#and they had no answers. no way of making it make sense. it tormented them

[sirwhistledown]

★ summary — after his fathers death, anthony finds solace within an unexpected someone ˖˙ ꔫ —★★★★ pairing: anthony bridgerton x sibling!reader ˖˙ ꔫ —★★★ content warnings. mention of death, description of grief & death, teenage anthony being in shambles after edmunds death (rest his poor soul) ˖˙ ꔫ —★★ word count. 3.9k ˖˙ ꔫ —★ genre. angst, so much angst. smidge of fluff, hurt/comfort? ★ authors note: anthony's story is actually so sad but i wanted to see more of how he dealt with everything and a deep dive onto what he felt of so... (also there are NOT enough anthony x sibling reader so here we are!!) ⠀⠀⠀❛⠀⠀ requests are open !!

Anthony had always believed that a profound sadness enveloped the body like a condecending fog, delving deep into the bones and clawing recklessly at the soul until it was a suffocating weight with no escape in sight. Yet now, as he stood amidst the bouts of chaos, he felt nothing. No sadness, no anger, no frustration. Just a vast, empty numbness that swallowed his entire being whole.

It were as if the world around him came to a grinding halt, and he had stopped with them—unable to escape the grasp of the coldness trickling up upon his spine. It felt as if his physical body had been frozen, but consciously, he had not—a distant observer in a weary state of forgery. The sheer oddity of it all left him out of it; an unsettling sense that he was lost in a dream too overwhelming to even comprehend was vastly disheartening. It felt like... a storm, a thunderstorm brewing inside of him, circling through and around his every vein and nerve until it ceased to exist.

He can briefly reminisce, pinching himself over and over until his skin turned blotchy red and had grown irritated in the area. The pain was a sharp reminder to him that it was a futile attempt at an escape, that it was not just some dream that he could simply wake up from. Yet, it could not be; Anthony wanted nothing better to do than just refuse. Laugh at the servants that crowded him with questions that he could not answer—the questions that he should not be worrying about at his age.

Their voices seemed to be distorted in a way that Anthony could not quite make out—a dissonant chorus, overlapping under the distinct rushing and ringing in his own ears. It was as if it went in through one ear and out the other, like water through a funnel. None of it made sense, despite it being more than natural common sense. He still isn’t sure how he managed to even utter a single coherent word; Anthony couldn’t even hear himself over the cacophony that tumbled through his mind. He couldn’t hear himself over the concious noise that screamed in his head and translated all the way to his entire body until it was the only thing radiating through his pumping blood.

In the mix of what seemed to sound like if someone had put all the most horrid sounds a man could hear and mixed them all together, jumbled and overwhelming, he could faintly hear his mother. His poor mother, screaming and crying, the sound so haunting and raw that Anthony wishes he could never hear again in his life, yet it lingered upon him like an uninvited shadow in the corner of his room. Even when it was not presently there, when he was stuck alone at night, his siblings sent off to bed by the maids, his mother nowhere in his line of sight, did he stare at the ceiling of nothing—hearing those cries replaying in his head again and again and again. It’s as if he wanted himself to go mad and Anthony must say, he was very close to so.

But the sounds were only a singular part of his torment. Lord, have mercy on his miserable soul; nothing could’ve prepared him for the sights that awaited him, that he was forced to face by nothing but himself.

His mother sprawled across the staircase, a flurry of maids assisting her but to no avail. There was no ending to her constant misery, and for a brief moment, a moment that Anthony must regret, he wished that his mother had an off-switch so he could just stop it. For her sake or his, he couldn’t quite say. 

His siblings, on the other hand, were a mix of emotions that Anthony was not qualified to handle nor care for. Was that not what maids were for? Daphne cried silently, dabbing at her tears cascading down her cheeks that failed to subside. He silently wonders to himself how many tears a woman could cry before her very essence would be evaported, while Colin and Benedict, although undeniably upset, managed to hide away their sentiments, at least towards Anthony. Well, he was sure he caught a glimpse of a tear roll down Benedict’s face, but there was nothing he could say nor do about that except pat him on the back a couple of times as a comfort of sorts before he’s again whisked away to care for something he knew little about. He wasn’t prepared for this; he wasn’t qualified for this. He was just a child. 

At least the younger ones were mostly oblivious to the situation that had wrapped around the mourning family. They all gazed up at Anthony, more confused than upset, and he must think that they would wonder why all their older siblings suddenly all looked so remorseful, cloaked with grief, and their mother a distant entity that was soon regarded as unapproachable. In the recesses of his grief-sorrowed mind, a feeble thought flickered for a moment's notice: how, he pondered, for any way to describe the gravity of their weighted reality. Could he even explain to them? Shield them from the truth, or perhaps let them burden down the knowledge that would take away their youthful innocence as it had done for Anthony as well? He felt like an abonomibal creature for even thinking about it twice.

One in particular, suggested to be more curious than the others. Y/N, her name was. Her curiosity stood out like a sore thumb, perhaps like a lightning rod in a thunderstorm. He couldn’t help but to wonder at how she seemed so upbeat despite the dark and grim reality that faced her angel of a soul. She didn’t ought to know the truth. Each time Anthony called for her, the name rolling off her tongue with gilded ease. These times, unlike others, a gentle plea was slowly woven upon his voice that could speak no more as he edged her away from the chaos with a simple “Get away from there.” or “Come over here, Y/N.” In these instances, he always sounded so diminished that Benedict would end up swooping in and picking her up for some other sort of entertainment that was not so utterly upsetting.

This night couldn't be any different.

The thunderclap erupted like a cannon shot in the wild—a deep, profound, and resonant roar that rattled the air around them, the windows shuddering with every harsh punch of wind. It was, perhaps, a night of sorrows. As the rain splattered upon the house as if it were a hose, the wind howling in the near distance. Anthony swears for a beat that he can faintly hear the rain-shooken birds finding solace in their chimney. He wishes that he were a bird; at least he would be able to have some place to find tranquility that was not just the dreadful drag of the house, each lamenting moment drowning all the cheeriness that once stood in this very place.

Anthony taps his quill absently upon the polished wood of his late father's table, the designs that were so intricate, swirling under his fingers like echoes of the past that he could no longer reach but yearned for. It must’ve taken months upon months to create it. He found enjoyment in running his sullen fingertips around the smoothness of the edges, a contrast to the jagged edges that traced along his heart. Anything that wasn’t entirely dejectful felt like a cruel mockery of how he felt.

It was late—far too late for anyone in the house to be up, him included. And yet, Anthony couldn’t find it in himself to indulge in the luxury of being able to forget it all, even for a few fleeting moments. He had tried, laying upon his father's old bed in his old room, which smelled all too much like him, enveloping his entire being. A bittersweet waiver of worn fabric and a mixture of odd colognes and papers that had been burnt from days ago. It was haunting in a way that Anthony couldn’t quite place, as if his father were still next to him—an unseen presence, watching his every move. Every time he squinted his eyes shut, the image of his father in the garden flooded his mind, lying so freakishly still. It coursed through his thoughts. He had been well surrounded by vibrant blooms of the spring-induced flowers, which seemed much too cheerful under the circumstances, and Anthony disantely thinks if those were the flowers to be used for the funeral.

Those were no means to sleep, slipping away like sand through his fingers.

He isn’t quite sure why he slips into his study rather than any other place for some sort of solitude. Anywhere would’ve been far better than his father's study; nonetheless, he finds himself sitting in the very same chair his father once sat in. Would he be proud? The words ring into his mind, digging as if it were like a tattoo within his brain. He had thought about it a select number of times over the course of a couple of days, yet the question remains unsolved. Anthony respected his father more than anyone else in his life, and putting words into his mouth that he could not say only made him feel bitter rather than better.

The silence is deafening—as if all of a sudden, the thoughts and ringing that took up his every moment had just chosen to dissapear. A harsh push back into reality is what Anthony would’ve guessed. 

Tap

Anthony furrows his eyebrows, knitting together to crease over his squinted eyes. The new, unfamiliar sound is something that he briefly wonders. He strains to listen for any hint of noise beyond the relentless screeching of the wind and the staccato rhythm of rain pellets up against the window, each drop intensifying as time dragged on. When there is nothing to hear to follow up with his thoughts, enveloping him in a wooful silence, Anthony, for a chilling interval, genuinely believes that he might be going insane. As far as-

Thump, thump.

He could no longer deny the truth that it was in fact, not his mere imagination. Anthony was more certain than the flourishing green of the grass outside the house that the sound echoing through the darkness was real and not just a byproduct of his sleepless night or the weight of horrors from the days that lay behind him pressing down upon his consciousness. He stands up willfully, feet hitting the floor with a soft thud that was met with a creak reverberating from the old wood panels. The candle that he had lit for comfort wavers precariously, the flame teetering on the edge of extinction from the sudden movement. It is no longer than a mere count of seconds before the light flickered back to light, casting an ominous glow throughout the room.

“Hello?” 

Anthony was a bit ashamed to admit it, but his words wobbeled as he spoke. A mirror reflection of how he truly felt. He drew in a deep, shuddering breath to steady and ground himself to the so little he had. The silence that he was met with was perhaps even more unnerving than before—not even a sinned whisper to break the heavy stillness.

“Who’s there?” He proclaims, this time louder, his voice firming itself as the time passed by cautiously slowly, like it was moving through sticky molasses. Anthony is a moment's reach away from venturing out of his study and investigating for himself, curiousity gnawing at him. It was soon deemed unnecessary when a familiar little head popped up from the right frame of the heavy wooden door, wild tufts of hair jutting out from all directions in a way that resembled . He can’t help but to let out a huff of relief when he notices that it is only Y/N and that he was, in fact, not crazy.

Relief then morphs into confusion within a snap of a finger. His eyebrows are met together again, except this time, not from any sort of paralyzing fear but in question. “Y/N, pray tell, what brings you out of bed at this unearthly hour?” Anthony is quick to step away from his desk, taking 3 large steps towards the younger sibling, looking down upon the half-shamed, half-curious look that had crossed her face.

He shook his head yet, bent down far enough to pick the little girl into her arms. She doesn’t protest, instead, nestling herself into his bigger body as if she were seeking some sort of comfort that Anthony could not find in himself to give. He had never been the best at offering solace to other people, nor himself, and especially not now, when his own heart felt too dim and restless to share.

“I couldn’t sleep.” She mumbles, the words lost into the warm crook of Anthony’s neck. He sets the little girl onto one of the chairs that had been meticulously placed in front of the tidied desk. As he stands, his gaze drifts upward to the Renaissance painting hanging on the wall, overlooking the study—an eye-striking masterpiece from an era long before either of them had taken their first breaths. In truth, Anthony wasn’t quite sure how they even managed to get their hands on such an exquisite masterpiece, but it had been his father's favorite painting, so he didn’t dare ask. Every time he turned to face it, the vibrant colors and intricate details felt like a worn ghost from the past, fluttering memories that stung with longing. The image reminded him far too vividly of his father, pulling him into a clouded reverie that soured his mood.

Anthony’s lips are pulled into a drifted frown, eyes gazing over to the uncurtained window where darkness stared back at him, reverberating how the moment felt of. He unknowingly presses his fingers up against his hair, as if he were to adjust how it looked, although he never quite cared for how his hair stood. Is it the storm that troubles you?” He questions meticulously, knowing how fidgety Y/N got during those periods of weather; she never seemed to be a big fan nor curious of it, rather burying herself into a bundle of blankets in pillows. “You have nothing to fear from it.” 

The girl tilts her head to one side, as if she were pondering her answer. There is a brief moment before she slowly shakes her head to the side. “A bit, I suppose.” She mumbles, her fingers playing with the hem of her nightgown, the silk fabric one that was cooling rather than heating her up. She always preferred the material. “But…” 

His eyebrow arches in surprise at the answer, a rumble of perplexity stirring inside of him as he pondered what could be bothering her at this time of night. “Then what might it be if it is not the storm?” his tone softening as he addressed his younger sister, the usual edge in his voice fading into something gentler than usual.

“I…” She lets out a soft exhale, as though she were afraid of saying it aloud to Anthony. It struck him as odd, as well; Y/N was always more open towards him than any of his siblings, although he never understood why. He never brought it up in conversation, simply accepting her willingness to share with him. “I was thinking of father.”

The words spill out hesitantly, and Y/N looks up at her brother in a way that he could only describe as ashamed, though it was nothing to be ashamed of. Anthony’s breath catches into his throat, a reflex that had become all too familiar in recent days. He runs a hand over his face, appearing more dismayed than ever. “Whatever for?” He asks cautiously, unable to help the bittersweet modulation that came along with the sentence.

Y/N looked down, legs swinging over the edge of the seat, the motion that was so kid-like, reminding Anthony of the innocence of his little sister, how he needed to protect her from the cruelty of the world. “I miss him.” She finally says, though not confidently as she usually had been, as though she had chosen her words carefully, placed diligently. “Where is he?”

Where is he?

The words chime in his head persistently, the sensation of a dagger being strung into his heart. Anthony swallows the hardening lump in his throat. He had been able to answer questions and answer to orders his entire life, and yet– this simple question, was enough for him to falter in his step. He could not just simply tell her, Oh yes, our father. He is dead. Because, well, she was a child, and at her young age, Anthony would not know of what death was. It was the furthest thing possible from what he would’ve thought of, and yet, this was Y/N’s truth. She had to face the ridicule of death, not even knowing what it was than a melancholic goodbye.

“He-” The word floundered in his mouth, unable to correlate the thoughts in his brain to the words coming out of his own mouth. “He’s…” 

“Is he dead?”

Anthony almost chokes out a laugh, because what the fuck? Where did she learn of such? She was still so young; he didn’t get it. He was sure neither Colin nor Benedict would directly say it towards her, and Daphne wouldn’t have the heart to do so. None of the other children had much of a clue of what was going on, so it could not have been them either. “Y/N, I-” And yet, he is still unable to speak. He doesn’t know if it is because of the absurdity of the conversation, or if it really is the sleep deprivation messing with him, and if he’s being honest, Anthony doesn’t have it in him to care for the reason. Not when he had... this to worry about now.

“He is dead, isn’t he?” He’s unable to refrain from noticing the quiver in her lip as she spoke, albeit the even cadence. 

Anthony dips his head down, eyes gluing to the floor because he’s unable to look his sister in the eyes. Unable to break the news and her heart at all the same time. She loved Edmund dearly; she loved everyone dearly, and that was her problem. Letting go was always the hard part, for even just a couple of moments—how could she let go for an eternity? Y/N is far from stupid though, and she’s quick to get the message. She too, looks away, this time to somewhere that Anthony can’t quite place. Her eyes are distant, as if she were not there presently, and it scared him a great deal.

“Are you sad?” Y/N inquired, the question so basic yet so meaningful for Anthony, and he can feel the strings tugging at his heart. It’s almost laughable to him; a young child who barely understood the severity of the situation, was the first one to ask him about how he felt. Not his siblings, not the maids, not the butlers, and certainly not his mother. No one doubted him, and while Anthony knew his family cared for him deeply, it underwent as if no one really did. 

“I suppose I am, yes.” He answers honestly, given that he was tired of lying to himself and others. And well, he was sure Y/N would figure it out eventually. 

“It’s okay to be sad.” She whispers gently, her head inclining to the left, and then up to meet Anthony’s gaze. For a brief period of a second, he wonders if she could read him that well. If she could see right through his facade, and knew what he needed to hear to the brink. He refused to acknowledge it, but he was aware that the words had some sort of effect on him. In a manner that had hardly ever moved him before. 

He can do nothing but nod slowly, hesitant to speak upon the matter at hand. "You truly ought to be sleeping, Y/N.” Anthony breathes out, pressing his hand against his subdued jawline, an uneven beard already beginning to form from the days he hadn’t shaved. It was the only response he could come up with, the only response he could say without directly speaking on the matter. 

Y/N bounces up, and off of the chair, landing on her two feet that were padded with socks that went up to her knees. Her favorite pair that she refused to let go of despite the many holes that had broken into the fabric. She stood much shorter than Anthony, still in the very early stages of growth. “Maybe you would be less sad if you talked.” She states woefully, her eyes holding only the sincerest of truths to the point where even Anthony knew that she did not lie. 

“I’ll be okay.” Is his respondance, his words cutting sharp into the heavy air that had filled the room. Because deep down, Anthony knows that his sister is partially right, that he truly needed to talk to someone. The only problem that he now faced was his honor and the fighting fact that he had no one to talk to. “It will all be okay.”

It’s hard for him to even believe his own words. He hadn’t had a clue how Y/N, in all her young wisdom and pureness, could believe him either. In spite of what he thinks, she only agrees with him, already beginning to walk towards the door again, this time with Anthony trailing a meter behind her. He knows well enough to at least tuck her into bed this time, to make sure that she gets some proper rest for the day ahead, although there is hardly anything to do other than funeral planning, which she had no part in.

Before she managed to walk out, Anthony ruffled his sister's hair in affection, something they now both lacked tremendously. He wished upon those days when he was Y/N’s age, able to curl up in his mother's lap, or next to his father in his study, where none of these adult problems affected him and it was just pure bliss. A perception which he could no longer relish in at this point in time. 

“Will we talk tomorrow?” Y/N promptly solicits, something that Anthony could finally answer that wouldn’t hurt him.

“I’m sure of it.” Perhaps for the first time in days, it’s a truthful answer in what he regarded. He says it, not as an entire answer, but as a promise for himself, because although he could be the mouthful of things that his brothers had constantly reminded him about, he never truly broke his promises for those he loved. And as Anthony slips his way out of Y/N’s, his sister falling into a light slumber that he’s sure will keep her down for a number of hours at least. Her eyes fluttered with the weight of sleep, her breathing steadying as the rainfall began to die down during the late night turning into early morning. 

God, maybe he could finally get some much needed sleep.

[impossible-rat-babies]

I just. love the funny intersection eyrie has between DRK and WAR it just tickles my fancy

[wrioluvr]

subby vampire x dom male reader pt 2 pt 1

thank u guys for liking kliff!! he's so baby. felt kinda mean and thought about a scenario where reader is like, a regular monster fucker and poor kliff finds out he hooked up with another vampire and gets super jealous teehee... but this is wholesome tho.

content: reader is kind of a player, blowjob (reader receiving), reader loves tormenting the poor old man, more plot-focused than pure smut

★ ; 🦇🍷. . ♱

after visiting kliff at his crumbling manor a few more times, you decided that you were getting tired of making the trip out into the woods everytime, and invited him over to your house instead, an invitation he eagerly accepted. though he kept a calm composure, inwardly, his thoughts were running wild - he would finally be able to bask in a whole home full of your scent.... maybe even steal a few small trinkets he could toy with whenever he felt lonely... or... or even get a feel of your bed, where he fantasised about waking up next to you and spending the rest of his days as your faithful househusband. oh, how delightful.

"thank you ever so much for allowing me to enter your abode. i am most honoured." thanking you profusely, he elegantly sat down on your sofa, only to immediately scrunch up his face in discomfort. you stared at him, puzzled. "what's wrong? you don't like my home?"

"no, no... it's not that... it's just that... this scent is so familiar. in an unnverving way..." he mumbled, talking to himself. suddenly, a look of recognition, mixed with horror, dawned on his face. "correct me if i'm wrong, but... there's not a chance you've had another vampire over.... is there?"

"oh! i forgot you vampires have a heightened sense of smell. yeah, i hooked up with another vampire like, 3 weeks ago." you said nonchantly, like it was the most insignificant thing ever. kliff merely gaped at you, aghast at your casualness. "so... so... i'm not your first vampire relationship?" he asked meekly, almost like he was afraid of the answer.

"well, yes. i dated, hmm...." you start to list them on your fingers. "two vampires, one werewolf, one merman... oh, right, and one evil ass fairy. he was mean."

poor kliff looked like he was about to collapse, his hand clutching his chest dramatically. thankfully he was sitting down, otherwise he would have fallen over. "where on earth do you even find these creatures?"

"i get around."

"and you never thought to mention this?!"

"i mean, i didn't really think it was important..."

kliff sighed, suddenly feeling a little insecure at his complete lack of romantic experience in contrast to your many flings. "may i at least see what your past vampire suitors looked like?" he didn't want to admit it, but he was suddenly feeling very clingy, even more than usual. he had to be better than all your exes! so that you wouldn't leave him like you left them!

"sure. here you go." you pull out your phone and show him a picture, only for kliff to gasp loudly and clutch his chest even tighter. what a drama queen.

"HIM."

"you know him??"

"that little whore was going around sleeping with every man and woman in town a hundred years ago! i cannot BELIEVE he is still so promiscuous in this day and age. he even seduced you..."

"woah! language, kliff!"

kliff stops mid-ramble and clears his throat in embarassment. "my apologies. this is most uncouth of me. i do not know why i am getting so frustrated over this. the two of you are not seeing each other anymore, correct?"

"yes. you're the only one i'm seeing right now."

"and, if i may be so bold to inquire,,,, how was he like as a lover?"

"he was kinda annoying." kilff let a smirk escape his lips upon hearing this. "i knew it-" "the head was good though."

"what- what does 'head' mean?"

"he sucked my dick." you say bluntly.

"oh, good heavens."

"don't be a prude! wait... kliff, are you jealous of him?"

"i most certainly am not."

"at your big age? please be serious." you tease, amused at how possessive he suddenly got.

"do NOT make fun of me. i said i'm not." the pout adorning his face said otherwise.

kliff barely noticed it, but slowly he inched closer and closer to you, eyes scanning your neck as he frantically searched for bite marks.

"did he bite you anywhere? did it hurt? you must know, i would never even consider drinking from you, right?" he took your hand, eyes searching desperately for validation, any form of praise that indicated you thought he was the better vampire.

you rolled your eyes. "jeez, kliff. i didn't take you for the possessive type. don't worry, none of my previous vampire lovers have drunk from me."

that did little to reassure him, since he was on the same page. "then... then... i must be better at this 'head' thing!" he declares, face full of misplaced determination. you almost double over laughing.

"it's not a competition! my god, you're so unserious."

"it does not matter to me! i must be better than that lustful shame of a vampire at every aspect. especially since we are of the same species."

"okay, okay. calm down. i'll let you try."

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

"just let me know you can't breathe or whatever. i'll guide you through your first time, yeah?" kliff nods, a blush extremely prominent on his undead features as he knelt between your thighs. he quite enjoyed this... submissive position.

"also- watch the fangs." the authoritative, yet gentle tone of your voice sent shivers down his spine.

he himself could be considered a monster, but he paled in comparison to the monster that sprung out of your pants once he clumsily undid the zipper. kliff gasped, a look of pure lust and nervousness written all over his expression as your slightly erect cock hovered over his face.

"so... basically... you just put it inside your mouth, then start sucking it. easy enough, right? come on, don't tell me you've never heard of a blowjob in your entire existence."

"of course i have..... i admit, i own quite a bit of... erotic fiction." he mumbles, eyes still on your cock, cheeks growing redder by the second. "but, goodness, it's so different seeing a real phallus up close. especially one of your size."

"phallus??? just say cock."

"mhm...." he hesitates, unsure where to even begin. flustered, he looks up imploringly, silently begging for you to guide him.

you chuckle at his frozen state, completely at a loss on what to do. "so needy. i'll help you."

tenderly, you run a hand through his soft hair, applying just a little bit of power to tug his head forward, guiding him to your tip. obediently, he opened his mouth, taking the shaft inside. it was warm, his rough tongue grazing over your tip, causing you to grip his hair a little tighter. kliff let out a masochistic moan in response. slowly, he ventured further down your length, but unable to reach the base without gagging. he looked up at you with apologetic eyes, but you squeezed his shoulder to let him know he was doing well. "good job, kliff. you're a natural." spurred on by your praise, kliff found a lewd rhythm, mouth bobbing up and down in a continuous passionate attempt to make you feel good.

your small grunts of pleasure kept him going. panting, you ask, "you sure you've never done this before, kliff? you're so good." he frantically shakes his head, mouth still full of cock, as if the idea that he engaged in such intimate acts with anyone but you was horrifying. he was loyal like that. it was intoxicating, the head only vampires could provide - fangs lightly grazing your cock's sensitive areas, the slight thrill unmatched. merman head was sloppy, werewolf head was rough, but vampire head was a little dangerous. you liked that.

soon enough, you were about to cum. you warned him, patting his shoulder twice, he vigorously nodded, giving you permission to cum inside his mouth. he'd only ever been used to having blood in his mouth, so having your cum inside instead was a new experience. but he liked it. maybe a little too much, as he swallowed it so enthusiastically. you gazed upon him affectionately, finding his virgin excitement over such lewd matters endearing.

