astonished by your success. You two had to develop a new way to communicate after she had to escape. No one suspected you.

You were the one who passed the information about Ser Arryk Cargyll's infiltration to the castle. It seemed the Greens really trusted you now so you had to be extremely careful of every single future step you took.

Prince Aemond had developed a weird interest in you. Since you came back to work, he started asking you more and more questions. He wanted to know where you were from, and what you had done before. You never answered those questions, simply responding you didn't do a lot of your life except serve the Hightowers.

That wasn't a good sign.

You were organizing his room one morning, paying close attention to his clothes. All of sudden, there was a small dagger to your neck and for a millisecond you almost revealed yourself. Fighting against all your instincts to attack back you gasped, surprised. You heard a low laugh coming from behind you.

"Tell me, how a simple servant, who served their whole life, could have survived a long and strenuous torture session?" Prince Aemond's tone of voice was curious and dangerous against your ear. You could feel his body almost touching yours.

"Yo-your Grace?" Aemond continued holding his dagger against your neck, enough to start drawing blood. None of you moved.

"Someone so resistant like that, I can only see two options. Tell me, are you loyal to my family? Or are you just a spy infiltrated on this?" Aemond pressed the dagger even further into your neck, making you stumble back into his body. Your breath was hitched and your internals were begging for you to kill him.

"Lo-loyal, Your Grace."

"I have been observing you. Watching you in the shadows. I have to admit, you are very good. I have never seen anyone like you before. You try to look like them but you aren't. There is something about you. You try to hide it, but I can see it. I see in the very fast moments you don't think anyone is looking. They are there. I order, tell me who you truly are, (Y/N)."

He called you by your first name.

There was no way of escaping this.

Choose my next words very carefully or I might really die.

You closed your eyes, thinking fast. There is no way in Seven Kingdoms you would just die by Aemond's hands right now. Not when you accomplished so many things. You slowly turned, keeping your shaking hands up. Blood was dripping down your chest. You opened your eyes, finding his single eye on you. There was no space for mistakes now.

"I am Y/N. I am a servant of House Hightower since I was born, and I am ready to serve and die for them, especially for King Aegon II. I will be loyal no matter what torture, no matter what threat, even coming from you Prince Aemond. So if you doubt me, Your Grace, do us both a favor, cut my throat now and end this. But, do know that you will be killing someone loyal to you and your family that if asked, would have killed Rhaenyra, her bastard's sons, and the whole black army."

Aemond seemed to ponder your words. He had seen a different sparkle in your eyes so quickly, Aemond doubted they were really there. The kind of shine you would only see in an eyes of a killer. His suspicions got stronger during the torture, but even he couldn't deny your allegiance that day.

Deep down, Aemond was impressed. He was fascinated. He was obsessed, haunted by your 'real' eyes, your 'real' self. He wanted to find out the truth and see it. Because if he finally saw it, he could kill you and be done with this. But you kept dragging him in more and more. Again, you only admitted loyalty. Again, you had him confused and charmed.

The dagger pressured one more time, before being taken down. You opened your eyes to watch Aemond clean the dagger on his clothing. You sighed, relieved, breathing as if was your first time.

"To think my brother wanted to cut off your tongue" Aemond announced, satisfied with himself "Someone so pretty shouldn't lose their tongue, don't you agree?"

You were pressuring the blood in your throat, your sleeve soaked with blood.

"Go clean yourself. You will stain my floor with your blood. Come back later. I will need you."

You left with your mind with a million thoughts. You found an empty room to analyze what just happened: did Prince Aemond just call you pretty? Was he trying to seduce you? You find yourself holding a sleeve to your throat, bringing another hand to your mouth, in case you decide to scream.

Aemond was playing with you. He had to! He didn't trust your word and now he decide to play with you, toying until you revealed yourself.

Aemond had no idea what game he just started.

-x-

"How do I look?"

You were in Aemond's room. All other servants had left and it was just you and him which was unusual anymore. Aemond preferred your presence, and your presence only, if he wasn't busy at the Council. He was wearing Aegon II's crown and seemed satisfied with himself. The battle of Rook's Rest had been a huge victory for the Greens. They brought Meley's head, but Aegon II was extremely hurt. You thought of offering yourself to take care of the King, pass information of his health state, but Aemond forbid that. You were meant to stay at his side now that he was named Prince Regent while Aegon took his time to heal.

"Y/N?"

"You look good, Prince Aemond." In the situation they were in, that statement was true. Aemond was fit to be King. You knew he would be much more efficient at war than his older brother but even harder to kill.

"It looks better on me than my brother, doesn't it?"

A test?