"how was i?" the breathless question hung in the air, a reminder of the atmosphere thick with your intertwined tension.

cupping his face with one hand, the other stroking his hair soothingly, you muttered the words he most wanted to hear. "you were better than him."

kliff jumps into your arms, nuzzling his face into your shoulder. "thank you. you're the absolute best." he's so content to spend the rest of his days with you. treat him with care, yeah?

>ᵥᵥ< 💘

tags: @4eaever @szapizzapanda @flyingsquids @vampmasc

omg i'm so happy with this one, one of my fav writings i've ever done so far. i felt like i characterised kliff and captured their dynamic quite well here hehehe

[sadnymi]

Lovefool p2

[part one] [Mattheo riddle x reader]

Summary: Being the only girl in the group, and now stuck in the middle of nowhere with them, you found myself in a tricky situation. You had to share rooms, and Mattheo, leaving no room for negotiation, insisted that you would share with him. The problem was, there was only one bed. From uncovering feelings to heartbreak, it was a night you wouldn't forget.

Warning: angst,fluff,strong language, hints of smut .

Words:5,5k + Bonus scene.

When we arrived back home, I quickly said goodbye to the boys, avoiding eye contact with all of them. I couldn't bear to see their pity or confusion. I just wanted to escape to the solitude of my room. Once inside, I shut the door and leaned against it, finally allowing myself to break down. Tears streamed down my face as I slid to the floor, clutching my knees to my chest.

There was only one week left before returning to Hogwarts, and I knew I would have to face them—most of all, Mattheo. The thought of seeing him again made my stomach churn. During that week, I waited for him to reach out, to say something, anything, that would make sense of what happened. But he didn’t. The silence from him was deafening, and it drove me insane.

All the other boys sent me messages as usual. Even Blaise, who had been so harsh, reached out, perhaps feeling guilty for his words. But not Mattheo. He ghosted me completely, and the pain was unbearable. Every time my phone buzzed, my heart would leap with hope, only to be crushed when it wasn’t him.

I spent days replaying our time together in my mind, trying to understand what went wrong. Had I misread everything? Was I just another conquest to him? The questions tormented me, and the lack of answers made it worse.

I remember that night vividly. The way he looked at me, the tenderness in his touch, the passion in his kisses—it all felt so real. But now, it seemed like a cruel illusion, a trick my heart played on me.

I tried to distract myself by throwing myself into reading, but every word I read seemed to blur into the memory of him. I’d catch myself staring at the same page for hours, lost in thoughts of his hands on my skin, his whispered words.

By the middle of the week, the weight of his absence was unbearable. I lay in bed, clutching my phone, scrolling through old messages, and torturing myself with his silence. The boys' messages were kind and casual, but they couldn't fill the void Mattheo left.

Enzo’s messages were the most frequent, always checking in on me, making sure I was okay. “Hey, how are you holding up?” he’d text, and I’d force myself to respond with a lie. “I’m fine, thanks,” I’d write back, even though I was anything but fine.

Blaise's messages were surprisingly considerate. “Sorry about the other day. Didn’t mean to upset you,” he’d said. I couldn’t bring myself to be angry with him; he had only voiced what I feared was true.

But Mattheo? Nothing. No calls, no texts, no attempts to explain or apologize. It felt like he had erased me from his life completely.

The pain was relentless, gnawing at me day and night. I felt hollow, like a shell of the person I had been before. I missed his voice, his laughter, the way he made me feel seen and cherished. I missed him so much it hurt to breathe.

The final straw came the night before we were due to return to Hogwarts. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, and realized I couldn’t go on like this. I needed to confront him, to demand answers. I couldn’t start the new school year with this weight on my shoulders. I had to face him, even if it meant shattering my heart all over again.

I took a deep breath and picked up my phone, my fingers trembling as I typed out a message. “Mattheo, we need to talk. Please.” I hit send and waited, my heart pounding in my chest. Minutes felt like hours as I watched the screen, praying for a response.

But none came. The silence stretched on, suffocating me, and I knew that no matter what happened, I had to find a way to move forward. With or without him.

I boarded the train with a heavy heart, my eyes scanning the crowded platform. As soon as I found Enzo, I slid into the seat next to him, trying to muster a smile.

“Hi,” I said, glancing briefly at Mattheo, who was sitting across from us.

“Hey,” Mattheo replied, his voice neutral, his gaze avoiding mine.

Theo soon returned, his eyes lighting up when he saw me. “How have you been?” he asked.

“I’ve been okay,” I lied, forcing another smile. Before I could say more, Draco and Blaise joined us, making the compartment feel even more cramped and awkward.

“Hi,” Draco said, his voice soft, his eyes flicking between me and Mattheo. Blaise offered a similar greeting, his usual bravado toned down, as if he sensed the tension.

I tried to lose myself in my book, Emma another Jane Austen novel, hoping it would distract me from the unbearable atmosphere. But I could feel Mattheo’s eyes on me, and each glance was like a dagger to my heart. His stare was intense, and it made concentrating impossible.

“I’m going to say hi to Pansy,” I announced suddenly, grabbing my bag and book. I left the compartment quickly, not giving anyone a chance to respond.

As I walked down the corridor, I realized I couldn’t face Pansy either. She would ask questions, and I had no answers. I turned a corner, only to overhear a group of girls talking animatedly about their exploits.

“Enzo is amazing,” one girl said, giggling. “Blaise too, though he’s a bit too cocky for my taste.”

“Oh, Theo is a sweetheart,” another girl chimed in. “But Mattheo... God, he’s something else.”

My ears pricked up at his name, and I leaned closer, my heart pounding.

“What’s it like with Mattheo?” a third girl asked, her voice dripping with curiosity.

“He’s rough, but in a good way,” the first girl said, her voice lowering conspiratorially. “He barely looked at me, but I didn’t mind. It felt so good. He didn’t kiss me, though, just... did his thing and left.”

My heart pounded as I continued to listen, hiding behind the corner.

"God, I'd do anything to sleep with Mattheo again," the first girl said, her voice filled with a mix of longing and frustration. "But he doesn't sleep with the same girl twice."

"Yeah, he's got a reputation for that," another girl chimed in. "And yet, somehow, they all are so different with her you know??," she said, her tone dripping with disdain.

" Y/N right? What's so special about her anyway?" a third girl asked, her voice filled with venom.

"She's always hanging around them, like she's one of them. I can't understand how she managed to get in their group."

"I bet they all fucked her at some point," the first girl said, her voice low and conspiratorial. "Do you think they share her? She's their slut for sure."

"I know right?," another girl agreed, her laughter harsh and cruel. "I mean, how else would she keep their attention? She must be really good in bed."

"Or maybe she just does whatever they want," the third girl added. "So pathetic, really. Always trying to act like she's so special. I bet she’s just a desperate little slut."

My heart pounded as I continued to listen, hiding behind the corner.

"Yeah, spreads her legs for any of them at the drop of a hat," another girl sneered. "She's probably been passed around like a party favor."

"And they act so protective of her," the first girl said with a bitter laugh. "I can't imagine why. What do they see in her?"

"They must be playing some kind of game," the third girl suggested. "Maybe seeing who can screw her over the most."

My heart beat faster and faster, each cruel word piercing deeper. Tears blurred my vision as I stepped away from the corner, desperate to escape their venomous gossip.

The world around me seemed to blur as I walked faster, not caring where I was going, just needing to get away. I collided with a strong chest, and looking up through my tears, I saw Mattheo.

"Why are you crying? “ His voice was sharper than a knife

“Who did this to you?" He asked once more when I didn’t answer his hands gently cupped my face, his thumbs wiping away my tears.

I pulled away, my voice shaking. "I'm not talking to you," I said, the tears flowing freely. I turned to leave, but he grabbed my hand.

"Stop it. Let me go," I demanded, trying to pull free from his grip.

"Not unless I know what got you crying like that," he insisted, his eyes filled with the same loving and caring expression that had once made my heart soar.

I looked away, the pain and confusion overwhelming me. "Just go and ignore me like you have been for the past week, or whatever," I said, my voice bitter. "Pretend I don't exist. You're good at that."

His face fell, looking speechless for a moment. I didn’t wait for him to respond. I pulled away, breaking into a run until I found an empty compartment far away from everyone. I slammed the door shut and collapsed onto the seat, sobbing uncontrollably.

The cruel words of the girls echoed in my mind, mingling with the confusion and heartbreak of Mattheo's unexpected concern. Why did he have to care now, after leaving me in silence for a week?

As the train rumbled on, I curled up on the seat, hugging my knees to my chest. The weight of everything pressed down on me, and I felt utterly alone. I had no answers, only questions that seemed to multiply with each passing moment. Why had he treated me so tenderly, only to disappear? And why did it hurt so much to see that same tenderness now, when I was already so broken?

Why had Mattheo been so different with me? Cause I’m pretty sure I wasn’t imagining that night and from what I heard from those girls it seems like he’s a different person from the one they are talking about .

I had a long time trying to explain to the boys why I suddenly disappeared and never returned. They didn’t look convinced, and their probing questions made it clear they weren’t buying my excuses.

Days passed, and I tried to put some space between me and all of them. It wasn’t easy. Draco cornered me in the common room one evening, his eyes filled with concern. "Something happened," he said, his voice low and insistent. "Tell me what it is."

"I'm fine, Draco. It's just family drama," I lied, my stomach twisting with guilt.

"You’ve been skipping meals and acting different," Theo added, joining us with a frown. "This isn’t like you."

"I told you, it’s family stuff," I insisted, hating how naked I felt under their scrutiny. It was like they could see right through my facade.

"Just...let us help," Draco pleaded, but I shook my head, turning away from their worried gazes.

Over the next few days, I was in a bit of a slump. Not only did I skip meals, but I also skipped more classes than usual. If I could have, I would have skipped the whole week, but unfortunately, that wasn't an option.

I grabbed my bag and walked through the courtyard, I overheard a girl talking loudly to her friends. "She's such a slut," she sneered, and my steps faltered. "I bet she's been with every Slytherin boy."

I stopped, my blood boiling. I turned around and marched over to her, my fists clenched. "What did you say?"

The girl looked taken aback for a moment but quickly recovered. "I said you're a slut. Everyone knows it."

The rage bubbling inside me reached a boiling point. "You think you know me? You think you can talk about me like that? Here’s a newsflash for you: I don’t need your approval or your pathetic opinions.“

Before she could respond, a boy next to her smirked. “Yeah, I’d love to fuck you just like the whole Slytherin boys have. Bet you’d like that, huh?”

I stepped closer, my fists clenched at my sides. "Why don’t you come a bit closer and say that to my face?" I said, my voice trembling with rage.

The crowd that had gathered around us watched with wide eyes and open mouths. "What's wrong?" the girl taunted. "Truth hurts?"

“Do you think it makes you look strong, demeaning someone you don’t even know? Do you think you’re better than me because you can spread lies and gossip? You’re pathetic. You think I care about what you say? The only thing that matters is that I know the truth, and that scares you, doesn’t it? Because deep down, you know you’ll never be anything more than a coward hiding behind cruel words.”

The girl, emboldened by the attention, added, "Your family must be so proud of you. What a disgrace."

"Shut your mouth," I said, stepping closer, my eyes burning with anger. "I don’t care what you think of me, but if you ever talk about my family again, you’ll regret it."

She looked a bit scared but tried to stand her ground. "Or what? You'll hit me? No wonder why your dad left,""

I saw red. I lunged at her, my fist raised, but strong arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me back. "Let go!" I yelled, struggling against the hold.

"Not her, not now, love," Mattheo's voice whispered in my ear, calming yet firm. He started to pull me away from the mess, his grip gentle but unyielding.

"Mattheo, let go of me," I insisted, trying to break free.

"Not until you calm down," he replied, his eyes full of concern. "I can't let you get into trouble over this."

He guided me into an empty hallway with a balcony, a secluded spot even the ghosts avoided. I was still shaking with rage, my breathing ragged. "Who do you think you are? Don’t touch me! Stay away!" I shouted, pushing at his chest.

"Just breathe, my love," he murmured, his hands cupping my face gently, thumbs stroking my cheeks. "Breathe with me."

His touch, his voice, started to pierce through the fog of anger. I took a shaky breath, then another, my heartbeat slowly steadying.

"Look at me," he said softly, tilting my chin up so our eyes met. "Every single one who talks bad about you is going to regret it. They’re going to wish they were dead before they ever said a word."

"Why do you act like this?" I demanded, my voice trembling. "You act like you care, like you—" I faltered, trying to find the right words. "Your mixed signals are driving me crazy! You pull me closer just to walk away after."

He looked pained, his eyes searching mine for understanding, but he said nothing.

"Say something!" I pleaded, tears welling up. "Anything!"

Still, he remained silent, and the silence cut deeper than any words ever could.

Footsteps echoed down the hallway, and the rest of the boys appeared. Blaise was the first to speak, his gaze flicking between me and Mattheo. "You okay?" he asked.

I nodded, trying to swallow the lump in my throat. "Yeah, I'm fine."

Theo stepped forward, his brow furrowed. "This happened before, didn't it?"

I took a deep breath, nodding again. "Yes."

Draco crossed his arms, his expression softening. "Well, that explains why you were acting distant. You should have told us."

"I didn't know what to say," I admitted, feeling exposed and vulnerable.

Enzo's voice was gentle as he asked, "What happened before?"

I glanced at Mattheo, who was watching me with an unreadable expression. I couldn't bear his eyes on me anymore. Looking back at Enzo, I said quietly, "It was on the train."

Their eyes widened as I recounted the overheard conversation, the cruel words that had been said about me, and how it had all culminated in the confrontation just now. Mattheo's gaze never left me, and I knew what he was thinking, but I couldn't deal with it anymore.

"I'm sorry," I said, my voice breaking. "I just... I need to go to my dorm. I'll see you all tomorrow."

Enzo stepped forward, his concern evident. "I'll walk you."

I nodded, unable to look at Mattheo as I turned to leave. Enzo fell into step beside me, his presence a small comfort amidst the chaos.

The next day, as I walked into class, I was met with an unexpected wave of greetings and offers of help.

"Hey, need any notes from yesterday?" asked one girl, her smile bright and friendly.

"I saved you a seat," another girl said, gesturing to the spot next to her.

"Do you need a quill? I've got an extra," someone else offered, holding out a shiny new quill.

I looked around, confused by the sudden change in behavior. These were the same people who had ignored me or worse, whispered behind my back just a day ago. Before I could process it, a group of girls approached, all smiles and compliments.

"Your hair looks amazing today," one of them said, her tone overly enthusiastic.

"Yeah, and your shoes are so cute!" another added.

"Thanks," I muttered, bewildered by their sudden interest.

Then, the girl from yesterday's confrontation appeared, looking hesitant. She took a deep breath and stepped closer. "I'm really sorry about what I said yesterday," she began, her voice shaky. "Please forgive me. I didn't mean any of it, and I feel terrible."

I stared at her, trying to make sense of this abrupt apology. "Why are you apologizing now?" I asked, suspicion creeping into my voice.

Before she could respond, I noticed him. The boy who had made that disgusting comment about me the day before. His arm was in a sling, supported by a wooden splint, and his face was a mess of blue and purple bruises. He had a black eye, swollen nearly shut.

"I, uh, fell down the stairs," he mumbled, not meeting my gaze.

I looked between the two of them, realization dawning. My stomach churned, and I felt the sudden urge to get out of there. Grabbing my things, I bolted from the classroom, not stopping until I was far from the castle. I found myself in a hidden garden, a place where I often went to think.

I sat down on the ground, trying to calm my racing heart and catch my breath. I wasn't dumb. I knew what had really happened. I knew who was behind the sudden wave of attention, the apologies, the broken bones. It wasn't hard to piece it together.

Mattheo.

But clarity seemed a distant dream. I leaned back against the tree, closing my eyes, and tried to find a moment of calm amidst the chaos Mattheo had left in his wake.

I stayed in the garden for what felt like hours, trying to find some semblance of peace amidst the turmoil. Eventually, I knew I would have to face him, to confront what had happened and what it meant. But for now, I just needed to breathe.

I felt someone approaching and sat beside me. I looked up and met Mattheo’s eyes. He was holding a book in his hand.

I felt someone approaching and sat up, my heart pounding. When I looked up, I met Mattheo’s eyes. He was holding a book in his hand.

"I—I got this for you," he said, his voice soft.

I glanced at the book, then back at him, and took it from his hand. It was Persuasion, another Jane Austen's novels. My heart beat even faster as I muttered a thank you. Then I noticed the blood on his hands, despite his clear attempts to wash it off.

He asked, "What were you reading on the train?"

I stared at him, incredulous. "You’re seriously asking me about my books while having blood on your hands? and probably terrorized the whole school before coming here!" I shouted.

He just smirked. "Are you insane, Mattheo? Seriously, what the hell?" I yelled again.

He raised his eyebrows, a hint of a smile on his lips. "I told you they were going to regret what they said yesterday, didn't I?"

"I can take care of myself. I don’t need your help," I snapped, trying to walk away, but he grabbed my hand, pulling me back until my back hit the tree.

"I know," he said.

I rolled my eyes and looked away, trapped between his hands on either side of my face and the tree behind me. His closeness was overwhelming.

"You’re insane," I muttered.

"Well, I need to talk to you, and you left me no other choice," he said, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

I chuckled sarcastically. "You kidding me? Because as much as I remember, you were the one who left after—" I stammered, my face turning red, unable to finish the sentence.

"Yes, my love, after what?" he asked, smiling even wider.

"After I went down on you? Or when I had my finger deep inside you?" he continued, his voice low and teasing. I put my hands over his mouth, desperate to stop him.

"Oh, Lord, stop," I said, my voice a whisper. He kissed my hand, sending a jolt through me, and I pulled it away quickly, my face burning even more.

"Don’t go shy on me now, love. I’m pretty sure I kissed more intimate parts," he said, leaning closer to whisper in my ear. "I've had your taste on my tongue for weeks."

I tried to hit him in the chest, but he grabbed both my hands with one hand, pinning them above my head.

“Listen,” he said, getting more serious. “Enzo told me about what Blaise said that day.”

I shook my head. “I don’t think I really want to know another tale about you with a girl in bed.”

“Another tale?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

I looked him in the eyes, my voice trembling with both anger and hurt. “I heard what that girl said on the train. About how good you were in bed, how you liked it rough, just did the job and left with no kisses. She wasn’t even complaining, Mattheo. She said she’d do anything to sleep with you again, but it’s too bad because you don’t sleep with the same girl twice."

“Did she now?” he said, smirking.

“Fuck you, Mattheo,” I said, trying to pull away, but his hold was too strong. “Fuck you so much. I get it. I was delusional to think it was more than a one-time thing for you because you don’t sleep with the same girl twice, you don’t—” My voice cracked, betraying my emotions.

"Did it look like a fucking one-time thing back then, Y/N?" he demanded, sharp and serious. I avoided his gaze, my anger and pain battling inside me.

"Answer," he insisted, his face inches from mine. I looked up at him, the intensity in his eyes making it hard to breathe.

"No," I admitted, my voice barely audible.

"Because it fucking wasn’t," he said. "It wasn’t a simple fuck. I was making love to you, and that freaked the shit out of me." The veins in his neck stood out as he spoke, his eyes blazing.

I blinked, trying to process his words. "So, yes," he continued, his voice lower but no less intense, "what the girl said was right. I’ve fucked other girls like that. Rough, fast, no strings attached. Just getting off and moving on. No kisses, no tenderness, just raw and dirty, didn’t look at them more than I had to.”

My breathing grew heavier as his words sank in.“So, does it look like that now?” he asked, his voice softer but still intense. I closed my eyes, overwhelmed.

“Fucking look at me Y/N,” he commanded, and I looked up at him, shaking my head.

“Every time I look at you, at those lips,” he whispered, his voice dropping lower, “all I can think about is how much I want to kiss you. How much I want to taste you. How much I want you in every way. It’s not just about fucking. It’s about you. Every part of you, that night... you were in my arms, and I managed to sleep. You have no idea how rare that is for me.”

His words sent a shiver down my spine, my body responding despite my confusion. I could feel the heat between us, the undeniable pull that had always been there.

I looked at him, standing there, rain-soaked and intense, and the tears kept falling from my eyes.

“And no, I don’t want you to be my friend,” he continued, his voice rising. “I want to hear you moaning my name. I want to have you, all of you. To kiss every inch of you. To make you smile, to see you laugh. To put your happiness above anything because nothing else matters. Nothing but you.”

His words were raw, cutting through the rain and my confusion. The sheer intensity of his confession left me breathless, my heart pounding in my chest. I could feel the pull, the magnetic force between us, stronger than ever.

“I’ve tried to stay away, to keep my distance,” he went on, his voice breaking slightly. “But every time I see you, it’s like a punch to the gut. I’m fighting a losing battle. I don’t just want you. I need you. In every way possible.”

I stood there, soaked and trembling, unable to speak. His words had stripped me bare, leaving me vulnerable and exposed. The rain continued to pour, a relentless backdrop to his declaration.

“So tell me, do you understand now?” he asked again, his voice softer.

I swallowed hard, my throat tight with emotion. The truth of his words was undeniable, resonating deep within me. I took a shaky breath, trying to steady myself, and met his gaze.

“Yes,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “I understand.”

He reached out, gently wiping the tears from my cheeks. “I will be so good to you,” he murmured, his thumb brushing my skin. “I would do anything for you. I fucked up, and I—”

I stood on my tiptoes and pressed my lips to his, cutting him off. For a moment, he was surprised and didn’t kissed me back, I pulled back, looking him in the eye. And as if a dam had broken, he wrapped his arms around me, pulling me closer.

He leaned down, capturing my mouth in a deep, hungry kiss. His lips were soft but insistent, demanding and giving all at once. I felt his hands on my waist, lifting me effortlessly. My legs wrapped around his hips as he held me against him, the kiss growing more passionate. The rain poured down, but it didn’t matter. Nothing else.

His tongue parted my lips, and I opened to him, the taste of him intoxicating. He kissed me with a fervor that made my head spin, his hands gripping my hips, pulling me tighter against him. I could feel the hard lines of his body, the heat between us almost unbearable.

"Wait," I managed to gasp, pulling back slightly. "The book, the rain—"

"I'll get you a new one," he promised, his voice fierce, breathing heavily against my lips. His fingers tangled in my hair, pulling gently until my face tilted up to meet his gaze. Then he kissed me again, more fiercely this time, as if he couldn’t get enough.

I melted into him, my hands clinging to his shoulders as he devoured me. His lips moved over mine with a raw, desperate need, and I responded with equal fervor. The world around us disappeared, the rain, the cold, everything fading away until there was only him, only us.

After what felt like an eternity, he pulled back, his forehead resting against mine. "Come with me," he murmured, his voice a soft plea. "Let's get out of this rain."

I nodded, my heart pounding in my chest, his hand slipping into mine, and we ran through the rain. We found shelter under a nearby awning, the sudden silence after the roar of the rain almost surreal.

He looked at me, his eyes dark and intense, and I felt my breath catch in my throat. "You're soaked," he said, his voice gentle, as he brushed a strand of wet hair from my face.

"So are you," I replied, a smile tugging at my lips.

"Well, we make a pretty pair then," he teased, his hand settling on my waist.

I laughed, the sound light and carefree, a stark contrast to the storm still raging around us. "We do, don't we?"

His gaze softened, a tender smile playing on his lips. "I've never seen anyone look so beautiful soaking wet."

I rolled my eyes playfully, running a hand through his wet hair. "You're just saying that because you want to kiss me again."

He grinned, leaning in closer. "Maybe. But it's true." His lips hovered over mine, the anticipation making my heart race. "And for the record, I do want to kiss you again. Very much."

"Then what are you waiting for?" I challenged, my voice barely more than a whisper.

He didn't need any more encouragement. His lips captured mine in a kiss that was both sweet and passionate, his hand tightening on my waist, pulling me flush against him. I could feel the warmth of his body through the wet fabric of our clothes, the contrast to the chill of the rain making my skin tingle.

As the kiss deepened, his free hand slid up my back, tangling in my hair. I moaned softly against his lips, the sound making him groan in response. He pulled back slightly, his breath hot against my skin.

"You have no idea what you do to me," he murmured, his voice rough with desire. "The things I want to do to you."

My cheeks flushed, and I looked down, feeling a mix of excitement and shyness. "Like what?" I asked, my voice trembling slightly.

He tilted my chin up, forcing me to meet his gaze. "I want to make you mine in every possible way," he said, his eyes burning with intensity. "I want to hear you scream my name, to see you come apart in my arms. I want to kiss every inch of you, to make you feel things you've never felt before."

His words sent a shiver down my spine, and I bit my lip, trying to suppress the blush that was spreading across my cheeks. "You're making me blush," I whispered, my voice shaky.

He smiled, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Good. I like it when you blush." He leaned in, his lips brushing my ear. "I like knowing I'm the one making you feel this way."

I closed my eyes, my heart pounding in my chest. His words, his touch, everything about him was overwhelming. "You're insufferable," I muttered, but there was no heat in my words, only affection.

He chuckled, the sound vibrating through me. "You love it," he teased, his lips pressing a soft kiss to my neck.

I sighed, my fingers threading through his hair as I leaned into his touch. "Yeah, I do," I admitted, my voice barely more than a whisper. "I really do."

He pulled back, his eyes searching mine. "Good," he said softly, his hand cupping my face. "Because I'm not letting you go."

I smiled, feeling a warmth spread through me that had nothing to do with the rain. "I don't want you to,".

"So, I really have done it in your Mr. Darcy way, haven't I?" he said, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "I was always jealous of him, when you talked about him like that you know?"

Before I could respond, his mouth was on my neck, kissing and sucking gently, then more insistently. I let out a soft moan, my fingers digging into his shoulders.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Perfect," he said, admiring his handiwork.

I laughed, breathless and flushed. "What was that for?"

He smirked, a wicked glint in his eyes. "It's for Blaise. Since he loves to ask so much."

I rolled my eyes, unable to suppress my smile. "You know he went on a date last night, right?"

"Did he now?" Mattheo replied, his fingers trailing down my arm. "I want everyone to know you're mine."

The possessiveness in his voice sent another thrill through me. "And what if I don't want to be claimed like some trophy?" I teased, raising an eyebrow.

He pulled me closer, his lips brushing against mine. "Then I'll just have to work harder to prove I deserve you," he whispered, his breath warm against my skin.

I smiled, feeling the warmth of his words seep into me. "You've already proven that," I said softly, kissing him again. "But I wouldn't mind seeing you try."

He laughed, the sound rich and joyful. "Challenge accepted."

We stood there for a while, wrapped in each other's arms, the rain a distant memory. His hands roamed over my back, his touch sending sparks of electricity through me. I leaned into him, feeling the steady beat of his heart against my chest, and knew that this was where I belonged.

"We should get inside," I said, glancing at the castle in the distance. "Before we catch our deaths."

"Right," he agreed, but made no move to let go. "But just one more kiss."

"Just one more," I echoed, leaning up to meet his lips again.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ Bonus scene ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

As we approached our usual spot, I saw Blaise, Enzo, Theo, Pansy and Draco already seated, with an unfamiliar girl sitting beside Blaise.

I caught Blaise’s curious gaze fixed on my neck. He raised an eyebrow, a knowing grin spreading across his face.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” Blaise said, his voice dripping with amusement. “Is that a hickey, Y/N?”

I felt my face heat up, and before I could muster a response, Mattheo leaned forward, his grin turning positively devilish.

“Yes, mate,” Mattheo said smoothly. “It is a hickey.”

Blaise’s eyes widened slightly before he broke into a laugh. “By whom, I wonder?”

Mattheo wrapped an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close. “By me, obviously,” he declared, his voice filled with pride. “Wanted to make sure everyone knows she’s mine.”

I blushed even deeper, but I couldn’t help the smile tugging at my lips.

Draco looked between us, his grin widening. “Well, it’s about time. I was starting to think you’d never make a move.”

Mattheo chuckled, his hand moving to rest possessively on my waist. “Trust me, I’ve made plenty of moves. Just decided it was time to make it official.”

He winked at me. “Just make sure he treats you right. If not, you know where to find me.”

Mattheo tightened his hold on me, his eyes flashing with a playful warning. “She won’t need to, because I’m going to treat her better than anyone else ever could.”

I laughed, the tension melting away as I leaned into Mattheo’s embrace. “I think I can handle him.”

"So," Pansy said, leaning forward with an impish grin. "Does this mean you're off the market, then?"

"Consider me taken," Mattheo said, his voice firm. "And very happily so."

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[jadeylovesmarvelxo]

If you are still taking Eddie requests- Reader is Eddies long time friend with his other DND buddies and shes helping him ask Krissy to the dance. When they are there and he thinks he should finally be happy something (someone) is missing and someone ( *aheam* dustin *aheam*) lets it slip how much Reader must be faking not feeling good to not see Eddie with another girl cuz shes in love with him

Angst with a happy ending

Request by anon ❤️

❤️

"Okay so remember what we talked about Eddie?" the two of you had been talking and practising this for a few weeks.

Prom was coming up and Eddie wanted to ask Chrissy to go with him. They had built up a friendship much to the shock of everyone at school.

Now you were Eddie's official wingwoman as he prepared to ask Chrissy to the dance.

"Yup, I'm nervous though princess. What if she turns me down? I mean this is Chrissy we are talking about" You swallow down the urge to cry and soothe him.

"You're amazing Eddie, why wouldn't she say yes?" Eddie's beaming smile melts your heart but you feel a sense of dread when Chrissy walks up to Eddie.

Eddie is sweet and charming as he asks Chrissy to go to prom. You wait with baited breath for her answer and hope that she says yes, Eddie would be crushed if she didn't.

She does say yes, of course she does and while there's a part of you that's elated for Eddie, there's a part of you that feels absolutely crushed because you were in love with your best friend and he would never feel the same way.

Maybe there was always a little part of you that held out hope that Eddie would notice you one day but that would never happen now that he was going to prom with Chrissy.

You could picture them going on dates and stuff after and you would hide how you felt about Eddie, bury down your feelings and be happy for him.

Because Eddie deserved all the happiness in the world.

❤️

Before you know it the week passes by quickly and prom is tonight. There's absolutely no way that you are subjecting yourself to the torment of watching Eddie and Chrissy all over each other, so when Eddie shows up at yours two hours before prom starts you fake being sick.

He takes one look at you cuddled up in bed and drops down on his knees beside your bed.

"Hey, aren't you getting ready for prom?" He looks so worried and you shake your head at his question.

"I'm not going to prom Eddie. I've been sick all night so I'm just going to stay in bed and watch crappy films, maybe sleep off whatever this illness is" his face falls and his big brown eyes gaze at you sorrow filled.

"It won't be the same without you sweetheart" He sounds so sad and you can't have that. There was no way he was going to spend prom upset because you weren't there.

"Don't be silly, you'll have the time of your life with Chrissy and when it's over I want to hear all about it okay?" the sadness is still in Eddie's gaze but he offers you a small smile as he gets up.

"You look really handsome Ed's" he does look gorgeous in black jeans, a black shirt and his leather jacket. He's tamed his hair and he's wearing eyeliner, the look is definitely working for him.

"Thanks, princess. I'll visit you tomorrow and tell you everything?" he promises you and as he leaves you finally let the tears that you have been holding back fall down your cheeks.

❤️

Eddie should feel ecstatic that he's at the dance with Chrissy but it feels like there's this empty space inside of his chest. You aren't at the dance, you're missing prom because you're sick and in turn Eddie is missing you.

Quite frankly prom was shit and the minute that Chrissy saw Jason the two of them had been making googly eyes at each other, Eddie could to bring himself to care.

Dustin who somehow managed to sneak into prom with Mike and Lucas frowns, Eddie doesn't know how he did it but the kid is a mini genius so he isn't surprised.

He's already had Harrington in his ear via the walkie talkie Dustin has demanding that Eddie look out for Dustin, Mike and Lucas. Yeah, like no shit. They are his sheeples and he's doing that anyway.

"Why are you so glum dude?" Mike whines as Eddie confiscates the punch mike has. Just in case some asshole has spiked it. He doesn't need three drunk 15 year olds to rein in.

"Duh it's because yn isn't here dumbass" Lucas rolls his eyes at how oblivious Mike is.

"You know she must be faking being sick because it would be hard watching you with Chrissy" Dustin pipes up. Wait what. Eddie stiffens as he wonders what Dustin means, does he mean what Eddie thinks he means?

"What are you talking about Henderson?" He demands and Dustin gapes at him like he's an idiot.

"You seriously don't know? She's in love with you dude" his face falls when Eddie's eyes widen in shock, "On shit. You really didn't know man?"

You were in love with him. You loved him and yet you had helped him ask out Chrissy, picked out his tux for him and we're supportive through all of this.

Shit shit shit.

He has to find you. Find out if Dustin is right and he has a sneaking suspicion that he is.

❤️

Eddie's standing in your room in his tuxedo and looking down at you nervously. At first, you think it's a dream because you've just woken up but when he moves closer to sit on the bed, he almost trips over your cat, Theo.

Okay, definitely not a dream then but what was he doing here? Why wasn't he having the time of his life with Chrissy?

"Uh Eds, proms still going on" Eddie smiles and settles on your bed.

"It was a dud anyway, Chrissy saw Jason and it's like there was no room for anyone else. It's fine though, turns out being with her wasn't like I thought it would be. She's just a friend, not my dream girl or whatever it is you think she is"

This surprises you because you and Eddie had practised asking Chrissy for a while and he seemed like he was crushing on her.

"I mean I did have a crush on her but going to the prom uh, that pretty much killed off any romantic feelings I have for her. I didn't have as much fun as I thought I would because my best friend wasn't there" you rub your eyes sleepily and Eddie's expression flickers with alarm.

"Have you been crying?" Shit. You should have known that Eddie would never miss the signs of you being upset.

"Just allergies" you lie and hope he buys it. He doesn't and sits beside you on the bed.

"Sweetheart don't lie to me. Look, Dustin said something tonight and I have to know if he's right or not. He said you were faking being sick because you're in love with me"

Oh no. This was not happening. This as Dustin said was a code red of epic proportions. Eddie is looking at you expectantly and your stomach churns with anxiety as you know you have to tell him the truth.

"He's right but I know that you don't feel the same and it's fine. I'll just deal with this and everything will be okay and not awkward between us" you say everything in a rush while trying hard not to give into your panic.

"You helped me with Chrissy all this time while being in love with me" his voice is full of shock and you shrug. "I'd do anything for you eds"

There's a tiny moment of silence and then he speaks again, "Dance with me princess" You're confused by his request but take his hand as he plays one of your CDs that you had been playing recently.

Madonna's Crazy for You starts and Eddie makes a face but keeps dancing. You giggle as Eddie twirls you around and holds you close to him for the slow parts.

"This feels so right you know, you being in my arms. I didn't feel like this with Chrissy. Jesus h Christ, It feels like I could be happy forever in this moment" Eddie murmurs and you peer at him, hoping he's saying what you think he's saying.

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?" you ask hopefully and hope that you haven't got this all wrong.

"I'm saying I want to be with you sweetheart, I'm a fool who took an insane amount of time to realise the girl of my dreams is you but I plan to make it up to you, if you give me the chance" he strokes your cheek and you place your hand over his.

"Kiss me" is your answer and Eddie enthusiastically obliges as his lips meet yours. It's an amazing kiss and you pull him closer to deepen it as the music plays in the background.

Not that the two of you noticed anything else, too wrapped up in each other to care.

❤️

[randomdragonfires]

Time Can't Stop Me Quite Like You Did | Part Three

Text Divider by @saradika-graphics

SUMMARY | The music blares and everyone’s out of it, but she turns and sees him. Detached from it all, Aemond stands on the balcony with a cigarette dangling lazily from his lips - watching the party unfold, watching her. The realization hits her as their eyes meet.

It’s him. It’s always been him. 

WARNINGS | 18+; SMUT; Angst; Non-Con and Violence Elements; Use of Substances and Alcohol; Complicated Relationship Dynamics.

PAIRINGS | Modern!Aemond Targaryen x Reader [MAIN]; Modern!Daeron Targaryen x Reader

WORD COUNT | 24.5k [I'M SORRY]

Check out the art created for this fic by the lovely, talented and so very kind @azperja here!  

A/N | By now it's obvious. I really don't beta read things -_-

She starts with small changes. 

She takes different routes around campus, chooses study spots on the opposite end of the library, and declines any parties where she might run into him. They’re usually in different parts of the campus anyway, so avoiding him should be easy. But it isn’t. They run in the same circles, and all her friends know him. She has to be mindful, strategic, careful not to linger in places where their paths might cross.

The one shared class they have is her biggest challenge. She slips into the lecture hall just as the professor begins, taking a seat in the back, hidden among the sea of students. She keeps her head down, her attention fixed on her notes, refusing to let her eyes wander to where she knows he’s sitting.

But she feels his presence, even without looking. She can sense the way his gaze lingers on her, like a weight pressing on her shoulders. It takes every ounce of her willpower to ignore it, to pretend she doesn’t notice, that she isn’t affected by it. She keeps her mouth shut, barely even acknowledging the professor, just so Aemond won’t have a reason to notice her.

But he’s seen her. She knows he has. And yet, he hasn’t made any attempt to approach her. He hasn’t tried to talk to her after class, hasn’t texted, hasn’t even sent a cryptic message through a mutual friend.

The silence from him is both a relief and a torment. On one hand, she’s grateful that he’s giving her space, that he’s not forcing her to confront what happened. But on the other, she can’t help but wonder why. Why hasn’t he reached out? Does he understand that she needs space, or is he simply indifferent?

The conflicting thoughts whirl around her mind, making it impossible to focus. She’s avoiding him, yet she can’t stop thinking about him. She wonders if he’s reached the same conclusion she has - that whatever happened between them was a mistake. Or maybe… maybe the girl he’s seeing is back, and he’s realized that what they had was a moment of weakness, a lapse in judgment that he regrets.

The thought makes her skin crawl.

It stings more than she’d like to admit. It’s ridiculous, she tells herself. She should be glad that he’s keeping his distance. It’s what she wanted, after all. But the doubts creep in, feeding the anxiety that’s been gnawing at her ever since that night.

Her finals don’t help either. The pressure to perform well, to maintain her grades, is a vice around her chest. She spends long hours in the library, her nose buried in textbooks, trying to drown out her thoughts with the relentless march of deadlines and exam schedules. But he is a constant presence at the back of her mind, and she cannot shake him off.

The final exam of the semester passes in a blur, each answer she scribbles onto the paper feeling more mechanical than the last. When it’s over, she walks out of the exam hall with a numbness that clings to her. The weight of the past weeks - the stress, the sleepless nights, the constant battle to keep her emotions in check - finally catches up with her.

She spends the entire day holed up in her flat, the blinds drawn to keep out the bright summer light. The silence is thick, the hours stretching on as she flits from one distraction to another. She tries reading, but the words blur together on the page. She turns on the laptop, but the shows barely hold her attention. Even scrolling through her phone feels empty.

As the afternoon fades into evening, a slow realization dawns on her: she can’t keep hiding forever. The exams were a temporary distraction, an excuse to avoid dealing with everything she’s been running from. But now that they’re over, she’s left with nothing but her thoughts - and the gnawing certainty that she can’t keep avoiding Aemond.

He’s likely finished his exams too, probably somewhere out there, living his life as if nothing’s changed. The thought brings a fresh wave of frustration. He hasn’t reached out to her, hasn’t made the slightest effort to clear the air.

It’s almost as if he’s content to let things remain as they are. But she's not.

The more she thinks about it, the more she realizes that waiting for him to make the first move is futile. He’s not going to reach out, not after the way she’s been avoiding him. And maybe he’s thinking the same thing - that she doesn’t want to see him, that she’s already moved on.

The idea of confronting him terrifies her, but the thought of continuing on like this - of pretending that she can keep dodging him forever - is worse. She can’t live in this self-imposed exile, trapped by her own fears and doubts. If there’s any hope of moving past this, of getting closure, she needs to take the first step.

With a deep breath, she makes up her mind. The decision brings a strange sense of calm, like a weight being lifted from her chest. She can’t predict how it will go, but at least she’ll be taking control, no longer at the mercy of her own avoidance.

The evening sky outside her window is turning shades of pink and orange, and for the first time in days, she feels a spark of determination. She’s not going home for the summer, and neither, as far as she knows, is he.

There’s no more running, no more hiding.

Her eyes settle on Aemond - sprawled across his bed, completely at ease, as if he’s got not a care in the world.

The familiar scent hits her first - weed, strong and pungent, curling through the air and invading her senses. She pauses at the threshold, taking it in, before leaning against the doorway.

He doesn’t notice her at first. He’s too absorbed in the book he’s holding, his fingers lazily turning a page. She can’t make out the title, but she recognizes the Valyrian text on the cover, the ancient script curling elegantly along the spine.

For a moment, she watches him. There’s a strange, almost surreal quality to the scene - like she’s an outsider looking in on his life. His face is calm, his expression softened in the dim light, but there’s a tension in his posture, a quiet restlessness that she can’t quite place.

“So this is what you do when you’re high? Read Valyrian books?”

“They’re interesting,” he replies, his voice casual, detached. He doesn’t look at her, his eye still roving over the page, words spilling out as if she wasn’t there. Almost as if they hadn’t been icing each other out for weeks.

She doesn’t know what to say. The weight of their silence presses heavily down on her chest. She hesitates, her mind racing, but before she can form a coherent thought, he gestures toward her, a lazy wave of his hand as he adjusts himself on the bed.

“Come here.”

It’s not a request; it’s a command, spoken with the kind of casual authority that’s so inherently him. She swallows hard, the tension in her stomach coiling tighter. Part of her wants to resist, to stay rooted in place, but there’s another part of her - smaller, more vulnerable - that aches for the familiarity of being close to him again.

She pushes off the doorway, her steps slow and hesitant as she crosses the room. The air feels warmer near him, the scent of weed and smoke mingling with the faint smell of his cologne, a combination that’s both comforting and disorienting. When she reaches the bed, she pauses, unsure of what to do, where to sit, what to say.

Aemond looks up at her then, his gaze locking onto hers. There’s something different in his eye now, something softer, more aware. It’s like he’s really seeing her for the first time since she walked in.

He nods and she gives in, sitting down beside him, the mattress dipping under her weight. There’s a tension between them, a fragile thread that could snap at any moment, but for now, it holds.

She hesitates for a moment, then slowly lies down next to him, feeling the warmth of his body radiate through the thin fabric of her shirt. He doesn’t say anything, just shifts slightly to make room for her, and as she curls into the mattress, he slips an arm around her waist, pulling her in closer.

His hand rests on her side, fingers tracing slow, absentminded patterns on her skin through the fabric, the movement steady and soothing. She feels his breath against her hair, steady and calm, and for a moment, she closes her eyes, allowing herself to melt into him.

She takes her time, letting her gaze drift over him, tracing the sharp lines of his jaw, the way his hair falls messily across his forehead, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. The book is still in his other hand, balanced carefully as he continues to read, the pages illuminated by the dim light of the bedside lamp. He’s so absorbed in it, yet his hold on her is firm, as if he’s anchoring both of them to this moment, this shared silence.

She shifts slightly, her head resting on his shoulder as she glances at the book in his hand. “What are you reading?”

He pauses for a moment, his fingers stilling on the page as he looks down at her. “It’s called The Last Embrace.”

She raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t take you for a romantic.”

He chuckles softly at her remark, his voice a low rumble that reverberates through his chest. "It’s a Valyrian classic," he says. “I know someone who can find the premium first edition copies.”

“Hm.” She moves into him, and his hand roves over her clothed back, warmth seeping through. She nestles against him, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear. “Read to me?” She asks softly, almost shyly, as if the request might shatter her pride.

He considers her for a moment, then gently adjusts his position, making sure she’s comfortable as he continues from where he left off. With his arm still wrapped around her, holding her close, he begins to read. The words flow from his lips - his voice deep and rich as it carries and fills the quiet space between them. She listens, captivated by the way he brings the story to life.

One word in particular catches her attention, its lilting syllables intriguing. She stops him, her gaze curious. “What does that mean?”

He looks down at her, his gaze tender and slightly dazed. “Gevie means ‘beautiful,’” he explains, his tone mellowed by a subtle high. She repeats the word, her attempt tentative. “Gevie.” Her pronunciation falters, and he gently corrects her, his voice a soothing murmur. “Gevie,” he reiterates, his lips curving into a soft smile.

She tries again, her voice more confident, “Gevie,” and he nods in approval, his hand squeezing lightly on her arm, a touch that sends a shiver down her spine.

The reading continues, and she’s captivated by another word. 

“Jorrāelagon,” she asks. “And this one?”

“It means ‘love.’” He replies, his eyes soft and hazy, the high giving his voice a languid quality that almost lulls her to sleep. She echoes. “Jorrāelagon,” but her pronunciation is awkward at the first try. He guides her gently, his voice dropping as he enunciates the word.

 “Jorrāelagon.”

She repeats the word again, and he nods, pleased. She doesn’t want to dwell on how pleasing him feels.

When they reach 'Vūjigon', she leans in closer, her curiosity and desire blending seamlessly. “What does this one mean?”

“To kiss,” he murmurs, his gaze growing more intense. She wonders if she’s seeing the slight red on his cheeks, or if it’s actually there. She repeats, “Vūjigon,” her pronunciation faltering again. He corrects her, his voice a velvety whisper.

As she practices the word, the anticipation builds between them. Her body shifts, aligning with his, and she straddles him, her movements deliberate and sensual. The mattress dips under her weight, and she feels the heat of his body radiate through the thin fabric of their clothes. His hands find her sides, gripping firmly but tenderly, his touch sending electric currents through her skin. She leans in closer, their foreheads touching, and she inhales deeply. The scent of his cologne mixes with the distinct smell of the weed. The high he's on adds a dream-like quality to his touch and his gaze, making every sensation more vivid and intense.

“Vūjigon,” she whispers, her voice husky with desire. The correct pronunciation flows from her lips, and the air between them is heated and heavy.

His eye darkens with desire as he gazes at her, the effect of the high amplifying his senses. He responds to her unspoken invitation, his lips meeting hers in a kiss that is both urgent and tender. The kiss deepens quickly as his hands move to her waist, pulling her closer, the heat of his touch igniting a fire within her.

His hands tighten on her waist, pulling her flush against him, and she can feel the hard line of his desire pressing against her. The sensation sends a shudder through her, a wave of heat that pools low in her belly.

This is happening, this is truly happening-

His kisses are a heady mix of passion and need, his tongue exploring her mouth with a fervor that leaves her breathless. She responds in kind, her own desire spiraling out of control as her fingers thread through his hair, tugging gently as she presses herself against him. The weight of him beneath her, the feel of his body so close, so real, is intoxicating.

With a low, rough sound in the back of his throat, he flips them over, his body covering hers, pressing her into the mattress. His hands are everywhere - roaming her sides, cupping her breasts, sliding down to grip her hips. The urgency of his movements is matched by the haze of the high, adding a surreal, almost dream-like quality to the moment.

She arches into him, her back curving as she seeks more of his touch, more of the heat that’s building between them. His mouth leaves hers, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down her neck, across her collarbone, until he’s tugging her shirt aside, his lips finding the sensitive skin beneath. Every touch, every kiss, feels amplified, the high making her hyper-aware of every sensation.

He’s moving with purpose now, his hands tugging at the waistband of her pants, sliding them down her hips with a practiced ease. She helps him, kicking them off, leaving her bare beneath him. He follows quickly, discarding his own clothes until there’s nothing between them but heated skin.

His hands are back on her, rough and gentle all at once as he positions himself between her thighs. She feels the blunt pressure of him at her entrance, the anticipation so sharp it almost hurts. She meets his gaze, his eyes dark and blown with lust, the effect of the high making them seem even more intense. He pauses, just for a moment, his breath ragged. “I’m on the pill,” she murmurs, as if sensing his hesitation.

He thrusts into her with a single, powerful stroke.

The sensation is overwhelming, a mix of pain and pleasure that has her gasping, her hands clutching at his shoulders as he fills her completely. He stills for a moment, letting her adjust, his forehead pressing against hers as he takes a shuddering breath.

Then he’s moving, his hips snapping against hers in a rhythm that’s fast and unrelenting. Each thrust sends sparks of pleasure shooting through her, the friction, the heat, the intensity of it all pushing her closer to the edge. She wraps her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, her own hips meeting his in a desperate attempt to keep up with the pace he’s set.

His breathing is ragged in her ear, a rough counterpoint to the smoothness of his movements. She can feel him tensing, the way his thrusts grow more erratic, more desperate, as he nears his own release. His hand moves between them, fingers finding her clit and rubbing in tight, precise circles, pushing her closer and closer to the edge.