You didn't answer, just smirking at Aemond. He seemed convinced by your answer, turning towards you. There is a second of silence when he called you with his fingers.

"Come to me."

You obediently walked until you are standing in front of him. You remained there with your hands behind your back, letting him observe you, his hands rubbing the scar on your neck. Slowly, his hands made their way up to your scar and he rubbed it gently.

"Kiss me."

You bowed your head down and locked your lips with Aemond. This had started since the last time he threatened to cut your throat. When you came back later that night, Aemond asked what you thought of him. You simply answered he was very good to you and you would always be grateful. In response, he kissed you. You stood there, in shock, not moving your lips back. He sent you away, telling you only answered to him now.

He was trying to break you. That was your only possible sane guess. If he so wanted, you were going to accept Prince Aemond's desire. No matter how crazy they were.

The kiss, timid at first, got deeper. Aemond's hands went down your hips and he pulled you against his warm body. As he started getting more and more hungry, his hands drop to grab your ass, lifting you up. You instantly locked your legs around his waist, his erection rubbing against the middle of your legs. Your eyes roll with pleasure and anger with the friction, as he continued pressing even more deliciously against you.

Why that bastard was so good at this?

Aemond took you to the bed, wasting no time to be on top. He ripped your shirt, making you gasp surprised. His mouth reverenced your neck and chest with kisses. One thing that seemed to surprise you since the start was the fact that Aemond didn't seem to mind the ugly scars on your body. No, he seemed to venerate them. Having one of his own, Aemond knew the importance of them. Before he could rip your pants, you stopped him, holding his face.

"Do you want to be on top tonight, my King?"

Aemond thought for a second. He removed his crown with care, placing it at the side of the bed, together with his eye patch. Before you, Prince Aemond would never let any of his sexual partners see him without it. You were the first in bed who saw it. Now he removed it with confidence as if he bothered you not see you with both of his eyes.

Without answering, Aemond ripped your pants. You laughed, amused. He was always rougher after his victories. Not that you didn't like it.

"You must do what your King commands, right Y/N?"

"Correct, My Lord."

"Then tonight, call me Aemond."

Aemond noticed he got you by surprise. You cleared your throat, apprehensive, not sure if you heard correctly. Aemond grabbed your chin, warning with a deep tone.

"You must do what your King commands."

"Of course, Aemond. Anything you desire. I am yours."

Until the very last night of passion you had with Aemond, he continued insisting on you calling him by his first name. You obeyed, of course. It was fun. For that time, while you were ravished by Aemond, you could forget who you were. While Aemond strangled you until you both got an orgasm, you were just Y/N. You never complained about Aemond feeling your insides; the prince seemed to stare at his cum dripping from you. Another thing surprising about Aemond: he would never stop until you had a proper orgasm. You could only bet it was part of his personality, watching as you screamed his name over and over again.

Some part of you wondered, if you met Prince Aemond in another life, you could have fallen in love with him.

-x-

When Rhaenyra and her husband Daemon overtook King's Landing, a lot of servants were taken to jail. You were one of them until Daemon personally ordered your freedom.

You were brought in front of Queen Rhaenyra. She was sitting down on the Iron Throne. There was no one else in the room, except for Daemon. Rhaenyra was wearing the crown that was hers by right, her expression confident with her victory.

"Your Grace!" You bowed down with your knee and Rhaenyra smiled at you.

"Stand up. My husband and Lady Mysaria told me we had many spies but none so efficient and loyal as you. You remained inside the castle without getting your cover destroyed. I had to ask them to meet you. How did you manage such action?"

"I only did what I could for the cause, Queen Rhaenyra. I would have continued, as long it was needed. It fills my heart with happiness to see you sitting down at the Iron Throne!" You claimed.

You felt a hand pull you up and are surprised to see Prince Daemon's victorious smile in your direction.

"I have heard you have survived due to Prince Aemond's affection. Is that true?"

"I don't know. I could care less about that Kinslayer."

"My Lady, Shadows has done a lot. I can only think what they have passed through the hands of the Greens. And I think we both can see" Daemon announced, his eyes on your scar "They should be rewarded greatly."

"I agree. You can request me anything you desire."

"I am just a humble servant, my Queen. It would be an honor to continue to serve you."

"I understand. Remain hidden. We might be able to use you next time."

There were reports of your presence during Aemond and Daemon's battle, though heavily contested. Those same reports alleged although Prince Aemond was furious at the presence of Shadows, he smiled in your direction as if he was meeting a long distant loved friend again. Aemond then promised he was going to kill you and feed your body to Vhagar if he survived the battle.

The transcript ends with a single sentence from Shadows.

"Let's hope you don't then, Prince Aemond."

MASTERLIST