With a low growl, he slams into her one last time, his body tensing as he comes hard, the force of his orgasm shaking him. He rides it out, his hips still moving in shallow thrusts as he chases the last remnants of pleasure.

But he doesn’t stop. Even as his breathing slows, his hands remain on her, one sliding down her body until his fingers are slipping between her folds, finding the wet heat there. He pulls out of her slowly, and she whimpers at the loss, but the sound quickly turns to a moan as his head dips between her thighs.

His mouth finds her, his tongue licking a slow, teasing stripe up her center before his lips close around her clit. He sucks gently, his fingers pressing inside her, filling her again as he works her with a relentless, skillful rhythm. She’s already so close, her body still buzzing from the intensity of what they’ve just done, and it doesn’t take long for the pleasure to build again, fast and unstoppable.

As his mouth works her, his tongue drawing her closer and closer to the edge, he lifts his head just enough to murmur against her skin, “Gevie… ao gevie issi, jorrāelagon.”

His voice is thick with desire, the words rolling off his tongue with a reverence that sends shivers down her spine. She’s too far gone to try and grasp the meaning, her mind clouded with the overwhelming pleasure he’s giving her. But something about the way he says it, the heat in his voice, makes her gasp.

“What… what does that mean?” she manages to ask between moans, her voice breathless, shaky.

He doesn’t answer right away, his mouth returning to her with renewed focus, his fingers curling inside her in just the right way. The pleasure is dizzying, her body trembling as she’s pushed closer to the brink. When he finally speaks again, his words are low and guttural, vibrating against her skin.

“Gevie… beautiful,” he says, his voice thick with lust as he looks up at her, his eye dark and filled with heat. “Jorrāelagon… love.” His hand moves in sync with his words, drawing more moans from her lips, her mind barely able to process the translations as the pleasure intensifies.

Her body arches into him, desperate for more, needing more, and he gives it to her, his fingers working her relentlessly. She’s on the edge, her breaths coming in short, sharp gasps, when he murmurs one last word against her skin.

“Vūjigon,” he says, the word slipping from his lips like a caress, his voice deeper, rougher, as he lifts his head to look at her, his gaze burning into hers.

“Kiss,” she breathes, finally understanding, the realization sending a fresh wave of desire crashing over her. Her body moves of its own accord, her hips grinding against his fingers as she chases the release that’s just out of reach.

He doesn’t give her time to dwell on it, his mouth returning to her with a fervor that’s almost too much to bear. The sensation is overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and need that builds and builds until she’s teetering on the edge, her mind a haze. Her hips lift off the mattress, seeking more, needing more, and he gives it to her, his tongue and fingers moving in perfect harmony until she’s falling over the edge, her orgasm crashing over her in waves. She cries out, her hands fisting in his hair as he pushes her through it, his mouth never leaving her until she’s trembling with the aftershocks, her body spent and sated.

When he lays back down and his lips meet hers, she thinks there could be no better feeling than being held in his arms.

The fact that he may still have another woman in his life slips her mind completely.

Tonight, he is hers.

The morning after, he's gone off for an early class, leaving her to rest. She finds The Last Embrace on his nightstand and picks it up, her nimble fingers turning the pages as she scans his notes scattered throughout the book.

Love is a disease of the mind, but one we willingly suffer for.

It’s the kind of observation she can easily imagine him making aloud, his voice detached yet tinged with a subtle irony. She almost pictures him writing it, pausing to consider the implications of the passage before inscribing his thoughts with careful precision. It’s a stark reminder of how his mind works - always a step removed, always observing from a distance, even when he’s most deeply involved.

It’s so very Aemond, the way he can reduce something as chaotic and overwhelming as love to a mere intellectual curiosity, and yet, in doing so, reveal more about himself than any grand declaration ever could.

A small smile plays on her lips as she closes the book, gently smoothing the folded corner.

She least expects it, but it hits her with the force of a brick wall when it does.

She finds herself at Aemond's apartment again, perched on the familiar countertop in his kitchen, picking at a bowl of leftover pasta he’d casually reheated for her. Aemond stands at the stove, his attention focused on a kettle of water beginning to steam. He moves with his usual grace, every action deliberate and precise, but there’s something slightly different about him today—a subtle energy that she can’t quite place.

Almost offhandedly as he reaches for a mug, he speaks. “I might not be around tomorrow night. I’ve got…plans.”

He says it so casually, the words slipping out as though they’re of no consequence. But there’s a flicker of something in his tone, something that makes her glance up from her bowl, her curiosity piqued.

“Plans?” she echoes, trying to keep her voice light, nonchalant, though a strange tightness begins to form in her chest.

“Yeah,” he continues, filling the mug with hot water before turning back to her, his expression as composed as ever. “Dinner, actually. With someone.”

The way he says it - "with someone" - is so deliberately vague, so carefully chosen, that it sends a chill through her, the pieces beginning to fall into place. The quiet confidence in his voice, the way he doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t feel the need to explain. It’s a subtle giveaway, but one she can’t ignore.

“Oh,” she murmurs, her gaze dropping back to her bowl, her appetite suddenly fading. She forces herself to take another bite, though it tastes like ash in her mouth. “That sounds…nice.”

“Yeah,” he replies, his tone so matter-of-fact, so indifferent, that it stings more than anything else. “It should be.”

For a moment, she doesn��t know what to say, the silence between them suddenly feeling heavier, more oppressive. The realization settles in slowly, a painful clarity that makes her heart ache. To him, what they have is just…convenient.

He isn’t even trying to hide it. The ease with which he mentions his plans, the lack of any concern for how she might feel about it—it all points to one thing. 

Casual. Non-exclusive.

Then again, he made no promises.

The realization - reminder, if she was being practical - is a bitter pill to swallow, and she fights to keep her expression neutral, not wanting to betray the sadness that’s creeping into her. She allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, there was something more to this. But now, sitting there on his countertop, she sees it for what it truly is.

“Enjoy your dinner,” she says, her voice sounding distant to her own ears as she pushes the half-eaten bowl away and slides off the counter. She offers him a small, strained smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Thanks,” he replies, his gaze flicking over her briefly before returning to the kettle, as if her words are of no particular importance.

As she moves to grab her bag, her movements slow and deliberate, Aemond turns to look at her. The casual indifference that colored his words just moments before falters when he sees the expression on her face - something distant, guarded, as though she’s trying to shield herself from the truth that’s just settled between them.

“You’re upset,” he says, not as a question but as a statement, his tone flat. He’s always so direct, so infuriatingly precise in his observations, as if everything in the world can be neatly cataloged and understood.

She hesitates, her back to him as she reaches for her bag, fingers brushing over the strap, but she doesn’t pick it up right away. She can feel his gaze on her, sharp and assessing, waiting for her to respond.

“It’s nothing,” she murmurs, forcing herself to keep her voice steady, even though the words feel like they’re sticking in her throat. “Just…you could’ve mentioned it before.”

There’s a beat of silence, the air between them taut with unspoken things. She knows he’s searching for the right words, something that won’t sound like an admission but also won’t deny the reality she’s trying to ignore.

“You always knew there was someone else,” he says finally, his voice low, almost gentle, as if that can soften the blow.

She swallows hard, her grip tightening on the strap of her bag as the truth of his words settles in. Of course, she knows. There’s always been something in the way he holds himself slightly apart from her, something that hinted at the boundaries she was never meant to cross. And yet, she crossed them anyway, hoping—foolishly—that maybe he would meet her halfway.

“Did I?” she asks quietly, her voice trembling just enough to give her away. She turns to face him then, her eyes searching his, looking for something - anything - that will contradict what he’s just said. But there’s nothing. His expression is calm, measured, as though they’re discussing something inconsequential.

He doesn’t answer, but the silence that follows is more telling than anything he could say. She can see it now, how he’s always been careful with her, careful not to let things go too far, careful not to give her any false hope.

But he never really needed to, did he? Because she already knew, deep down, that whatever they had was just a small part of his life - a convenience, a passing thing that will end the moment someone else comes along. Someone more important, more permanent.

She lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, the sound heavy in the quiet of the kitchen. “Right,” she says, nodding to herself as if that will help make sense of everything. “I guess I did know.”

She hesitates, the words tasting bitter on her tongue as she adds, almost too casually, “Daeron texted about coming to Oldtown over the weekend. I probably have plans with him anyway.”

The silence that follows is suffocating, and when she dares to meet his gaze, she catches the subtle shift in his expression - a small, almost amused curl of his lips. It’s as if he can see right through her, peeling back the flimsy layers she’s tried to build around herself. The realization that he sees her so clearly, that he understands her attempts to guard herself, makes her feel smaller, more exposed than she ever intended.

His smile fades, replaced by something darker, more contemplative, and the weight of his gaze makes her want to shrink away, to hide from the way he’s dissecting her. He steps closer, the space between them shrinking to nothing as his presence looms large, overwhelming. She feels like she’s teetering on the edge of something dangerous, something that could shatter her if she’s not careful. But she doesn’t move, rooted to the spot by the intensity of his gaze, by the way he’s looking at her like he’s trying to decide if she’s worth the effort of breaking down completely.

The resignation in her voice must cut through him because he shifts, leaning back against the counter, his eyes never leaving hers. But he doesn’t move toward her, doesn’t try to reach out. It’s as if he knows that any attempt to comfort her now would only be hollow, empty of meaning.

She can smell the faint scent of the coffee still lingering on him, mixing with his cologne, and it makes her head swim, makes the room feel smaller, more suffocating. Everything feels too close, too real, and she needs to leave before she says something she can’t take back.

“Look, it’s fine,” she says quickly, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “I should get going anyway. I’ve got things to do.”

He doesn’t stop her. He just watches as she slings the bag over her shoulder, his gaze cool and detached, like he’s studying her, trying to understand why she’s making such a big deal out of something they both knew had an expiration date.

But just as she turns to leave, he reaches out, taking hold of her hand. The contact is brief, almost hesitant, but it’s enough to make her pause. There’s something in his touch—something that feels more like pity than affection. It twists in her chest, making her feel even smaller, more exposed.

“Take care,” he says, his voice polite, almost distant, as if the gesture was merely obligatory.

The words sting, made worse by the way he immediately lets go, his hand slipping away as if it never held hers at all. She walks away.

She pauses for a moment, hand on the doorknob, before glancing back at him. There’s so much she wants to say, but she knows it will all sound pathetic and desperate, and she refuses to let him see her like that.

“Yeah,” she replies softly, her heart aching in a way that feels almost physical. “You too.”

She sits on the edge of her sofa, her fingers idly tracing the patterns on the faded fabric. 

She stares at the shadows, feeling them stretch and distort, like her own thoughts, twisted and knotted.

The apartment is a mess - books splayed open, cold coffee mugs scattered about, and a half-burnt vanilla scented candle that hasn’t seen use in days. The quiet hum of the city outside the window is distant, almost surreal, as if it belongs to another world entirely. Inside, it’s as if time has stopped, leaving her in a stagnant pool of self-pity that she hates like nothing else.

Her mind drifts to Aemond. She can’t shake the image of him talking with his date. The warmth of his voice, the way his eyes subtly light up - it all feels so tangible, yet so out of reach. She imagines him in those moments of connection, and each thought pulls her deeper into the mire of her own emotions. The more she dwells on it, the more isolated she feels.

The room feels colder now, the silence pressing in on her from all sides. She wraps her blanket tighter, but it doesn’t offer much comfort. Her phone buzzes on the coffee table, jolting her out of her reverie. She hesitates, a mix of curiosity and apprehension swirling inside her. It’s probably not Aemond, she tells herself, but she can’t help the flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, it is.

She reaches for the phone, her hand trembling slightly. The screen lights up with Daeron’s name. She swipes to open it, her heart pounding as she sees the photo he’s sent. It’s Daeron at Oldtown Airport, his face lit up with a smile that seems to brighten the whole frame. A text follows.

Lunch tomorrow?

She smiles.

She waits outside Moonbloom, the café's warm, inviting light spilling onto the pavement. She watches as people bustle by, each face a fleeting moment in the urban blur. Her nerves are a tight knot, and she checks her phone for the umpteenth time, though she already knows Daeron will be on time. She hears his voice before she sees him.

"Hey," Daeron says, a smile tugging at his lips as he approaches. His eyes, as familiar as they are, carry a weight that wasn’t there before. They embrace awkwardly, and it makes her bristle.

Inside, the café is bustling with midday energy. They choose a corner table, its cozy atmosphere offering some solace from the crowd. Daeron settles into his seat, his movements slightly hesitant. She follows suit, their conversation initially faltering as they tiptoe around the more profound emotions that linger between them.

“So, um,” she begins, fidgeting with the menu, “have you been to this place before?”

“Not really,” Daeron replies, his fingers tapping nervously on his coffee cup. “I mean, I’ve passed by, but I’ve never actually been in. It’s...nice.”

“I love the way they’ve decorated it.”

Daeron looks around, taking in the mismatched furniture and the array of quirky knick-knacks. “Definitely. It’s kind of...charming. I guess I didn’t expect it to be this warm.”

She smiles, relieved to have found a neutral topic. “Yeah, it’s cozy. I come here when I need to get away from everything for a bit.”

“Sounds like it’s a good spot for that,” Daeron says, his voice warming slightly. “I could use a little escape myself.”

They both pause, a slight awkwardness settling over them. The menu sits between them, a practical distraction from the underlying tension. Daeron glances at it, his brow furrowing as he tries to decide.

“So, have you tried anything here that’s a must-have?” Daeron asks, attempting to steer the conversation back to safe ground.

She looks at the menu thoughtfully. “The avocado toast is really good, and the latte is pretty great too. It’s one of those places where you can’t go wrong with pretty much anything. Oh and they have a really good cheesecake!”

“Sounds good,” Daeron says, nodding as if making a mental note. “I’ll have to try both then.”

She chuckles softly, trying to ease the nervous energy between them. “You won’t regret it.”

The menu arrives, and they both laugh over the choices—an easy distraction from the real conversation they know is coming. They talk about trivial things first: the new book she’s reading, Daeron’s latest coffee obsession. The conversation is light, almost too light, as if they’re both waiting for the right moment to dive into the deeper waters.

As their meals arrive, Daeron takes a deep breath, his fingers absently tracing the edge of his coffee cup. “I didn’t realize how much I missed this. You.”

She looks up, surprised by the shift in tone. “Yeah, moving away does that to you.” 

Daeron’s gaze meets hers, a mixture of nostalgia and hesitation in his eyes. “It’s like, I’ve been so caught up in trying to manage everything that I forgot to appreciate these simpler things. I’ve been trying to figure out what really matters, and I think...I think that’s why I wanted to talk to you.”

Her curiosity is piqued, the earlier awkwardness giving way to a more genuine connection. “What do you mean?”

Daeron hesitates, fiddling with the edge of his napkin as he searches for the right words. “Floris and me. You know, things seemed okay, but I was always looking for the next problem, the next thing that might go wrong. I never really stopped to appreciate what we had, or how well things were actually working.”

She listens intently, her eyes softening as she senses the depth of his struggle. “And?”

Daeron sighs, his gaze meeting hers with a sincerity that tugs at her heart. “I’ve realized that I need to take a step back and figure things out. It’s why I came to stay here for the next month. It’s not just about getting away from everything. It’s more about taking the time to understand myself better. I want to be in a better place for her - when I go back, I want to be someone who’s really ready.”

The café hums around them, the sounds of chatter and clinking cutlery providing a gentle backdrop to their conversation. She absorbs his words, feeling a mix of sadness and a surprising sense of relief. “You’re actually going to do this?” she asks quietly.

Daeron nods, a small, hopeful smile touching his lips. “Yeah, I think it’s what I need. Just some time to be with myself, to figure out what really matters. I want to make sure I’m not just rushing through life, looking for the next thing. I want to be present for her, for myself. You know?”

There’s something endearing about Daeron, who he’s grown into, and his willingness to admit he needs to take time for himself. It is eons ahead of the boy she knew. For a brief moment, she sees Aemond in him, and she takes a deep breath before she lets her thoughts carry her away.

“I think that’s really brave,” she says softly. “It’s not easy to take a step back and admit you need to sort things out.”

She wonders if her words are for him, or herself.

Your Starry Sept postcards are at my place.

The afternoon sun hits just right as they walk through the market with their condensing iced coffee cups in hand. The stalls around them are alive with the scent of fresh bread, spices and flowers. It’s been days since she’s seen Aemond, and she ignores his texts and any chance to see him like the plague.

They sip their coffee, exchanging easy smiles as they pass by vendors selling everything from handmade jewelry to antique trinkets. The atmosphere is relaxed, yet a tension lingers beneath the surface. Daeron, seemingly content, glances at her and notices a shift in her demeanor as they approach an antique store.

“What’s up with you?” he asks, his tone light. “You’ve been a bit...off today.”

Now more than ever, she hates how well the Targaryen brothers know her. Her heart skips a beat.

“Uh, it’s nothing,” she says, her voice a bit too high-pitched, betraying herself. “Just...a lot on my mind, I guess.”

Daeron raises an eyebrow, his concern deepening. “Come on… We’ve known each other long enough. You can tell me if something’s bothering you.”

She looks away, her eyes darting over the colorful array of vintage items displayed in the store’s window. She takes a deep breath, trying to steady her racing heart. The prospect of confessing her recent history with Aemond is daunting, especially since she had poured out her feelings to Daeron not so long ago.

If anything, it makes it all feel a lot less valid if she thinks of it that way.

“It’s a bit complicated.”

“Complicated how?”

The question hangs in the air, and Wylde feels a lump form in her throat. She swallows hard, weighing the consequences of her next words. She recalls the emotional turmoil she experienced when she admitted her feelings for Daeron and how vulnerable she felt. The idea of now revealing that she’s been seeing Aemond—his brother, no less—feels like an insurmountable hurdle.

She takes another sip of her coffee, trying to buy time. “It’s just...I don’t know how to explain it. There’s been some...changes, you know?”

Daeron looks at her intently, sensing her hesitation. “Look, if you’re not ready to talk about it, that’s okay.” Her heart aches at his genuine concern. She knows she should be honest, but the fear of how Daeron will react clouds her judgment. She finally meets his gaze, the weight of her secret pressing heavily on her shoulders.

“I’ve been seeing someone,” she admits, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s...complicated.”

Daeron’s expression shifts from concern to confusion. “Someone? Who?” She sees his frown lift into a smile.

“Who… that’s not relevant.” 

Before he can interrupt and charm Aemond’s identity out of her, she continues. “He was already with someone, but I caught feelings for him anyway. Then we hooked up, and I worry that I just…”

“You worry that you’ve made a mistake.”

“Among other things. I…” She sighs. “I just want someone that’s mine, you know? It is a bit of a shame that the boys I like always belong to someone else.”

He chuckles. “I’m going to ask you to think well and be honest. Do you know him well enough?”

“Very well.”

“Do you think he’s the type to cheat?”

“Definitely not.”

“And did you ask him about this? What he wants from you, and what his situation with the other person is like?”

“I guess.”

“And what did he say?”

“He made no promises. He said I always knew there was someone else. I… I messed up. I shouldn’t have encouraged him, to be frank. He always knew what it was. He always knew, and I… did too. Just took a while for it to sink in. And… I was slightly foolish in hoping that he’d be just for me… for a while there it felt like… the last few months, it was all building up to it.”

“And you’re sure a fling is what he wants?”

“He went out for dinner with this other girl yesterday. Safe to assume.”

“I guess the question is…” He sighs. “Having as little of him as he can give you… is that something you’re willing to have? Because if not, you’ll have to push him away entirely. Protect yourself.”

She closes her eyes and brings a hand up to her mouth in resignation. “I feel so stupid.”

Daeron places a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Hey, it takes two to make something work. Don’t beat yourself up if he isn’t.”

When she walks back to her flat that night, Daeron’s words echo through her mind like a fast growing wildfire.

Is he worth it? 

She knows the answer long before she even ponders on the question. It is simply a question of whether or not she can handle it.

There’s more cheesecake in the fridge.

She avoids Aemond and his texts for the next few days, her thoughts spiraling as she wonders what he really wants from her if he’s seeing someone else. Every time her phone buzzes, she tenses, half-hoping, half-dreading it’s him. 

Of course he won’t say he misses her. He won’t say he wants to see her. That’s just not his style.

She stares at the screen for a long moment, her thumb hovering over the keyboard before she decides to leave him on read. Her heart pounds, but she doesn't know how to respond. It’s easier to focus on Daeron, easier to avoid the growing confusion that Aemond has brought into her life.

They lie on the blanket, the sound of waves crashing below the cliffs filling the comfortable silence between them. The sky above them shifts in shades of pink and orange as the sun inches closer to the horizon. It’s a scene that could easily be romantic if things had turned out differently between them.

“You know,” Daeron starts, his voice light but thoughtful, “we’re pretty compatible.”

She turns her head to look at him, a small smile playing on her lips. “Yeah, we are. It’s kind of a shame things didn’t… I don’t know, grow between us the way they could’ve.”

“Yeah,” he echoes, his tone carrying a hint of wistfulness. “It just never… happened.”

With you, she wants to add. I loved you for so long, you just didn’t love me back.

They both know there’s no regret in those words, just a shared acknowledgment of something that could have been but never was.

“I remember the first time I realized I had feelings for you,” she says, her voice softer now as she gazes out at the sea. “I was probably eight years old. That day on the school grounds, when you and Luke fought because he was bothering me. In my defense, I was eight years old and that was the most romantic thing ever.”

Daeron laughs, a genuine sound that makes her smile. “Eight years old, huh? Wow, I didn’t know I was such a charmer back then.”

“You weren’t. I was just an idiot.”

“Thanks.”

“Yeah, well, you had your moments,” she teases, nudging him with her shoulder. “But really, it was just a silly crush. I got over it eventually. Wasn’t great, but I managed it somehow.” The gravity of underselling her feelings hits her, but she’s not quite upset about it anymore. Daeron is a thing of her past - how much power can feelings from the past hold anyway?

“It all seems silly to me now.”

Daeron nods, understanding. “I get that. I always thought you’d make an awesome girlfriend, though.”

She raises an eyebrow, amused. “Yeah?”

“You’re cool and smart, and we always have a good time together. But I just… never felt much more than that. I do love you, just…”

“You’re not in love with me. I don’t blame you.” She sighs. “At least, not anymore.”

“You know what I mean,” Daeron says, chuckling. “We were close, and it always felt like we could’ve been something more, but it never felt… right. I think I just always saw you as my best friend.”

“It’s funny, isn’t it? We’re practically perfect for each other in so many ways, but the spark was never really there. No matter how much I used to want it.”

“Practically perfect,” Daeron agrees, smiling as he echoes her words. “Maybe we’re too practical.”

“Or maybe too perfect.” She grins, looking at him through her sunglasses.

“On paper, definitely.” They both laugh, the sound mingling with the crashing waves. They’re not sad about what could have been; they’re content with what they have.

She realizes she quite likes it this way.

“Hey, you know what?” Daeron says, his tone suddenly playful. “If we’re both still single at forty, we should just get married.”

She snorts, covering her mouth as she laughs. “Seriously?”

“Why not?” he says, grinning. “We’d make a pretty awesome couple, don’t you think?”

She looks at him, pretending to consider it. “Yeah, perfect on paper.”

“Come on, indulge me.”

“Fuck no. What if I’m actually single at forty and have to follow through?”

“It won’t be so bad, I promise.”

“If I’m still single by forty, I’d rather throw myself off this cliff.”

“Be a little brave for once. It’s just a far off possibility.”

“Ugh, fine. You have a deal.” Just as she says it, she extends her hand to him.

“Deal.” He laughs, and the realization is devoid of any pesky feelings as she thinks this is the best laugh she knows.

Hearty, boyish and pure.

Came by the flat, it’s locked. Tell me you’re okay. It’s been more than a week.

I’m fine.

She doesn’t want to see him till she knows exactly what she wants to say. He’s made his stance very clear - that this is very casual to him, and that he doesn’t take what they have as seriously as she thought. She envies him, in all honesty. Why can’t her heart be as straightforward as his?

Daeron had met Aemond and their uncle Gwayne for a game of tennis at the Hightower Townhouse and invited her - but she refused politely and chose to not dwell. A few days later, he takes the private jet to Essos to visit Helaena during her exchange year and she clings to him in a tight hug before letting him go.

Like Daeron, who has chosen to relax this summer, she knows that first-year internships aren't mandatory. If she wanted one, she could easily get it - her name carries significant weight in the world of art and history. Her great-great-great-great-grandmother, Coryanne Wylde, left an indelible mark on the Westerosi art scene with her scandalous and groundbreaking series of erotic paintings titled A Caution for Young Girls. The collection - now cared for at the Citadel in Oldtown - is notorious for its bold sexual depictions, and is considered a turning point in the history of Westerosi art. That, coupled with her family’s considerable wealth - she has the luxury to forgo work during the first year holidays and focus solely on herself.

This summer, she’s embracing that privilege fully. Her days are spent immersed in books, wandering through museums, and exploring the city. She takes day trips to quaint coastal towns, armed with her sketchbook and ready to draw.

Summer will come to a close in less than a fortnight, and she’s grateful for the rest. As much as she loves studying art history, it does take a lot of energy out of her to channel that interest into wading through a structured syllabus that doesn’t run on her own time or pace.

Mornings begin with walks through the city, sketchbook always in hand, capturing the delicate lines of the older architecture or the vibrant chaos of modern installations. She takes her camera too, and each photograph she takes feels like a small rebellion against the uncertainty that has plagued her thoughts.

Afternoons are reserved for exploring the smaller towns along the coastline. She finds solace in the simplicity of these places—the way the sea breeze carries the scent of salt and wildflowers, the way cobblestone streets wind past charming cafes and artisan shops. She sits by the harbor, sketching boats bobbing gently on the waves, or wanders through quaint markets, photographing the scenes. She lets the local old women near the port weave flowers and shells into her hair, and wears loose fitting bright gowns that she finds in smaller stalls.

As the weeks pass, Aemond’s messages become sparse. When the texts stop altogether, she feels a pang of guilt she can’t quite shake. She knows it’s probably for the best, that she needs the space to sort out what she wants from him, but the silence echoes in her mind, leaving her to wonder what she might have done differently.

In every possibility, she realizes she wants him. But she never dwells in her thoughts long enough to understand what that means for them.

One evening, a few days before the next semester is set to begin, she finds herself at the Quill and Tankard, a charming little pub nestled in a cozy corner of the city. The warm, dimly lit space is filled with the hum of conversation and the clink of glasses. She orders a drink, the amber liquid swirling in her glass, and settles into a secluded booth. The conversations around her blur into a comforting background noise as she sips her drink, the alcohol loosening the tight knot of anxiety in her chest.

As the night wears on, her thoughts drift back to Aemond. She has tried so hard to avoid him, to drown out the questions and doubts he has stirred within her. But here in the pub, the memories feel sharper, more insistent. She glances around the room, watching other couples laugh and share stories, and wonders why her own connections feel so fraught with uncertainty.

Her phone buzzes on the table, a reminder of the texts that have long ceased. She glances at it, feeling a pang of longing and frustration. The lack of communication from Aemond leaves her with unanswered questions and unresolved feelings. She takes another sip of her drink, the warmth spreading through her, and feels a surge of impulse.

With a deep breath, she reaches for her phone. Her fingers hover over the screen for a moment, trembling slightly. She knows she shouldn’t be doing this, that reaching out might only reopen wounds she isn’t ready to face. But the need for some semblance of understanding is too strong to ignore.

Finally, she presses the call button and holds the phone to her ear. The familiar ringtone feels both comforting and jarring in the quiet of the pub. She takes another sip, steeling herself for whatever comes next.

"Hey, can I come over?”

Despite living a stone’s throw away from each other, she hasn’t seen him in a month - and the moment she lays eyes on him again, she’s struck by how effortlessly captivating he is. Aemond sits at his desk, a stack of papers spread out before him, his focus completely absorbed by whatever it is he’s reading. The dim white light from his half-open laptop casts a soft glow on his face, accentuating the sharp lines of his jaw and the intensity in his expression. He’s in his element, completely at ease in the quiet of his own space.

She realizes, not for the first time, that it’s easy to stare at Aemond. Easy, because he’s always so absorbed in whatever task demands his attention. His head is often down, his gaze fixed on the papers, books, or screens in front of him, making it simple for her to observe him without the risk of getting caught. But more than that, it’s easy to stare at Aemond because there’s something about him that draws her in. He doesn’t have the easy, effortless charm of Daeron or the overwhelming presence of Aegon, but his appeal lies in the subtleties.

There’s a sharper, quieter beauty in Aemond that reveals itself in the smallest of ways. The way his brow furrows slightly when he’s deep in thought, the almost imperceptible lift of his lips when something amuses him. His beauty isn’t meant to be obvious or attention grabbing; it’s there for those who take the time to notice, for those who can appreciate the details that make him who he is. It’s the kind of beauty that makes her wonder about the thoughts that flicker behind his stormy eye, those that he keeps so carefully guarded.

In many ways, Helaena is much the same. There’s a quiet elegance to her, a softness that’s easy to overlook but impossible to forget once you’ve seen it. The two of them, siblings with such contrasting temperaments, share this unspoken, understated allure. They leave a lasting impression, like a delicate piece of art that grows more intricate the longer you look at it.

She stands there for a moment longer, taking him in - the way his long fingers trace the edge of the paper, the way a few stray strands of hair fall across his forehead. The familiarity of this scene almost comforts her as she leans into the doorway, unsure if she’s ready for this confrontation, but knowing it’s inevitable.

“I wasn’t sure if I should come,” she murmurs, the words slipping out like a secret, barely more than a breath. They drift into the space between them, fragile and hesitant.

“I told you to,” he replies, his voice steady, almost indifferent. His eyes remain fixed on the papers before him, the rustling of the sheets filling the silence between them.

She takes a deep breath, trying to steady herself. “What are you working on?”

“Going through some numbers, drafting reports for Otto,” he answers, still without looking up.

“Did you work with your grandfather? For the summer?” she asks, grasping at the small talk like a lifeline.

“Yes, father wanted me to train with him.”

“Hm.”

The conversation stalls, and she moves away from the doorway, retreating to the kitchen as if the physical distance might help her regain her composure. She rifles through his fridge, finding a slice of cheesecake and brewing a pot of coffee. The mundane actions feel almost grounding, but the tension remains, coiled tight in her chest.

As she watches the coffee drip, her mind races. She’s tense at his curtness, but a part of her knows she deserves it after avoiding him for so long. Still, she can’t help the anger simmering beneath the surface. She left to protect herself, but he’s acting as if her absence was nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

She walks back into the room, determined now. She nudges herself between him and his work desk, leaning back with her palms pressing against the surface. He finally looks up, his gaze sweeping over her from top to bottom, assessing. His hand rests over his lips, elbows braced on the armrests of his chair. The quiet intensity of his stare sends a shiver down her spine, but she doesn’t back down.

“What are we doing?” she asks, her voice low but firm.

“You disappeared for weeks on end, and now you’re back,” he responds, his tone maddeningly calm, as if nothing has happened.

Her nostrils flare in irritation. “What were we doing before I left?” She’s not letting him off that easily.

“Hm.” He takes a deep, audible breath, the kind that makes her want to scream. “We slept together, and you walked away to sort yourself out.”

“Are you serious right now?” she scoffs, her voice rising in disbelief. “I left because we slept together, and then you told me you were still seeing someone else! Something I asked you about, and you never bothered addressing!”

The frustration bubbling inside her threatens to spill over. She feels like a petulant child, but she knows she’s not entirely in the wrong. Yet his infuriatingly level-headed tone only makes her feel more on edge.

Without warning, he stands up, looming over her like a dark shadow. His presence is overwhelming, and when he steps closer, she can feel the heat radiating from him. His hands slam down on the table on either side of her, caging her in. Their breaths mingle in the small space between them, and she refuses to break eye contact, challenging him with every ounce of defiance she has left.

“Did you, for once, consider that I may not have wanted to wreck whatever it is you have with this other girl you’ve been seeing? For more than a year too, if I might add?” Her voice is laced with bitterness, but there’s an edge of vulnerability there too, one she can’t quite hide.

“Hm.”

His nonchalant response is the final straw. “Do you have nothing to say to me?” she nearly pleads, her tone wavering. It’s borderline pathetic, and the entire situation feels far messier than she can handle. “You blindsided me.”

He watches her for a moment, his gaze unreadable, before he finally speaks. “Do you regret it?”

Despite the storm of emotions swirling inside her, that answer is easy. “I probably should, but no.”

Her words hang between them, and for a moment, neither of them moves. Then, almost imperceptibly, his hand brushes against hers where it rests on the table. It’s a tentative touch, the barest graze of his fingers, but it’s enough to send a jolt of electricity through her. She inhales sharply, her breath catching in her throat.

He leans in closer, the distance between them shrinking to nothing. She can feel the heat of his body, the steady rhythm of his breathing, and the tension thickens, wrapping around them like a vise. His gaze drops to her lips, and she feels her resolve weakening, her anger melting away into something far more dangerous.

“Aemond…” she whispers, her voice trembling.

He tilts his head slightly, his lips almost brushing against hers. “Wylde,” he murmurs, the sound of her name on his lips making her heart stutter. His eyes darken, and she knows there’s no going back now.

She can feel the tension, heavy and palpable. And then, without another word, he closes the final gap between them, capturing her lips with his in a kiss that’s anything but gentle. 

It’s messy, complicated, and far from perfect, but at this moment, he is all that matters.

His lips find the tender skin of her neck, trailing a path of open-mouthed kisses down to her collarbone. The wet warmth of his mouth sends shivers down her spine, his breath hot against her skin. His hands are everywhere - exploring, claiming, running up and down her sides under her shirt, fingers pressing into her flesh as if trying to memorize the feel of her.

“Been too fucking long,” he murmurs, the words flowing like water.

She pulls his head up, capturing his lips with hers in a fierce kiss, a desperate melding of mouths that leaves them both breathless. They move together with a practiced urgency, her shirt sliding over her head, his following a second later. Her bra is discarded just as quickly, tossed aside without a second thought, as their bodies come together, skin to skin, the heat between them searing.

But when she reaches out, shifting his papers aside to sit on the edge of the desk, he laughs quietly, a low rumble that sends a thrill through her. He shakes his head, amusement flickering in his eyes, and lifts her effortlessly, his hands strong and steady beneath her. Her legs instinctively wrap around his waist, holding on tight as he carries her toward the bed.

“Those papers took me a while to organize,” he murmurs sharply, his tone laced with mock seriousness. If she didn’t know him better, she might think he was truly annoyed.

But she does know him, knows the way his eyes glint with barely concealed mirth as he lowers her onto the bed. The cool sheets contrast with the heat of their bodies, and she arches up into him, her fingers tangling in his hair as she pulls him down for another kiss. 

Aemond’s hands trail down her body, his fingers hooking into the waistband of her pants as he pulls away slightly, eyes dark and intent. She watches him, breathless, as he slides her pants and underwear down in one smooth motion, the cool air hitting her skin making her shiver.

He kisses his way down her body, lingering at her hips before settling between her thighs. The anticipation coils tight in her belly, her breath hitching as he looks up at her, his expression unreadable but undeniably hungry. He presses a soft kiss to the inside of her thigh, and she feels the tension in her body build with each brush of his lips against her skin.

When he finally touches her where she needs him most, she gasps, her hips arching off the bed in response. He holds her down gently, his strong hands firm on her thighs as his mouth moves with skillful precision. The sensation is overwhelming, every nerve ending alive and thrumming with pleasure as he takes his time, drawing out every gasp and moan that slips from her lips.

She threads her fingers through his hair, tugging lightly as she loses herself in the feeling, her breath coming in short, ragged bursts. His name slips past her lips, a breathless plea that only seems to spur him on, his tongue and lips working in tandem to push her closer and closer to the edge.

It’s a slow build, a steady climb toward something that feels almost too intense to bear. 

When she finally falls over the edge, it’s like the world shatters around her, a white-hot burst of pleasure that leaves her breathless and shaking, her hands gripping his hair tightly as she rides out the waves of her release. He stays with her through it all, his mouth still moving against her until the sensation becomes too much and she gently pulls him up to her, needing to feel his lips on hers, to ground herself in the warmth of his kiss.

Her breath is still uneven as she pulls him closer, her hand sliding down his chest, tracing the hard lines of his torso. She meets his gaze, eyes dark with desire, and murmurs, “I need you.”

Without breaking eye contact, her hand slips into his slacks, finding him already hard and straining against the fabric. He hisses at the contact, his jaw tightening as she wraps her fingers around him, stroking slowly, deliberately.

But it doesn’t last long. With a low growl, he pulls her hand away and stands up, quickly shedding his slacks and boxers, the clothing falling to the floor in a heap. The sight of him, fully bared to her, sends a fresh wave of desire coursing through her.

He’s back on her in an instant, his mouth on hers, urgent and demanding, as he positions himself between her legs. She wraps her legs around his waist, drawing him closer, and when he enters her in one smooth thrust, eliciting a gasp from them both.

He stills for a moment, buried deep inside her, his breath hot against her neck. Then, with a groan, he starts to move, slow at first, each thrust measured and deliberate, as if he’s savoring the way her body reacts to him. It doesn’t take long for the pace to quicken, the room filling with the sounds of their bodies moving together, the bed creaking beneath them.

She clings to him, her nails digging into his back as he drives into her, each thrust sending shockwaves of pleasure through her. His grip on her hips is firm, his movements powerful and unrelenting, as if he’s intent on losing himself in her.

“Ae-mond…”

Their breaths mingle, their bodies slick with sweat as they move together, the world outside fading away until all that exists is this. A conversation is due and far from over, but her mind is clouded by thoughts of him, him, him-

She breaks the kiss, her head falling back as her body tightens around him, pulling him deeper as the pleasure becomes almost too much to bear. He buries his face in her neck, his breath ragged against her skin, and with one final, languid thrust, he comes in pleasure as he moans into her skin.

For a moment, they remain tangled together, their breaths harsh and uneven, the aftermath of their release leaving them both dazed and spent. He stays inside her as long as he can, as if reluctant to break the connection, before finally pulling away and collapsing beside her, pulling her into his arms.

Her head rests on his chest, the steady beat of his heart a comforting rhythm beneath her ear. His arm is draped over her back, holding her close as if to keep the world at bay for just a little longer.

But as the silence stretches on, the reality of their situation begins to creep back in, and she feels the familiar weight of her thoughts clouding her mind. What are they really doing here? What does any of this mean? The questions swirl in her head, tugging her back to the uncertainty she’s been trying to avoid.

He notices the change in her immediately. The way her body tenses slightly, the furrow that forms between her brows. He’s seen this look before - when she’s lost in thought, when something’s weighing heavily on her. His grip tightens around her, and he presses a gentle kiss to the top of her head, trying to anchor her in the present.

She tilts her head up, meeting his gaze. There’s a softness in his eyes, a tenderness that makes her chest tighten. For a moment, neither of them speaks, the air thick. His hand comes up to brush a stray lock of hair from her face, his touch lingering on her cheek.

Her heart skips a beat as she tries to find the words to express the tangle of emotions inside her. But before she can speak, he abruptly breaks the silence.

“It’s never going to be exclusive or long-term with her. That’s not what we have.” he says, his voice steady but laced with something she can’t quite place. “You’re not destroying anything.”

The words hang in the air between them, heavy and final. He’s said them almost as if to preempt whatever she was going to say, as if to take away the guilt and confusion that’s been gnawing at her since this all began. His eyes search hers, gauging her reaction.

She blinks, trying to process what he’s just said. The admission should bring some relief, should ease the turmoil inside her, but instead, it leaves her feeling more conflicted. The clarity she sought doesn’t come; instead, she’s left with a hollowness that only deepens the questions she’s been grappling with.

“You think saying that makes this easier?” she finally asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m saying it because I don’t want you to feel guilty,” he replies, his tone firm but not unkind. “This—whatever this is—doesn’t have to be complicated. It can be just us, without any strings attached.”

She bites her lip, the words sinking in. He’s offering her an out, a way to keep whatever they have without the burden of labels or expectations. But is that really what she wants?

Especially now that her heart skips a beat whenever he comes around? 

“You were in love with him for a long time. This is what you need. Something that won’t trouble you.” His hand trails down her arm, grounding her in the moment. “You don’t have to overthink it,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “We want each other.”

She likes him. More than she should, if a fling with her is all he wants. But she can't bring herself to push him away.

“We can just be.”

She looks up at him, searching his face for any sign of hesitation, but there’s none. He’s being honest with her, laying it all out so she can make her own choice.

“You're saying you've been seeing a girl for more than a year, but she's alright with you sleeping with me?”

“Think that's how an open relationship works. Don't you?”

She wants to ask who it is, but she has a feeling that's more trouble than it's worth.

“And what if I don't want this?”

“You can stop anytime. But you won't.”

His functional eye narrows and there's knots of muscle in both corners of his jaw, a slight twitch of the eyebrow. She likes him when he's like this.

She likes when he knows her. She likes that he's indispensable to her. She likes that he knows that too.

She kisses him and goes to sleep in his arms.

Does any of it matter if she gets to have him like this?

The room is quiet except for the faint rustle of pages as Aemond flips through her sketchbook, his arm draped loosely around her shoulders. She traces absent-minded patterns on his chest, the tip of her finger skimming over the faint lines of his muscles, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

The dim light filters in through the curtains, casting a soft glow over them, highlighting the contentment on her face. Her head rests against him, hair fanned out over the pillow as she relaxes into the moment, her mind drifting aimlessly. 

Aemond’s fingers lazily flip through the pages filled with rough pencil strokes, some finished, others abandoned halfway. His gaze pauses on one drawing in particular - a silhouette of a woman standing at the edge of the sea, her figure gazing out toward the endless horizon.

He runs his thumb over the page, his voice low. “What’s this one?”

She turns her head, glancing at the sketch. Her lips curve into a small smile, though her mind drifts back to the scene that had inspired it. “I was hanging out at the Sunset Sea for a few days. I’d been studying Jaeron of Lys in my class with Professor Rivers, you know, the old painter?” He shifts slightly, and she shifts along with him. “His work was all about those distant, far-off humans in his portraits, always framed by these huge, sweeping landscapes.” 

Aemond listens intently, his fingers still resting on the paper as she speaks. He turns his head slightly toward her, encouraging her to continue.

“It’s why his work is so widely discussed. The people in his paintings are always so still. Silent. You barely notice them at first, almost like they’re not even the focus. But the longer you look, the more you wonder what they’re thinking, what they’re feeling. He made the audience do the work to comprehend them.”

Aemond’s brow furrows slightly, intrigued by the thought. “I’ve seen some of his work in the books. There’s this tension in it, like the figures are waiting for something, even though the rest of the world moves on around them.”

She nods. “Exactly. That tension is what makes it brilliant. What’s even more tragic, though, is what happened to him.” Her voice softens, the weight of the story pulling her deeper into it.

“Jaeron went blind in his later years. He couldn’t paint, couldn’t create for years. The grief of not being able to see art, beauty… it destroyed him. He never touched a brush again, not until he was on his deathbed. And even then, he wished for one last chance to paint.”

Aemond turns fully to face her now, propping his head on his hand, captivated by the story. “And did he?”

She nods, her gaze distant as she recalls the details from her class. “He did. Blind and frail, he recreated his first-ever painting—a woman looking into the sea. It was perfect, down to the smallest detail. His final masterpiece.”

“The class was about muscle memory in art,” she continues softly. “How creativity, no matter how burnt out you feel, is what makes you… you. Even after all that time, even when he couldn’t see, his body remembered. His hands knew the strokes, the curves, like he’d never left it.”

“Hm.” Aemond’s noncommittal sound hums through the air as she turns her head, her eyes searching his face. “It is,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “I think about that sometimes - how you can leave something behind, but when you pick it back up… it’s like it never left you either. You just know.”

His thumb traces slow, soothing circles over her hand, his attention fully on her as she sighs, lost in thought.

“A lot of it translates into real life,” she continues, her voice softer now. “Like cycling, or swimming… even driving. Things that require focus and rhythm.”

She pauses, a small smile tugging at her lips. “It’s like learning to be in sync with something, or someone.”

Aemond’s eyebrow quirks up slightly at her words, a hint of curiosity flickering in his gaze as she drops her eyes, feeling the warmth of his chest beneath her cheek. She presses on, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Like how we didn’t see each other for the entire summer,” she says, her fingers idly tracing patterns on his skin, “but when we came back together… the chemistry, whatever it is. It was there. You didn’t forget what I liked, and I didn’t forget either.”

Her words hang in the air, the silence stretching. She feels a pang of doubt, wondering if her attempt at lightness had been too blunt, too revealing, too… stupid. She glances up at him, ready to brush it off, but Aemond is staring straight ahead, his fingers threading gently through her hair, the weight of his thoughts visible. She can see the wheels turn in his head.

“I wouldn’t want to forget anything about you,” he says. His voice settles deep within her chest.

Her breath catches, and for a moment, she’s at a loss for words, the intensity of his statement catching her off guard. A flush creeps up her neck, coloring her cheeks, and she feels the fluttering in her chest threaten to overwhelm her.

Desperate to lighten the mood, to distract herself from the way his words made her feel, she lets out a shaky laugh, trying to mask her flustered mind. “You’re being fucking pretentious now,” she jokes, but her voice betrays her, a bit too breathless, a bit too forced.

Why say things like that if you don't mean them?

Aemond doesn’t respond immediately, his gaze steady on hers. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t laugh, just keeps looking at her with a quiet intensity that makes her heart race. The flutter in her chest doesn’t fade, and the realization hits her, taking her down with the force of a well-aimed punch to the gut.

He’s seen right through her.

When she wakes, she glances at the clock—her classes start in an hour or so, but Aemond's are earlier, and he’s already gone. The quiet of the apartment feels warm, almost comforting.

She heads to the bathroom and steps into the shower. As the steam fogs up the glass, she notices faint traces of where his fingers must have absently brushed across the condensation, drawing random patterns. 

Proof that this isn’t a dream, he was hers last night.

After her shower, she rummages through his cupboard to find something to wear, but instead finds a shirt she left behind long ago, forgotten until now. She pulls it on, feeling the fabric cling to her still-damp skin, and shimmies into the same pants from yesterday. The hunger hits her suddenly, and she practically inhales the toast, eggs and coffee, savoring every bite.

As she prepares to leave, she looks for the keys to lock the apartment. By the keystand, a small note catches her eye. She picks it up, her heart giving a small flutter as she reads the familiar handwriting.

Remember your postcards.

She finds the small stack right next to the note and smiles. She picks it up and almost walks out, before she walks back in and takes the note along with her too.

They sit across from each other at one of the long, narrow tables, the polished wood catching the golden hour light filtering through the tall windows.

Months have passed, and classes have begun again. Their time together has been good, even great, filled with moments that make her heart flutter more often than she’d care to admit. But with each passing day, a nagging feeling settles deeper in her chest - a constant reminder that they’re not dating, that her feelings for him shouldn’t matter. It’s something she has to tell herself over and over, especially when he does something that makes her smile in his own subtle way.

She’s focused on her laptop, typing away at her latest assignment, but her concentration wavers every now and then. She can’t help but sneak glances at Aemond, who’s engrossed in one of his textbooks, his brow furrowed in that familiar way that tugs at something deep within her.

Every so often, his foot nudges hers lightly under the table, a small gesture that sends a tingling sensation up her spine. It’s almost as if he does it without thinking, but the effect on her is anything but casual. She tries to keep her mind on her work, but the reminders keep coming - small touches that feel too intimate, like the brush of his hand against hers when they both reach for their coffee, or the way he sometimes squeezes her knee under the table, just for a moment, before going back to his reading as if nothing happened.

The thoughts swirl in her mind, making it harder and harder to focus. She needs a break, something to pull her away from these confusing feelings. So, she stands up, mumbling about needing a book for her research. Aemond doesn’t look up, but she can feel his presence, his quiet attention, as she walks away from the table.

She wanders through the rows of books, her fingers brushing along the spines as she tries to steady her thoughts. The library’s quiet, the only sounds the soft rustle of pages and the distant hum of conversation. She’s been walking for a few minutes when she suddenly stops, feeling a familiar presence behind her.

His shadow falls over her, unmistakable in its solidity, in the way it looms, tall and certain. Even without turning, she knows it’s Aemond. There’s something about the way he stands, the way his silhouette feels different from anyone else’s—broader, more composed, with an intensity that seems to fill the space around him.

She senses him draw closer, the warmth of his body pressing gently against her back. Her breath catches in her throat when she feels his hand brush her hair aside, the strands falling softly over her shoulder. Aemond’s fingers graze the nape of her neck, sending shivers down her spine. He leans in, his lips just barely touching her skin, teasing her with featherlight kisses that make her knees go weak.

“Hi,” she faintly murmurs. He grumbles just slightly, his voice low and rough in her ear, laced with a quiet amusement that makes her heart skip a beat. His breath is hot against her skin, and she can feel the faint rumble of his laugh as his lips travel along the curve of her neck.

Her breath catches as one of his hands slides under her skirt, fingers brushing over the curve of her ass, squeezing lightly before venturing lower, teasing the sensitive skin at the top of her thigh. The other hand moves up, slipping beneath her shirt. His touch is firm, confident, as his fingers trace over the fabric of her bra, finding the sensitive peaks of her nipples. He brushes over them, his touch sending a shudder through her that she can’t hide.

“Aemond…” she whispers, her voice a mix of plea and warning, but it only makes him smile against her skin.

“Tell me to stop, and I will,” he says softly, his voice full of a challenge she’s not sure she can meet. His fingers pinch lightly, just enough to make her gasp, the sound swallowed by his quiet groan of approval.

But she doesn’t tell him to stop. Instead, she leans back into him, her body betraying her mind as it seeks more of his touch. His hand on her ass tightens, pulling her against him, and she feels the heat of him, the way he presses against her as if he can’t get close enough.

“You drive me insane,” he murmurs, his lips trailing back up to her ear, nipping lightly at the lobe. “You know that, right?”

She nods, her breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts as his hand beneath her shirt continues its slow, deliberate torment.

“Say the word,” he whispers, his voice a low rumble that makes her insides twist with want. “Say it, and I’ll stop.”

But the words won’t come. Instead, she turns her head slightly, catching his gaze out of the corner of her eye, the intensity there stealing whatever resolve she thought she had. His eyes are dark, filled with something deep and consuming, and it’s in that moment she knows she’s lost.

“Aemond…” she breathes again, but this time, it’s not a warning. It’s an invitation, and he knows it. His hand leaves her ass, sliding around to her front, pulling her even closer, and she feels the low, satisfied hum in his chest as he kisses the side of her neck, harder this time, more insistent.

The hand slides further down, slipping beneath the waistband of her panties. His fingers move with agonizing slowness, tracing the curve of her before dipping into the heat between her thighs. She bites down on her lip, trying to stifle the gasp that escapes her as his fingers brush over her entrance.

“So wet for me,” he murmurs against her ear, his voice thick with desire. His fingers start to move in slow, deliberate circles, teasing and tormenting her with a touch that’s just enough to make her want more but not enough to satisfy the growing ache inside her.

She grips the edge of the bookshelf in front of her, knuckles turning white as she tries to stay quiet, but every slow, precise movement of his fingers makes it harder. Her breath hitches in her throat as he presses harder, moving against her in a way that makes her whole body tense with need.

“Please, Aemond,” she whispers, her voice trembling with the weight of everything she’s feeling. She wants more, needs more, and she knows he can give it to her.

A low, dark chuckle rumbles in his chest as he withdraws his hand, making her whimper at the loss. But before she can protest, he’s turning her around, his movements quick and deliberate, as if he’s been waiting for this just as much as she has.

He pushes her back against the shelves, his body pressing into hers, trapping her between the cool wood and his heat. His mouth is on hers before she can say anything else, kissing her hard and deep, swallowing the moan that escapes her as he reaches between them to tug her panties down. His fingers work deftly, the fabric falling to the floor around her ankles as he frees himself from his pants.

He pulls back just enough to meet her eyes, his gaze dark and filled with something primal. “It’s a shame,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough. “I quite like it when you scream.”

Her breath catches at his words, the anticipation tightening in her stomach as he leans in, his lips brushing against her ear. “But you’re going to have to be quiet, or they’ll hear you.”

He doesn’t give her a chance to respond before he’s lifting her leg, wrapping it around his waist as he guides himself to her entrance. She gasps as he pushes into her slowly, stretching her inch by inch in a way that feels both torturous and utterly perfect.

She bites down on her lip to keep from crying out, the intensity of the sensation almost too much to bear as he fills her completely. His hand slides under her shirt again, pushing the fabric up and palming her breast, his thumb brushing over her nipple in a way that makes her arch against him, her body desperate for more of his touch.

He begins to move, thrusting into her with a slow, steady rhythm that has her head spinning. Each movement is deliberate, controlled, as if he’s savoring every moment, every sound she makes. She can’t help the small moans that escape her, each one muffled against his shoulder as she clings to him, her body trembling with the force of her need.

But even her attempts to stay quiet aren’t enough to satisfy him. He kisses her again, harder this time, swallowing her cries as he picks up the pace, his hips snapping against hers with a force that makes the bookshelf behind her rattle. The sounds of the library fade away, leaving only the echo of their ragged breaths and the wet, slick sounds of their bodies moving together.

“So fucking perfect,” he groans, his lips brushing against her ear as he pounds into her, each thrust hitting deeper, harder.

She can feel the tension building inside her, the pressure coiling tighter and tighter with every thrust. Her fingers dig into his back, holding on to him like he’s the only thing keeping her anchored to the ground.

“I need you,” she gasps, her voice a desperate whisper against his neck. “Please, Aemond… don’t stop.” The thrill of being caught only seems to make her want more.

His response is a low, guttural sound that sends shivers down her spine. He shifts slightly, changing the angle just enough to hit that perfect spot inside her, and suddenly she’s teetering on the edge, every nerve in her body alight with sensation.

“Come for me,” he whispers, his voice a dark command that she can’t resist.

And she does. Her body shatters around him, her release crashing over her in waves that leave her trembling and breathless. He kisses her again, swallowing her cries as he thrusts into her harder, faster, riding out her orgasm until she’s nothing but a quivering mess in his arms.

Aemond isn’t far behind. With a few more powerful thrusts, he buries himself deep inside her, his body going rigid as he finds his own release, groaning her name against her lips as he spills into her.

They stay like that for a moment, both of them breathing heavily, their bodies pressed together as they come down from the high. He kisses her softly, his lips lingering on hers as if he’s reluctant to pull away, and for a moment, it’s just the two of them, lost in the aftermath of what they’ve just shared.

When he finally pulls back, there’s a look in his eyes that she can’t quite place, something intense and raw that makes her heart skip a beat. He smooths her hair back, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead before helping her adjust her clothes, his touch now tender, almost reverent.

When she’s done with adjusting herself, she brings her hands over her mouth and lets out a long, shuddering breath - disbelief, over what they’d just done. He seems quite unfazed, almost as if he constantly engages in semi-public sex and she can’t help but wonder.

Has he done this with her too?

When he pulls her into his chest with an arm over her shoulder, she smiles. She smiles and smiles and smiles until her lips go taut and her dimples are seemingly permanent.

Aemond pushes open the door to her room, stepping inside with a quiet creak of the hinges. He pauses, his gaze taking in the chaos that greets him: clothes scattered across the floor, stacks of books and sketch pads teetering on the edge of her desk, and an assortment of half-packed bags and boxes cluttering every available surface. 

Raising an eyebrow, he surveys the scene with amusement. “You’ve been busy,” he says, his tone both teasing and intrigued.

She glances up from where she is hunched over a suitcase, her hands busy stuffing garments into it with an absentminded efficiency. “I am,” she says with a sigh, straightening up and brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “I’m packing to go back home next week. One of my older half-brothers is launching his business, and my dad called me today. He’s got plane tickets for me, so I thought I’d just stay at King’s Landing until the Targaryen Charity Benefit.”

Her eyes flicker over to him, a hint of apology in them as if she were embarrassed by the state of her room. “I’m taking my classes online while I’m there.”

Aemond hums, his gaze drifting to the cluttered bed as he sits at the edge. He runs a hand through his hair, still processing her news. “You’ll be gone for three weeks.”

She leaves the mess behind and stands in front of him, between his legs. Almost as though it’s second nature, she straddles him, her legs wrapping around his waist. His hands settle on her hips, holding her in place, and she smiles. “Yes, whatever will you do without me?”

Aemond’s grip tightens around her hips as she straddles him. He lifts a hand to brush a strand of hair from her face, his touch tender. Without a word, she leans down, capturing his lips in a soft, lingering kiss.

It’s gentle at first. His hands roam up her back, steadying her against him, while her fingers trace the line of his jaw, feeling the sharp angles beneath her touch. She melts into him, savoring the warmth of his chest and the familiar feel of his arms around her.

Her mind betrays her, hitting her with the sudden realization of how much she cares for him - how her feelings have resurfaced in full force despite everything. She told herself before that this was casual, but now, pressed against him, it's impossible to ignore the tenderness of the moment, how much it means to her.

Just as she's about to lose herself entirely, Aemond pulls back slightly, his lips brushing against hers as he speaks softly. “Come with me… to the Targaryen Charity Benefit.”

She blinks, his words cutting through the haze of her thoughts. “What?”

He meets her eyes, his thumb stroking her side. “Come with me.”

“As your date?” She raises her eyebrows, knowing very well that going with him to public events is probably not a safe bet to make.

“As whatever you’d like.”

Her heart skips a beat, the invitation sending a flutter through her chest. For a moment, she hesitates, her mind whirling. She can see herself there, on his arm, but doubt quickly gnaws at her. What about the other woman? The one she knows he’s seeing? Wouldn't that complicate things further?

But she pushes the thoughts aside, smiling softly at him as she whispers, “Okay.”

Before she can overthink it, she leans down and kisses him again, her lips urgent against his, as though trying to drown out the uncertainty lingering in her mind. But as the kiss deepens, the doubt creeps back in. Can she really be the girl on his arm without stirring up more trouble? Will his other entanglements only complicate things further? What are they even doing?

She can’t shake the feeling that it’s not as simple as he makes it sound.

Pulling back from the kiss, her breath still mingling with his, her fingers still on his chest. The question that’s been nagging at the back of her mind breaks through, and she can’t keep it at bay any longer. “What about her?” she asks, her voice quieter now. “The girl you’re seeing… is that not going to be a problem?”

Aemond’s expression shifts ever so slightly, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his gaze. He sighs, his hands resting lightly on her hips as he looks down, avoiding her eyes for a moment. “It’s not what we do,” he says, his voice soft but edged with a weight that makes her heart sink. “We don’t… go out.”

There’s a heaviness to his words, something almost resigned in the way he says them. It breaks her heart just slightly, the realization that this other girl—whoever she is— isn’t someone he even takes out in public. But why? Why would he hide someone if she wasn’t important to him in some way? Why come to her if she was important?

Her brows knitted together as she looked at him, searching his face for answers. “Why?” she asked softly, the question slipping out before she could stop herself. “Why hide her if she’s not…?”

He met her gaze then, his expression hard to read. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, as if weighing his response. “It’s complicated,” he finally said, his voice low, almost distant. “It’s not what we do. We can’t… it’s not what we do.”

The way he said it, the way the words hung between them, sent a pang through her chest. She had no idea what he was dealing with, but it was clear that whatever this was with the other woman wasn’t as simple as she’d imagined. Still, it left her wondering if she’d ever really have him, all of him, or if he was always going to be torn between worlds she couldn’t fully understand.

She looked away, trying to process it all. The warmth of his body against hers, the comfort of his arms around her—none of it could quiet the confusion that swirled in her mind. Aemond’s fingers tightened ever so slightly on her hips as he noticed the way her expression shifted, the light in her eyes dimming.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice softer now, almost pleading. He lifted a hand to cup her face, gently turning her head so she’d look at him. His thumb brushed lightly over her cheek. “It’s not what you think.”

She held his gaze for a moment, her expression guarded, but the doubt lingered in her eyes. “Isn’t it?”

Aemond exhaled, feeling the weight of the moment press down on him. “It’s not like that with her,” he said, his voice low, steady. “She won’t mind.”

She won’t mind. She won’t mind. She won’t mind. She won’t-

Her time with him was all because this other girl did not mind. And if she did? What then?

The words echoed in her mind, reverberating off every wall of her thoughts until they drowned out the sound of Aemond’s voice, the warmth of his touch. She won’t mind. It burned into her, the reality she had been pushing aside - her time with him, their moments together, the intimacy they shared, all hinged on the indifference of another woman. Her existence in his life was allowed because someone else didn’t care enough to stop it.

But what if she did? What if this other woman, whoever she was, suddenly decided she did care? What if, one day, Aemond had to choose? She already knew the answer, and it made her stomach twist painfully.

Her mind raced, flicking through every moment they’d shared - every touch, every kiss, every lingering glance - and she saw it clearly now. This arrangement, whatever it was, wasn’t the casual thing she had imagined. It was precarious, temporary, held together by his convenience and Aemond’s careful balancing act between her and someone else. And if that balance tipped? If the other girl did mind?

The thought is ugly, but she can’t help it.

She’ll be the one left behind, a brief chapter in his life, an afterthought in the wake of his real relationship. The thought makes her sick. She doesn’t want to be with someone who can’t put her first, who keeps her around because it’s easy and doesn’t disrupt his life. She doesn’t want to be the girl waiting in the wings, always wondering when it’ll end, when she’ll be discarded because something else took precedence.

Aemond’s touch no longer feels like a comfort. His words, however sweet, now seem hollow. She wants him, yes—wants him desperately, but not like this. She doesn’t need him. Not so much that she would destroy herself, let herself be diminished, just to be with him.

She doesn’t want to help him keep up his image while he spends the entire night waiting to go back to her.

The realization hits her like a wave, flooding her with a clarity she hasn’t grasped before. She’s been clinging to him, holding on to the fragments of what they have because she thought she couldn’t let go. But now, she sees it for what it is. She deserves more than being someone’s second choice, someone’s convenience.

She exhales softly and looks at him, really looks at him. His sharp features, silver hair falling slightly into his eyes, his expression holding mild confusion as he notices her shift. He’s beautiful, enigmatic, the kind of person who draws you in without even trying. And she loves him. That much is clear. But she loves herself, too. And this—this isn’t good for her.

For a long moment, she stays silent, her heart thudding in her chest as she gathers the courage to say what she knows has to be said. Her eyes search his face, memorizing him, this moment. Because after this, everything will change. There will be no going back.

All of this is happening on borrowed time - she deserves more.

Before she can fully process her resolve, Aemond moves. In one swift motion, he lifts her effortlessly, a startled gasp escaping her lips as he throws her back onto the bed. Her body bounces lightly against the sheets, her heart pounding as she looks up at him. He looms above her, a quiet intensity in his eyes, and for a second, everything else fades away - there’s only him.

His thumb grazes her bottom lip, slow and deliberate, as if he’s committing the feel of her to memory. She can’t tear her gaze away, her breath hitching when he leans down, pressing his forehead against hers. The warmth of his skin, the closeness of his breath - it’s intoxicating, and despite everything, despite her earlier resolve, she feels herself crumbling.

“Come with me.” His voice is low, a quiet plea she can't resist. Their foreheads press together, breath mingling, and for a moment, it feels like the world is holding its breath.

Her heart wavers, but the word slips out before she can stop it. “Okay.”

And then he's on her, kissing her with an intensity that steals her breath. His hands roam her body, rough yet tender, like he can't get enough of her. She melts beneath him, her hands tangling in his silver hair, pulling him closer, deeper.

Their bodies move together, a rhythm they know too well. He pushes into her slowly at first, drawing out her pleasure until she's arching into him, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps. His hands grip her hips, holding her steady as his thrusts become more urgent, more insistent.

She moans, her nails digging into his back under his shirt as she rides the waves of her release, trembling beneath him. But he isn’t done.

Before she can catch her breath, Aemond flips her over, positioning her on all fours. The cool air hits her back, sharp against the heat of his touch, and she shivers. His lips trace her spine with sweet kisses before he grips her hips again, pulling her back towards him.

Without warning, he thrusts into her hard and deep, and she cries out, her fingers clenching the sheets as he fills her completely. His movements are rough, every thrust powerful, almost desperate, as he chases his own pleasure. She can feel the tension in his body, the way his fingers dig into her skin, the low growl escaping his lips as he loses himself in her.

Each thrust sends her reeling, her body arching as he pounds into her, the bed creaking beneath them. The pressure builds again, her senses overwhelmed by the roughness of his touch, the way his body dominates hers. It’s primal, raw, and she gives in to it, letting the pleasure wash over her once more.

He moves faster, harder, his breaths ragged as he pushes them both to the edge. His fingers tighten on her hips, pulling her back into him with each powerful thrust, his control slipping. She feels him tense behind her, his rhythm faltering as he reaches his peak, his final thrusts erratic and frantic.

With one final, forceful push, he groans, his body trembling as he spills into her, his grip tightening as he holds her close. She gasps, her own body quivering from the intensity of it all, pleasure mingling with the rawness of what they’ve just shared.

Aemond shifts beside her, wrapping his arms around her waist as he pulls her into his chest. His warmth envelops her, the steady rise and fall of his breathing soothing against her skin. She nestles closer, feeling the way his body fits perfectly around hers, his arm draped possessively over her stomach.

The room is quiet, just the sound of their breathing filling the space. She stares at the wall, her mind still spinning from everything—the way he held her, the feel of his body against hers. It feels so real, so perfect, and it terrifies her.

"I'm hungry," she whines.

And then, he laughs. It’s quiet, just a low chuckle, but she feels his whole body move behind her, his chest pressing into her back as his shoulders shake slightly. She doesn’t need to see his face to know how he looks when he laughs - his lips upturned slightly, the sound soft but genuine, his whole body leaning forward with it. It’s rare, but she cherishes it every time.

She smiles to herself, her heart swelling in her chest. She likes him too much, more than she ever thought she would. Maybe she even loves him. The thought sends a pang through her, bittersweet and undeniable. Loving him wasn’t supposed to happen, not like this, but it’s too late to deny it.

But she’ll leave soon. And when she comes back, she’ll tell him the truth. She needs to know if there’s space for her in his life, or if the woman he guards so fiercely already holds that place.

Her chest tightens at the thought. She wants to be the one he turns to, the one he holds like this, the one he laughs with. But she can’t let herself be second. Not again.

She closes her eyes, breathing in the moment, memorizing how it feels to be wrapped in his arms. Because when she returns, everything will change.

One way or another.

She sits cross-legged on Arianne’s living room floor, nursing a glass of wine as she absentmindedly swirls the deep red liquid around in her glass. The cozy, dimly lit flat is filled with the soft sounds of an old record playing in the background, casting a nostalgic haze over the room. Arianne, always effortlessly composed, lounges on the couch, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders as she watches her with a knowing look in her eyes.

"You sneaky little bitch," Arianne says, narrowing her eyes playfully, lips curving into a teasing smirk. She exaggerates a cross-eyed look, making her wince and laugh in guilt.

“I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner,” she mumbles, her fingers tightening around the stem of her glass.

“Yeah, you should have,” Arianne huffs, tossing a pillow at her. “I would’ve liked to know you were fucking Aemond Targaryen, for gods’ sake! Girl, you should have told me!”

She winces again, guilt gnawing at her. “I’m sor—"

“Aemond. Fucking. Targaryen of all people,” Arianne says, incredulous, her eyes wide as she takes a gulp of her wine. “He doesn’t seem like your type, though. What’s going on there?”

She blinks, a little taken aback by that. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well,” Arianne begins, leaning back into the couch with a lazy smile, “he’s Aemond Targaryen. The man calls Facebook ‘Book of the Face,’ for crying out loud. Posh, arrogant prick.”

“He’s posh? You’re a bloody Martell!” She retorts, raising her glass to her lips. “And for the record, he’s not even on Facebook.”

Arianne rolls her eyes dramatically. “Weird. I’d have thought the youngest one, Daeron, would’ve been more your type. The life of the party, you know?”

Of course, she’d say that. Arianne has known the Targaryens for most of her life. The Martells, like the Targaryens, are part of Westeros' seven most prominent families—the others being the Starks, Lannisters, Tullys, Tyrells, and Baratheons. In these circles, it’s not just about wealth or influence; it's about legacy. Apart from the reclusive Starks, the children of these families grow up in each other's orbits, attending the same elite schools, galas, and events that reinforce their status at the top.

Wherever life takes them, they find one another, keeping close within their exclusive, almost impenetrable social circle. Friendships and rivalries are passed down from generation to generation, their connections as powerful as the fortunes they control. She understands this better than anyone. Her family, after all, has sat on the board of Targaryen Consolidated for generations, their fates intertwined with the silver-haired dynasty. It’s a world where the personal and professional are inseparable, where trust is as valuable as the wealth that surrounds them.

She shifts uncomfortably. “Yeah, Daeron’s... charming in his own way, but he’s basically Aegon if he wasn’t trying to screw anything in a dress.”

Arianne bursts into laughter, loud and unfiltered, leaning her head back. “Aegon’s fun though! I’ve hooked up with him a couple of times, and the sex was goo-ood!”

She groans, burying her face in her hands. “Ew, stop!”

“I’m just saying,” Arianne continues, completely unbothered. “Aegon may be a bit of a mess, but at least he knows how to have a good time. Aemond, on the other hand…” She trails off, raising an eyebrow, clearly amused by the whole situation. “I can’t believe you’re with him.”

She rolls her eyes, though a small smile tugs at her lips. “It’s not like that. Not really.”

Arianne scoots closer, intrigued. “Oh? Do tell.”

She sighs, taking a deep breath before the words tumble out. “I think I’m falling for him, Ari. But... It's so confusing. I mean, I was in love with Daeron not even a year ago. How does that even look? Like I’m hopping from one brother to the other.”

Arianne’s teasing expression softens at that, and she reaches out, placing a hand on her knee. “You…” she says gently, her voice lacking its usual playful edge. “You’re not hopping from one brother to the next. You’re figuring out what you want. It’s okay to change, to grow. And it’s okay to love someone new.”

Arianne tilts her head, considering her words carefully. “Look, if Aemond thought you were confused, he wouldn’t be spending all this time with you. He’s smart—too smart to waste his time on something that doesn’t matter to him. And from what you’ve told me, it sounds like he does care about you.”

She lets the words sink in, her chest tightening. “But it’s so much more complicated. He’s seeing someone—or was seeing someone. I don’t even know. He says it’s not serious, but…”

Arianne lets out a sympathetic sigh, pulling her into a side hug. “You need to talk to him. Really talk to him. Figure out where you both stand.”

She leans into her, resting her head on Arianne’s shoulder. “I’m scared. What if telling him ruins everything?”

Arianne rubs her back gently. “And what if it doesn’t? What if this is exactly what you both need to figure out where you’re going? You can’t keep avoiding it.”

She takes a deep breath, nodding. “You’re right. I’ll talk to him when I get back.”

“And if it’s real,” Arianne adds softly, “you won’t lose him. But if it’s not... you’ll be okay. I think you deserve better anyway.”

“Stop!” She whines. She then smiles, feeling lighter. “Thanks, Ari.”

“Anytime,” Arianne grins, nudging her playfully. “Now, can we please watch something trashy and stop talking about your Targaryen boys? My brain needs a break from all this drama.”

She laughs, grateful for the distraction. “I brought soda and chips!”

Arianne cheers, grabbing the remote. “You know just how to spoil me.”

“Ae-mond, please…”

On their last night before her flight back to King's Landing, they move slowly together, every touch deliberate and heavy. Their bodies come together with a fervor that’s almost desperate, as if they’re trying to hold onto something that’s slipping through their fingers.

Each kiss feels like a search, an attempt to erase the lingering traces of someone else’s touch from his skin. She wonders if she’ll ever fully wash away the imprint of another’s fingertips, or if she’s merely adding her own layer to him. Every caress, every kiss is an exercise in forensics, a quest to mark him with her own brand, hoping that her touch will replace any remnants of someone else.

As he presses into her with a familiar, almost instinctive harshness, she can’t help but wonder if the other girl’s body was fuller, more curvaceous. The way he handles her, the way he’s rough and gentle all at once, speaks of an experience that goes beyond her. His touch is meticulous, as if he’s dedicated to exploring every contour of her body with a reverence she feels he must have practiced before.

She’s acutely aware that he isn’t new to the art of adoration. His hands, his lips, his entire presence seem to carry a certain expertise—each stroke, each touch is a testament to a history of worshiping a woman’s body with precision and care. He seems to know exactly where to touch, how to press, as if he’s memorized the map of desire and is determined to chart every inch of her.

With every touch, she is reminded that there is someone else. It breaks her like nothing else.

Aemond’s hands roam with purpose, tracing every curve, every hollow with a skill that leaves her breathless. She can’t shake the thought that this is a ritual of sorts, a final act of devotion before she departs. Each touch, each kiss feels like an affirmation of what they’ve shared, an attempt to seal their moments together into something tangible, something she can carry with her.

As she nears her release, her body arches and shudders beneath him, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps. He follows soon after, his movements urgent and final, his breath ragged against her skin.

Afterward, they lie together in the dim room, the sounds of crickets chirping softly through the open window.

“How are you getting to the airport?” His voice is soft in a way that she wishes she can bottle up and take with her.

“Dad’s sending a car to the flat,” she replies, her voice muffled by the pillow and his embrace.

The room is filled with the subtle buzz of the lamp and the gentle rustling of the curtains in the night breeze. Aemond pulls her close, his arms wrapping around her as he kisses her shoulder tenderly.

When they wake, he says nothing as she takes a shower in a hurry to leave. He cooks a quick breakfast for them both with whatever he could find in her fridge, and she eats like a woman starved. He kisses her gently before he lets her go, and she cannot help but think.

She’s leaving every inch of Aemond to another woman exclusively for three weeks. What if he decides he does not want her when she comes back?

Then the thought at the back of her mind resurfaces - that she’s the other woman. No matter what Aemond says, she knows that much to be true.

“Aemond…?” She murmurs, quickly debating whether or not she should tell him now, if only so that he’d be tempted to not push her aside completely in her absence.

“Hm?”

“Nothing.” 

The words die on her tongue, just like a piece of her heart does when she gets on the plane.

The weeks pass by in a blur, and soon she finds herself standing in a crowded event hall, meeting her half-siblings after what feels like an eternity. Two of them are launching their new venture in the city, and the occasion has brought them all together. She interacts with them as much as she can, offering polite conversation and smiles, but she can’t help but feel a quiet astonishment at how little she truly knows about them. Despite the shared blood, they seem like strangers bound only by a distant connection.

It isn’t surprising, really. Jasper Wylde’s five children by his first wife had been adults long before he met her mother, and by the time she was born, the youngest of them was just leaving for college. The age gap, the separate lives - they had grown up worlds apart. There’s only so much they could have in common, and that knowledge weighs heavily on her as she exchanges pleasantries with them, feeling the disconnect more keenly with each passing moment.

She watches them closely - the way they move through the crowd, how they speak to each other with an ease that she’s never known with them. They have their own inside jokes, shared memories, and a rhythm that she’s never been a part of. It’s like watching a family dynamic she can’t quite break into, one she’s always been on the outskirts of. Even as they make small talk, she feels the invisible walls between them, the years of absence and unfamiliarity creating a distance that no amount of cordiality can erase.

But she plays her part—engages when they speak to her, listens as they recount their stories, and smiles when it’s appropriate. Yet all the while, she feels that sense of being on the outside looking in. They talk about their father, Jasper, with a familiarity that she can’t match, their experiences with him vastly different from her own. It’s clear that, in many ways, they had a father she never really knew.

What amazes her most, though, is how much closer she feels to the Targaryens than to her own blood. The realization strikes her with a quiet weight as she stands among her half-siblings, exchanging polite words, but never quite connecting. With the Targaryens, everything feels different—natural, easy, as though she belongs in their orbit in a way she never has with her own family.

With the Targaryens, she doesn’t feel like she’s on the outside looking in. She belongs. In their world, she’s more than just the youngest child of a man with a complicated past - she’s someone who matters.

Being home has made her feel strangely untethered. It’s not that she isn’t used to it—this distance from Aemond—but somehow, this time it feels different. Maybe it’s because she knows she’ll see him again soon, in just a matter of weeks, but it feels like the days are dragging by, each one marked by the weight of missing him.

She lies in bed late one evening, her phone resting on the pillow next to her, waiting for the familiar buzz. It’s become a routine—Aemond calling just before she falls asleep, his voice the last thing she hears at night. When the phone finally lights up with his name, she answers without hesitation.

"Hey," she says, trying to keep her voice casual, but her heart picks up the pace as soon as she hears his breath on the other end.

"Hey," he replies softly. There’s a brief pause, and she can hear the faint sounds of his apartment in the background—the muffled hum of traffic, the creak of his chair. "How’s home?"

"Fine, I guess. Quiet." She smiles a little, thinking of how everything feels slower here. "I saw my half-siblings today, for the launch thing."

"How was that?" His tone is neutral, but she knows he’s asking because he cares, not out of mere politeness.

"It was... weird. I don’t know, I barely know them. I guess I’m just realizing how distant we are." She pauses, feeling the words settle in the quiet between them. "I feel closer to your family than to mine. Maybe because yours is the better family. Although, I do have the better father."

He’s quiet for a moment, and she imagines him leaning back in his chair, considering her words. “I can assure you, your family is just fine. You don’t want mine.”

She laughs, a little caught off guard by the softness in his voice. "Yeah, maybe."

They fall into an easy rhythm after that, talking about nothing in particular—work, the weather, what he had for dinner. It’s all so simple, so familiar, and yet she finds herself hanging on every word, savoring the sound of his voice, the way he says her name. It’s the closest she can get to him right now, and it isn’t enough.

There’s a pause, and then Aemond asks, "So, how long now? Two weeks?"

She bites her lip, her heart skipping a beat. "Yeah, just about."

"You’re counting the days?"

She can hear the smile in his voice, and she feels her cheeks flush despite herself. "Maybe."

"You miss me," he says, his voice gentle, and it’s not a question. It’s a statement, and it lands with a weight that she can feel in her chest.

"Maybe I do," she admits quietly, her heart pounding. There’s a moment of silence, and in that space, the truth presses at the edges of her thoughts, threatening to spill out.

When she speaks again, her voice is softer, more serious. "Aemond, we need to talk.”

She hears him shift on the other end, a subtle rustling of fabric. "What is it?"

She hesitates, not ready to say it yet. "A conversation best had in person."

"Alright," he says, his voice low, almost tender. 

She hangs up, her heart racing, her fingers still gripping the phone tightly. The warmth of his words lingers, solidifying her resolve. When she sees him again, she’ll tell him. She’ll tell him everything.

The event takes place in a grand hall, tucked away in the heart of the city but worlds apart from the modern, bustling life outside. The walls are lined with rich mahogany wood, centuries-old oil portraits of stern ancestors in gilded frames, and shelves stacked high with leather-bound books whose spines are worn with age. 

She steps inside and is immediately enveloped in the hushed murmurs of conversation, the gentle clinking of crystal glasses, and the soft rustle of fabric as guests move gracefully through the dimly lit space. Despite the outward calm, there’s an electric tension in the air as the auctioneer lifts the gavel to announce each winning bid. There’s a certain satisfaction, almost smug, in the faces of those who come away with a prized possession, as if they’ve secured another piece of their heritage. For the others, there’s no outward disappointment—just a cool, composed silence, knowing there will be another opportunity to prove their worth.

She sits back, observing it all, feeling both a part of this world and strangely removed from it. The dark paneling on the walls, the rich smell of leather and smoke, the soft glow of the fireplace at the far end of the room - it’s all familiar, yet there’s something about it that feels performative, as if the evening is a carefully constructed illusion. The charity, the good intentions, seem secondary to the ritual of it all. As the final item is brought out - a centuries-old manuscript in a glass case - the room stills. In the end, the manuscript is sold for an astronomical price. The gavel falls with a sharp crack, and polite applause ripples through the crowd, though it’s more a gesture of respect than enthusiasm.

As the final round of applause fades, the grand oak doors at the back of the room swing open, and Viserys Targaryen steps forward. His presence is immediately felt, even if he looks frail and thinner than ever before. She heard from Aemond that he’d taken up residence at Dragonstone now, having bought an apartment for himself to stay after his parents' secret, unofficial separation.

"Ladies and gentlemen," his voice is smooth, warm, and commanding all at once, carrying easily over the subdued murmur of the crowd. "What a night this has been. I’m not sure what’s more impressive - the art we’ve auctioned off or the fact that some of you managed to keep your bids as discreet as you did. Subtlety, after all, is an art in itself," he says with a slight chuckle, eliciting polite laughter from the audience.

"Your generosity tonight is overwhelming," he continues, his tone shifting to one of sincere gratitude. "These contributions will go a long way in supporting the causes we hold dear, ensuring that history is preserved for future generations to appreciate - something I think we all understand better than most."

"And now," Viserys adds with a glint of amusement, "I know you’ve all been quite serious about your bidding, but it's time to relax a little." The room hums in agreement.

"Please," he gestures toward the doors leading to the adjoining ballroom, "join me for a night of music, dancing, and, of course, more wine. I think we’ve all earned it after such a spectacular evening."

With a final smile, Viserys steps down from the podium, the soft clapping of the crowd filling the room as guests begin to rise from their seats, gathering their evening coats and handbags. The heavy double doors to the ballroom swing open, revealing a space even grander than the auction hall. The light spills out, golden and inviting, as the soft strains of a string quartet begin to play from within.

She takes her father’s hand and walks in with him, their pace in tandem with each other. 

Do you think we’ll make it through this evening without someone bringing up a new investment opportunity?" she murmurs, her voice laced with dry amusement, eyes scanning the sea of chandeliers, gilded mirrors, and finely dressed people mingling as they enter the ballroom.

Jasper Wylde glances down at her with a half-smile. "Doubt it," he says. "There’s always someone with a 'brilliant' idea that just needs a little backing."

She lets out a soft chuckle. "Maybe we should place bets on who brings it up first."

"Ten crowns on Lord Massey," he says, his tone casual, but the glint in his eye betrays his amusement. "He’s been circling us all night."

"You're on," she replies, feeling lighter as they reach the grand archway leading into the ballroom. The gentle strains of the string quartet swirl around them, and she allows herself to soak in the surroundings.

Their moment of ease is brief. As soon as they step fully into the room, a cohort of middle-aged men in dark suits, all clutching glasses of whiskey, make their approach, their faces lighting up at the sight of her father. She can see the shift in his demeanor - the casualness dropping ever so slightly, replaced by a more guarded, professional air.

"Ah, here we go," Jasper mutters under his breath. 

One of the men, a stocky figure with graying hair and a booming voice, claps her father on the shoulder. "Ironrod, just the man we were looking for!" he says, raising his glass. "We were just discussing the latest venture down in Storm’s End. Care to weigh in?"

Her father gives her a rueful look, the corner of his mouth quirking as if to say I told you so. "Duty calls," he says softly to her, before turning to the group with a more affable expression. "Gentlemen, lead the way."

And just like that, he’s swept up into the conversation, nodding and exchanging knowing glances with the men as they disappear into a corner of the ballroom. Before she can fully orient herself, Daeron appears at her side, his usual easy grin plastered across his face.

"Well, look who it is," he says warmly, pulling her into a quick embrace. "I thought I'd have to search the entire ballroom to find you."

She laughs lightly. "I wasn’t hiding, just waiting for you to make your grand entrance. How was Essos?"

Daeron’s face lights up, and he launches into a recount of his summer abroad with Helaena, his energy infectious. "It was wild. Good time with Hel, she took me along to the coastline and we went around looking for almost-extinct bugs in Lys." He rolls his eyes but there’s fondness in his voice.

She smiles at the thought of Helaena. "Sounds like her. Where is she tonight?"

"With our grandfather and Aemond, somewhere over there," Daeron says, nodding toward a nearby cluster of people. Sure enough, she spots Helaena waving enthusiastically, her face alight with joy as she talks to Otto. Aemond, standing next to her, gives a small, almost imperceptible nod when their eyes meet. His gaze lingers for a moment longer than it should, and her heart stirs in response.

She can’t help but smile softly, and, on a whim, she winks at him. She’s had a bad feeling about this night ever since she woke, but it all dissipates massively the moment his gaze meets hers. He doesn’t react outwardly, but there’s something in his posture that shifts ever so slightly, a subtle acknowledgment.

Daeron catches the exchange but remains oblivious, laughing as he gestures to the ballroom. "Come on, let’s take a look around. It's the same as always, but a little darker, don't you think?"

“Perhaps,” she remarks dryly, glancing around at the decadent decor.

As they stroll through the room, their eyes catch Will Tyrell, who is deep in conversation with an older man near the far end of the ballroom.

"Ah, Will," Daeron says, grinning as he gestures toward him. "His father's expanding their business, you know. Will's been training to take over soon. Everyone's talking about it."

"I’ve seen him around campus," she replies, keeping her voice casual. "We almost hooked up once, actually."

Daeron raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "Really? What happened?"

Her stomach twists at the memory, a flash of the panic that had overwhelmed her that night. She remembers calling Aemond, his voice steadying her over the phone as she told him where she was. He’d picked her up, no questions asked. The bitterness that rises in her throat is unexpected, but it’s there, sharp and real.

"Don’t even ask," she mutters, her voice tight as she glances away, trying to shake off the heaviness of the memory.

Daeron, sensing her shift in mood, just nods, his usual carefree demeanor faltering slightly. He doesn’t push for details, instead flashing her a soft smile as they continue to walk through the room, the tension between them dissipating into the hum of the ballroom.

"Oh look, it’s the little runts," Aegon drawls, his speech a bit slurred. He saunters toward them, an empty champagne flute dangling from his fingers, Sara Snow by his side. She’s looking slightly amused, though there’s a softness in her expression that suggests she's trying to rein him in.

"Aegon," Daeron greets him with mock surprise, a grin spreading across his face. “Dude you’re already drunk, mum’s going to kill you.”

"Give it time," Aegon quips with a lazy smirk. "The night’s still young, brother."

Sara stifles a laugh, though her eyes are warm as she glances up at Aegon. "I’m doing my best to make sure he behaves," she says, her voice carrying a playful edge.

"Oh, please," Daeron rolls his eyes. "Aegon behaving is like...what, dragons coming back to life?”

"Exactly," Aegon retorts. "No fun at all."

"Yeah, you're all fun and no taste," Daeron jabs back. "In...well, pretty much everything."

Aegon dramatically clutches his chest as if wounded. "Excuse you, I happen to have impeccable taste."

"Oh really?" she chimes in, unable to resist the tease. "Let's not forget the time you tried to convince everyone that that neon green sports car was ‘classy.’ Or when you spent a fortune on that God-awful abstract painting that looked like a child had spilled paint on a canvas."

Aegon raises an eyebrow, clearly unfazed. "Hey, that car is an acquired taste, and the painting? It’s avant-garde. You wouldn’t get it."

Daeron bursts out laughing, shaking his head. "Right, keep telling yourself that."

But before anyone else can jump in, she adds with a smirk, "To be fair, Aegon has great taste in women."

Sara, who had been quietly listening, suddenly blushes furiously, her cheeks turning a deep shade of pink. She ducks her head, trying to hide her smile, but it’s clear she’s both flattered and embarrassed by the comment.

Aegon, however, grins wickedly. "Ah, finally, someone recognizes my true genius," he says, draping an arm around Sara, who shoots him a look but doesn’t pull away.

"Yeah, genius is the word I’d use," Daeron deadpans, earning another round of laughter from the group.

Aegon, noticeably tipsy and grinning like a Cheshire cat, leans in close to Sara, his words slightly garbled. "You know, Sara, I just remembered I left something...um, somewhere. How about we go find it together?"

Sara looks at him with a mixture of amusement and mild concern, but before she can respond, Aegon takes her hand and starts to guide her toward the door.

"Careful with that one," Daeron calls out, his tone light and teasing. "I’ve seen him turn a charity event into a rave before."

"Ah, don’t worry," she replies, her voice tinged with a hint of laughter. "I think he’s already got plans for a private after-party."

With a final chuckle, Daeron watches as they exit, the door closing behind them.

She turns back to Daeron, her gaze thoughtful. "By the way, what’s up with Floris? I haven’t seen her around tonight."

Daeron’s expression shifts, a shadow of sadness crossing his face. "Oh, um, we broke up," he says quietly, almost as if he’s still coming to terms with it.

Her heart twinges with genuine sympathy. "I’m really sorry to hear that. I hope you’re okay."

Daeron nods, managing a small, appreciative smile. "Thanks. It’s been...a lot. But I’ll be fine."

"Where is she, then? At the event, I presume?"

"Yeah, she’s here," Daeron confirms. "Probably with her parents and sisters. It was a bit weird to be honest.”

“I can imagine.” Just then, a waiter with a tray of champagne flutes comes by. They each take one, and Daeron is about to take a sip when he is called away by Otto Hightower.

As Daeron makes his way through the crowd, she turns to find Arianne Martell approaching her, her presence immediately drawing attention with her striking elegance. “You look amazing, Ari!”

Arianne’s eyes sparkle with a hint of mischief as she greets her. “So do you. But let’s cut to the chase. That’s not the Targaryen I was expecting to see you with tonight.”

“I haven’t told him yet. The time isn’t right. Soon though.”

“You mean you keep putting it off.”

“No, I just… I don’t know.”

“Look around you, babe. Half of these people are on the lookout - and those Targaryen kids? All their mothers are training their girls to get one. If my father had his way, I’d be throwing myself at Aegon!”

“Ari! Don’t be so crude.”

“I’m being realistic. Make your move.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m your best friend.” 

As they talk, she feels a strange unease settling in her stomach. Her gaze drifts across the room, taking in the opulence and the perfectly polished ambiance of the ballroom. Something about it all feels off, like there’s an underlying current she can’t quite grasp.

Noticing her silence and distant look, Arianne asks, “Is everything okay? You seem a bit… off.”

She hesitates for a moment before responding, “I don’t know. It’s just… something feels off. I have this gut feeling, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

Arianne’s brow furrows in concern. “What do you mean?”

She shrugs, trying to shake off the unease. “I’m not sure. Maybe it’s just the atmosphere. Everything is so perfect, almost too perfect.”

Arianne’s brow furrows in concern. “What do you mean?”

She shrugs, trying to shake off the unease. “I’m not sure. I don’t know if it’s just me being paranoid or if there’s actually something going on.”

Arianne nods, her expression thoughtful. “It’s in your head babe. Calm down alright? You’ll be fine!”

Aemond finds them, cutting through the crowd with an ease that only someone accustomed to these events could manage. His presence alone seems to command attention, and she feels her heart flutter as he approaches. He leans in and presses a soft kiss to her forehead, his breath warm and comforting. “You look pretty,” he murmurs, his voice low and genuine.

Her eyes follow him as he straightens, unable to help herself from shamelessly ogling him. The way his dark suit fits him so perfectly, the sharp cut of his jaw, the glint of his eyes—it’s all so striking that she finds it hard to look away. He’s right in front of her, and yet he feels like a distant star that she can’t quite reach, but desperately wants to.

Arianne, ever perceptive, catches the look on her face and raises an eyebrow with a playful smirk. “I’ll leave you two to it,” she says, her tone dripping with teasing. “You know, give you some space.”

She winks at them both before wiggling her eyebrows suggestively and slipping away into the crowd. Her departure leaves a space between them that feels both comforting yet like too much. “You look very nice,” she says.

Aemond’s lips curl into a faint, enigmatic smile. “Flattery will get you everywhere,” he replies, his tone a mix of aloofness and affection that she finds utterly endearing. “Though I must say, I’m quite taken with how you look tonight.”

She catches his gaze, her smile widening. “Well, I’m glad I managed to impress you.”

His eyes twinkle with mischief. “You always manage to.”

There’s a pause, a moment of quiet intimacy, as their eyes lock. Aemond’s hand on her back feels reassuring, grounding her in the present. He then wordlessly gives her his hand, and she takes it. She always will, she is his.

With a gentle but purposeful tug, Aemond guides her through the maze of the ballroom, leading her into the darker, quieter corridors of the estate. The soft hum of distant conversations and the clinking of glasses fade as they move further from the main event.

Eventually, they reach a secluded room, dimly lit and private. Aemond closes the door behind them, cutting off the noise from the outside world. Without a word, he steps closer, his lips capturing hers in a kiss that starts soft but quickly deepens. Aemond’s hands find her waist, his grip firm and possessive. 

His lips are demanding, their kisses fiery and passionate. She responds with equal fervor, her hands sliding up his chest to grip the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer. The connection between them is raw, almost desperate, as if they’re trying to make up for lost time with every touch.

Aemond’s hands roam over her back, his fingers pressing firmly against her skin, as if he’s trying to imprint her presence into his memory. She can feel the heat of his body through the fabric of their clothes, the tension in his muscles as he holds her tightly.

She gasps into his mouth as he pulls her even closer, his touch igniting a fire within her. His hands travel down to her waist, pulling her flush against him, his lips trailing hot, urgent kisses along her jawline and down her neck. She arches into his touch, her fingers tangling in his hair, drawing him back to her lips with a desperate hunger.

Gods, she likes him too much for her own good.

Finally, their lips part, and they break away, both gasping for breath. The room is filled with a lingering tension, the air heavy with the intensity of their embrace. They take a moment to collect themselves, their faces flushed and eyes still locked in a shared, heated gaze.

Aemond gently brushes a strand of hair from her face, his touch tender despite the fervor of their earlier kisses. “I have to go shake more hands,” he says, his voice reluctant. He offers a small, apologetic smile, his knuckles lingering on her cheek for a moment longer before he pulls away. “I’ll find you later.”

She nods, her heart still racing from their encounter. “Okay,” she replies softly, her voice a touch breathless. She watches as he turns to leave, and the moment he does - the feeling of unease comes back.

She walks back into the ballroom, smoothing down her dress and taking a deep breath to calm the rapid beat of her heart. The lingering warmth from Aemond’s touch is still on her skin, but the feeling of unease that had vanished in his presence now returns in full force.

As she steps further into the room, she spots a familiar face from across the crowd - one of the curators from the Westeros National Museum. He strides toward her with a knowing smile, gesturing to a nearby exhibit of her ancestor Coryanne Wylde’s paintings. “I was just about to ask if you’d seen these,” he says as they exchange pleasantries. “It’s rare to come across someone with a direct connection to the artist.” She smiles in response.

The curator nods in appreciation, and together, they walk over to the group of art enthusiasts who are gathered around the paintings. As they approach, she immediately recognizes someone else among them: her professor Alys Rivers. The professor’s sharp gaze softens slightly when she spots her, clearly surprised to see her here.

“Professor! So good to see you here, I wasn’t expecting you! Are you with someone?”

Alys chuckles lightly, offering a polite smile and points her finger beyond her shoulder. “That’s my brother.” She raises her eyebrows as she follows her gaze and raises an eyebrow. “Your brother’s Headmaster Strong?”

“My half-brother, yes. Which explains the different surnames.”

“Wow, small world.”

“We were just discussing some of the first-edition Volantene classics that we’ve been trying to source for the museum,” one of the curators says, a note of excitement in his voice. “A few Valyrian classics as well. It’s been quite the hunt.”

Her interest piques at the mention of Valyrian literature. The conversation drifts toward a particular Valyrian classic, The Last Embrace, and her attention locks in immediately, memories of Aemond reading it to her still vivid in her mind. One of the curators leans forward, adjusting his glasses.

“It’s such a beautiful work,” he says. “That passage where they talk about love being both a gift and a curse? The language is so intricate, it’s no wonder it’s one of the rarest Valyrian texts we’ve managed to preserve.”

Another curator nods in agreement. “Yes, I believe the exact line is something about love being a disease, but one we choose to suffer from?”

Before Wylde can speak, Professor Rivers steps in, her voice measured and calm. “Love is a disease of the mind, but one we willingly suffer for. It’s one of the most poignant lines in the entire text.”

Wylde's breath catches at the familiarity of the words. It was the same phrase he had marked, tracing the words as he read.

“That line,” Professor Rivers continues, “it’s always struck me. The complexity of love in Valyrian culture—how it could be both destructive and profound at the same time.”

The first curator smiles thoughtfully. “It’s fascinating how much depth there is in just one sentence. That’s what makes it a masterpiece. We’ve been trying to source a first-edition copy for years now.”

Rivers nods. “It’s difficult to find. I was lucky enough to own one of the first editions. Loaned it to someone close a while back, actually.”

Her chest tightens. The same line. The same book. She tries to push the thought away, but it grips her, the unease from earlier settling deep in her bones.

I know someone who can find the premium first edition copies, he had said.

But she doesn’t even teach him. And he’s Aemond Targaryen - he probably knows a hundred people of resource who can find him all the books he wants.

But there’s only three known copies of the first print in Westeros…

The feeling of unease that she had pushed aside the entire night comes back in full force - she doesn’t know why. It is a nagging feeling that refuses to go away, and she does not know what she’ll do about it.

Before she can dwell on it further, an attendant addresses her. He tells her that her father is asking for her from across the room. She excuses herself, turning away from the group with a polite smile. As she moves, she catches a fleeting glimpse of Professor Rivers’ necklace, the light glinting off the familiar design. Her breath falters.

She recognizes it.

A few months ago, she had seen that very necklace at Aemond’s apartment. She remembers asking him about it, how he had alluded to it belonging to a woman that he’s seeing. At the time, she hadn’t pressed him, unsure if she even wanted to know the details.

One of the curators points out the necklace, commenting on its unique craftsmanship. “That’s a Strong family heirloom, isn’t it?” he asks with admiration. “Quite the rare piece. One of a kind, if I’m not mistaken.”

Alys smiles, her hand brushing over the pendant. “Yes, it is. Passed down through generations. Only one of a kind.”

She feels like the ground is shifting beneath her feet. She can’t stop the flood of thoughts now, the connections falling into place. Her chest tightens as she pulls away from the group, her steps unsteady, her mind whirling with possibilities she doesn’t want to entertain.

No. It’s not what you think. It can’t be.

“It’s very beautiful, professor,” she says. “It was… uhm… it was nice to see you here. I’m going back to… my father’s expecting me.” The torrid nature of her thoughts shows on her face, and she can feel her palms sweating as the music and the crowd threaten to overwhelm her.

“Are you alright, Ms Wylde? You seem quite disoriented,” her professor says. She holds her onto her elbow to help steady her even if she hasn’t quite careened to the floor yet. Her skin burns where she holds her, and she wonders if she knows.

She looks her professor straight in her eyes, hoping to find any recognition. Then again, she doesn’t want to know too. 

“No, just… you know how these things can be. They tire you out quickly I suppose. I’m just going to…” 

She walks out of the ballroom and into the vast expanse of open gardens. She breathes and breathes and breathes.

It can’t be.

MASTERLIST

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[solitary-traveler]

Seeking Sweet Serenity

You're tired after a long day and Wanderer is there to help you.

Wanderer x Gn!Reader

Notes: This is very self indulgent. School sucks ass and I fr need to be comforted by Wanderer.

Art: @yXaBLUGg7Yqtw1y (X)

Warning: None, this is just pure fluff.

Life is shit.

So shit.

Your natural efficiency attracted incompetency, individuals at every turn would raise their voice to seize your attention. Yet every word they spill, every letter that rolls out their tongue, were nothing but vexing phrases. 

“Traveler, please help me!” 

“Traveler, can you do me a favor?”

You were sick of it.

Your throat releases a sigh from its confines as you shoulder brusquely the wooden door in front of you. A feeling of tranquility often swaddles you upon entering your shared apartment with Wanderer, but right now, the solace you had found was rived from your grasp, leaving you vulnerable to animosity. Your thoughts torment your brain, tears pricking the rim of your eyes. Oh how you’d do anything to stop yourself from feeling this way. 

Upon overhearing the door screech, Wanderer glances at the entrance. He caught sight of your silhouette, stumbling on your feet. The corners of his lips shifted upwards, it was amusing how much you were akin to that of a drunk person. He rests his arms around his chest, shoulders slumped against the wall. “Who killed you? You look like a corpse”, he teased.

You didn’t answer, opting to stay quiet. The stillness grew, leaving a lingering sense of unbearable silence hanging in the air.

Wanderer couldn’t help but raise a brow. You were acting most peculiar today. Usually, you would’ve returned his jab, possibly even teasing him back just to watch him squirm and insult you back. Yet you remain rooted in your place, not uttering a single term.

Sensitive to this agonizing dread of not hearing your voice, he decided to approach you. His footsteps were light, his sandals clicking across the floor boards. “You alright?” he asked, looming over you. Despite his imposing figure, he was gentle, almost afraid that he might break you with every word that slips out his mouth. Without warning, your figure clasps its hands around him, leaving the Wanderer stunned. “I’m fine”, was the reply you managed to choke out.

But he knew better. He knew you weren’t fine.

Though how was he supposed to react to this? The Wanderer was never one to deal with emotions. All throughout his life, he channeled all his emotions into a glass bottle before throwing them far away into the depths of his non-existent heart. It wasn’t healthy, he knows that now. It only escalates everything further. He has long abandoned his fervent feelings, and he was just slowly unboxing them again. He doesn’t have any clue as to how one should properly deal with them. But watching you suffer in his arms made him wish he knew. It made him wish he was well versed in the area, that he knew how to help you with your current situation.

With only one card available to play, he decided to gamble his chance. He tried a method that worked for him, a process Nahida does whenever he was emotionally unstable. With a soft sigh, he cards his gloved fingers through your locks. ”You wanna cuddle on the couch… and talk about it?” he asked, a certain softness coating his words. You merely looked up and nodded your head meekly.

Wanderer smiles. 

You just want to be comforted. 

And he knew that.

He'll make sure you're okay.

[masonmtxo]

Change Your Ticket

Summary: Mason leaves for preseason in LA. Contains smut 18+.

Word count: 4.3k

Notes: this has been in my drafts forever and despite coming back to it multiple times I still can’t make it flow the way I want so sorry if it’s a mess! As always, feedback is welcomed 🩷

•••

Mason had been quiet all day, his loud laugh and terrible jokes had been noticeably absent as the evening drew in closer.

He had refused to leave your side for the most part of the day, following you around the house like a lost puppy, tucking his head into your neck and wrapping you in his arms from behind at every opportunity. Conversation had been kept to a minimum in your usually lively household, other than to answer you in as few words as possible when you spoke to him. All that had left his mouth had been soft ‘I love you’s and ‘I’m going to miss you’s, whispered into your ear so gently you nearly didn’t catch them.

“C’mon Mase, you need to get packed,” you murmured when the lock screen of your phone showed the time was nearing 8pm, gently scratching his scalp as he laid on your chest, snuggled as close to you as he physically could be, legs tangled together as a film neither of you had been paying much attention to played in the background.

He shook his head, burrowing into you further as you let out a sigh. He had a tendency to be clingy and loving the night before going away, it was a regular occurrence over the years of your relationship, but never to this extreme. He was touchy and cuddly at the best of times, but tonight it was as if he physically couldn't bear to not be touching you.

“What’s got into you baby?” You soothed, “talk to me.” Sitting up slightly, forcing him to lift his head from the safety of your chest, you cupped your hand around his cheek, catching the gaze of his brown eyes.

He shrugged, trying to duck away from you, but you held firm, “I don't want to go.”

You frowned softly, sensing his anxieties about going to America tomorrow for pre season were more than just to do with the flight itself and something else was bothering him. Although he traveled often for matches, he never looked forward to flying, especially without you to keep him company, but after coming back from training earlier in the week to excitedly announce Rasmus had been assigned to sit next to him, he had seemed a lot more relaxed. “Yes you do Mase, you’ve been so excited to get back playing,” your voice was encouraging, attempting to relight the sparkle in his sad expression, “and you’ve worked so hard this summer to get your fitness back to where you wanted it to be.”

He turned away from you, eyebrows furrowed and pout so pronounced you almost wanted to giggle, but you refrained, continuing to stroke over his hair as you waited for him to speak, knowing it relaxed him.

“I wanted you to come,” his voice was almost a whisper when he finally spoke, red flushing over his cheeks letting you know he was embarrassed to admit that had been tormenting him all day.

Your heart ached at his admission, you knew he was gutted that you wouldn’t be flying out with his family to watch his preseason matches due to last minute work commitments, but you hadn’t realised it had upset him so much. “Oh baby,” you sighed, finally letting him tuck himself back away in the crook of your neck, “I wanted to be there so bad too. But Lew will be there! And your mum and dad are flying out for the Arsenal game!”

It went without saying he would miss you, and he was disappointed you were going to miss his games, but you hadn't anticipated the lack of your presence in the stands was enough to have him feeling so troubled. You knew your encouragement had fallen on deaf ears when he shook his head again, taking a deep breath and rolling off of your body to his feet.

“Come help?” His voice was soft, shrouded in sadness. Holding out a hand he carefully pulled you up, refusing to let go as he guided you upstairs to your room.

•••

You had packed his case in near enough silence, you doing most of the work, holding up items of clothing to mostly be met with an unbothered shrug. Luckily most of what he would be wearing was training kits supplied by the club, so after packing him enough comfies, underwear and a few nicer outfits for any days off or team dinners, you zipped up his case.

Mason gave you a sweet kiss in thanks before mumbling he was going to brush his teeth and get ready for bed. His head was hung low making your heart break at the obvious sadness radiating off of him.

You sat from a moment, racking your brain for anything you could put in his case to make him smile once he arrived in LA. Mason always left a worn jumper or tshirt of his on the bed whenever he went away, knowing that it would make you smile when you found it before bed the first night he was away. It was something thoughtful that you very much appreciated, this time wanting to do the same for him hoping to give him comfort the way he always did for you.

Checking the door to the bathroom was definitely shut, you quickly darted to your side of the bed as an idea popped into your head, grabbing the small teddy he had won you at an arcade on your third date. You’d made the mistake of letting Mason name it, thinking he would come up with something cute, but his imaginative reply of “Ted,” had your eyes rolling. But from the day Ted had come home, he had stayed beside your side of the bed, first in your flat and now in your shared house, only ever moving from his spot when he traveled anywhere with you, becoming somewhat of a sentimental comfort blanket that reminded you of your boyfriend.

Opening up his case, keeping your eyes firmly on the bathroom door as you did so, you tucked Ted under Mason’s favorite hoodie, knowing it would be the first item he reached for upon arriving at the hotel in California. You zipped it back up and propped it up by the door ready for Mason to grab in the morning.

You got yourself ready for bed as well, nipping into the bathroom once a boxer-clad Mason came shuffling out, wrapping you in a quick side hug as he passed.

He was already in bed when you returned to the room, laying on his back staring blankly at the ceiling, eyes falling to you as he felt the bed dip beside him. You laid next to him, smiling knowingly as he shuffled towards you, carefully flopping his body on top of yours, head placed over your chest so he could hear your steady heartbeat. It wasn't often you cuddled like this, most of the time it was you being babied and loved on by Mason, but tonight he was the one in need of comfort and proximity to calm his anxieties. Hooking one leg around his, you pressed him as tightly into your body as you could, the weight of him on top of you brought you as much comfort as it did him.

“I rang the dog trainers earlier, they’re gonna drop Ace off tomorrow late morning,” he whispered into your skin, running the tip of his nose against your neck as he snuggled impossibly further into your body.

You tilted your head to try and catch his eye but he didn't look up, gently scratching the back of his head in silent acknowledgment. You knew part of his worries about going away were not just just about not getting to see you, but also to do with leaving you, having not been left for such a long period on your own since the move up to Manchester. With no family and only a small group of friends in the area, within weeks of moving up North, Mason had begun looking into protection dogs, Ace coming into your lives not long after. Your pup still had some training to go, but for the most part knew his job, his close bond to you both and natural instincts as well as his training so far had you feeling safe in his presence. So you weren't surprised that Mason had organized for Ace to come home from training board a week early to keep you company and ease Mason’s mind that you wouldn't be in the house alone and unprotected.

“Get some sleep Masey,” you cooed, fingers now tracing patterns along the expanse of his muscled back to try and soothe him, “love you.”

“I love you too.”

•••

When you awoke that morning the first thing you noticed was your proximity to the edge of the bed, opening your eyes to see the corner of your bedside table directly in front of your face having shifted onto your side in the night. Your boyfriend's body was still flush against you, looking over your shoulder to see the back of his head on your pillow beside you. You couldn't help but chuckle to yourself, sitting up carefully to look at the other side of your super king bed, Mason’s side untouched as even in his unconscious state he had opted to stay as close to you as he physically could be.

Reaching for your phone, you checked the time, 7:08am flashing on the screen. Your alarm was set for half past to give yourselves enough time to get up and ready before you needed to drop Mason at Carrington for 9. You carefully laid back down on your side facing him, wrapping your arm around his body, wanting to enjoy the last few minutes with him in your arms before there was an ocean between you.

Mason didn’t wake until your alarm sounded, groaning as he instinctively pulled your arm further around his chest making you giggle, “Mase I need my hand to turn the alarm off.”

He huffed, releasing his grip to let you quickly reach behind you and silence your phone.

“Morning,” his voice when he first woke up always had you melting into a puddle, the raspiness so sexy to you it made you shiver as you cuddled into his back, feather like kisses being pressed over his spine and shoulder blades, making sure to pay special attention to the smattering of moles and freckles dotted along his soft skin.

You were going to miss this feeling, waking up next to him, seeing his sleepy eyes and rumpled hair, knowing you were the only person in the world lucky enough to wake up beside this man. The little crease between his eyebrows that stayed imprinted for several hours from squishing his face too deep into his pillow, his soft pink lips that always seemed extra pouty in the mornings, the smell of his skin so distinctly him you wasn't sure you would ever wake up feeling so peaceful than mornings when you were beside him.

An overwhelming feeling of sadness washed over you as you finally convinced yourself to pull away from his warmth, sitting up and swinging your legs round the edge of the bed to stand. Stroking his exposed bicep, you leant back over the bed to kiss his forehead, “c’mon baby, you've gotta get up,” you murmured, “go jump in the shower and I’ll get started on breakfast.”

He hummed in response, his eyes slowly blinking open as you stood straight, making your way to the door to head down to the kitchen.

“Baby, wait,” you heard Mason speak through a yawn, turning back to see him shuffling himself out of bed, “come shower with me?”

Tilting your head to the side with a smirk, it didn't take more than a moment of consideration before you were nodding in confirmation that you would join him, not letting the sensible side of brain talk you out of it. You followed him into your ensuite, admiring the full expanse of his toned back and boxer clad bum as he walked.

You undressed in silence, letting him lead you into the shower once he deemed it warm enough, instantly falling into his embrace under the cascading water. Showering with Mason never got old, it was something you both loved to do, the intimacy of holding each other's naked bodies and washing each other down in a comfortable silence. You took it in turns, both taking time to gently caress and massage each other as a guise for washing each other down, both desperate to be as close as possible in the little time you had left.

Stepping out the shower, Mason wrapped you in a towel before sliding one around his own waist, his arms coming round you to cuddle into your damp body from behind, lips instantly finding their way back to your neck. You couldn't help but admire your intertwined bodies in the mirror, loving the way he caged you against him as you felt him begin to suck on the spot below your ear that he knew made you weak at the knees.

“Mase,” you moaned lowly, hand coming up to grip on his forearm in an attempt to get his attention, “we don’t have time baby, I need to go make breakfast.”

Mason grunted in response, his attack on your neck getting more heated by the second, “we’re skipping breakfast today,” his words were pointed, leaving no room for debate.

You let him shuffle you forward until your hips made contact with the bathroom counter, the towels he had wrapped around you both minutes before dropped to the floor in his haste. His actions were forceful, but as careful as ever as he manhandled you into the position he desired, hoisting your leg up to rest beside the sink, pushing your upper body forward so your flushed face was inches away from the mirror.

He wasted no time, gripping his shaft and pressing his tip against your hole, a sharp push of his hip splitting you open as he buried himself inside you. A gasp fell involuntarily from your lips at the sudden intrusion, the lack of foreplay or preparation making a twinge of pain shoot up your spine, your body tensing.

“Sorry baby,” Mason whispered, stilling his hips at your body's response, a sweet kiss being pressed to your cheek apologetically, “let me know when.”

It didn't take more than a few seconds for the pain to subside as your walls relaxed around him, your body used to accommodating his size, “you can move Mase.”

You both moaned in unison as Mason began to shift inside you, pulling back to the tip and then pushing to the hilt repeatedly. Long, hard strokes hitting you in all the right places.

Low moans were falling from your mouth at every movement of his hips, gripping the counter in front of you to stabilize yourself as his forceful thrusts made your legs tremble. You couldn't help but admire the way you looked in the reflection, naked body entrapped by Mason’s larger frame, skin flushed partly from the warmth of the shower and partly from the heat generated from the press of your bodies. You were frustrated that you couldn't see his face in the reflection, hidden in your neck as he sucked and nipped at your sensitive skin but you let it go, the feeling of his lips too good to put a stop to.

The feeling of being full of him had you pushing your hips back into his rhythmically. Mason gripping onto your thigh for leverage as he worked himself in and out, hard and fast, bottoming out on each deep press. Your eyes fluttered shut, the sounds echoing around the room borderline pornographic.

"Don't close your eyes, baby. Look at me," Mason grunted in your ear, pulling your slumping body flush against his chest.

Your eyes flew open to meet his in the reflection, frantically reaching behind your body and grabbing at his shoulder with a gasp as he rutted into you, deep and desperate strokes that had you whimpering uncontrollably.

Your chest was rising and falling rapidly as you felt his warm hand encasing your left hips, his right hand still firmly gripping your elevated thigh. Mason’s dark eyes were focused on yours, refusing to break contact, his warm breath spreading over your back as he grunted in exertion.

Despite his request, you couldn't stop your eyes rolling into the back of your head as you reached down to run your fingers over your clit, attempting to carry on rocking your hips back against his cock in sync with his thrusts but your movements were messy. Mason’s eyes dropped from your breasts in the reflection of the mirror to watch your hand planted between your thighs. His brows furrowed before his hand on your hip grasped your forearm to pull you away, replacing your hand with his.

The added sensation of his rough fingertips against your sensitive bundle had you whimpering in seconds, you high hitting you like a tidal wave your entire body began to pulse and tremble as you moaned out his name like a prayer.

“Good girl,” his voice was low, the praise making your exhausted body twitch in pleasure.

Mason didn't let up, rutting into you as you came, lips pressing wet kisses along any bit of skin he could reach. You could tell he was struggling to hold it together with the way breathy pants were expelling from his parted lips. His quiet whimpers and thrusts that were growing increasingly uncoordinated a tell tale sign he was close. The movement in his hips was shallowing, barely pulling back more than a few inches before pushing back to the hilt, no longer having to prioritise your orgasm, as he always did, and simply aiming for his own.

Coming back round from your bliss, you pulled his hand away from your over sensitive clit, threading your fingers through his and squeezing in encouragement, “go on baby, that's it.”

He released inside of you with a grunt a few moments later, his chest heaving as he pressed as far into you as he could, pushing you hips into the worktop so hard you had no doubt a bruise would appear in the next few days.

Mason was silent for a moment, the only sound echoing in the room, his heavy breathing as he attempted to slow his pounding heart rate. He took a shaky breath, slowly lifting the pressure where you were joined, allowing space to lean back from the hard edge, but not yet pulling out from your warmth.

His head was spinning, breathing ragged and body aching from the intensity of what you had just done, feeling a tinge of guilt as he remember the yelp you let out when he first fucked himself into you without any preparation.

“Sorry,” he breathed, “fuck…”

Mason pulled himself out of you carefully, kissing you on the head as you winced before turning you around and pulling you into his chest for a much needed cuddle. His thumb stroked your back absentmindedly as you held each other close, enjoying the final few minutes before you would inevitably have to part.

“You okay baby?” you soothed, fingers scratching the back of his neck.

“Yeah,” he sighed, “are you?”

You simply nodded, not wanting to break the serenity of your embrace but feeling antsy at the thought of him being late the further away you got from your high.

Mason could read you like a book though and pulled away, placing his hands on your hips and gracing you with the first proper smile on his face in the past 24 hours, “now I’ve reminded you of what you’ll be missing, I think it may be time to get dressed.”

You shook your head with a grin, happy to see that the dark cloud that had been surrounding him had started to lift. He was smiling, and that's all that mattered to you.

He left you to clean yourself up with a quick kiss and a promise he would run downstairs and make you a coffee to take with you in the car to make up for the lack of breakfast.

He appeared at the door as you were pulling up your panties, giving your bum a cheeky squeeze, “coffee is made and waiting for you at the front door angel.”

You thanked him, heart swelling at the way he always went out of his way to look after you. Acts of service were your biggest love language and for Mason, it was second nature. The sadness of him going away started to swell in the pit of your stomach as it dawned on you it would only be a matter of hours before he was on a plane and you’d be alone for the first time in a long time.

You shook your head and willed your watering eyes to stop, determined to get him to Carrington in time and to see him off before you let the emotions take over.

Getting dressed into comfy tracksuits as quickly as you could after checking your phone to see you were 10 minutes late leaving, Mason grabbed his suitcase and followed you down the stairs and out the door in haste, picking up your coffee as you departed.

Hopping into the passenger side, you couldn't help but feel the tears prickle again, but you kept a brave face for Mason’s sake, “got your phone? Wallet? Headphones? Passport?”

“Yes, yes, yes, anddddd,” he furrowed his brows, turning to grab his travel bag from the back seat and rifling through the front pocket, “yes!”

He waved the passport at you before tucking it back into his bag ready to hand over to the team's handler upon arrival at Carrington.

The drive to the training ground was only short, but the journey flew by in the blink of an eye, your hand in Mason’s resting on the center console the entire way, taking it in turns to reassuringly squeeze each other's hand.

Mason pulled up in one of the first bays in the car park, a fair distance from the entrance of the building where the team photographer was waiting to snap content of the players arrivals. Neither of you made any attempt to move, hand still intertwined as you both just stared ahead.

He let out a deep sigh, unclipping his belt and turning his body to face you, reaching for your chin to tilt your head towards him, “I better get going baby.”

“Okay,” you whispered with a dejected huff.

“Text me when you're home, and when Ace arrives,” Mason requested, thumb slowly brushing over your cheek, “and promise me you will call me straight away if you need anything?”

“I promise,” you puckered your lips, desperate to feel his against yours for one last time.

Mason obliged, pressing his mouth against yours, taking his time to appreciate the feeling of you, slipping his tongue between your lips.

Pulling back for a breath, he grinned at you, “I really really need to go.”

“You do,” you laughed as he made no effort to open the car door, “c’mon Mase, you’ll get fined.”

He jokingly rolled his eyes, stepping out and grabbing his suitcase from the boot. You leant behind you to grab his travel bag before hopping out and making your way over to where he stood to hand it to him.

“Thank you sweetheart,” he pulled you against his body for a goodbye hug, leaning back to press a final deep peck to your lips, “don't crash my car and don't miss me too much.”

“No promises to either,” you winked. Loving that despite your track record, he let you drive his beloved Defender whenever he was away.

He barked out a laugh, eyes softening, “I love you, I’ll call you everyday.”

“I love you too, have fun,” you couldn't help the wobble in your voice as he began to walk away, not missing the irony of it being you trying to convince him it would be okay 12 hours earlier to now feeling like you were about to fall apart at the sight of him walking across the car park.

Leaning against the car, you watched as he fist bumped the awaiting photographer and greeted a woman in a United kit that you presumed was one of the handlers. As Mason got to the entrance way of the building he turned to blow you a kiss before disappearing inside.

With a deep sigh, you stood yourself back up, hopped into the driver's seat and made your way home, counting down the minutes until Ace would be dropped round to keep you company.

•••

Later that evening you found yourself curled up on the sofa, Ace cuddled up to you as a Netflix documentary you knew Mason wouldn't be interested in played out on the tv screen.

Mason had called you about an hour earlier to say he had landed and was on his way to the hotel, filling you in on his already jam packed schedule. He sounded much lighter, telling you he only had 20 minutes to unpack before he was due for a post flight physio session and then a team meal later that afternoon.

Your phone buzzed beside you making Ace shoot upright, glancing around the room before settling back on your chest when he deemed there to be no danger. Opening the message you smiled to yourself, glad your plan had worked.

[suguru-getos]

— soft yandere suguru geto pt 1 —

-> building the story in this one. warnings: none! the reader meets suguru for the first time since her best friend was encapsulated by a curse causing nightmares and issues. it’s fluffy <3

suguru had one goal — irradicate the non-sorcerers so there comes to be a world without curses. satoru on the other hand wanted to make people capable enough to fight the curses. the goal was same - a world where curses don’t exist anymore. suguru was hell-bent on achieving that of course. gaining fame as ‘geto sama’ a monk-looking saintly human being who helps people. the backgrounds are for suguru to handle anyways - he needed curses to get powerful & eventually achieve his goals.

his hatred for monkeys was unsubstantiated. no one who was not in control of their cursed energies would be spared by suguru geto. he didn’t even spare his parents. though he knows certain monkeys are slightly more valuable than others. some are his banks, some give him curses to swallow. and some are the ones who have no control of their CE and end up attracting higher curses/creating them.

what he didn’t take into account was you. your best friend was tormented by sickening nightmares of being non-conned almost everyday. aches in the back, cramping and utter pain during her period. you had almost given up — as her roommate, you had searched all psychologists; all doctors. nothing seems to be working. until one day — you found a ‘monkey’ treated by none other than geto sama.

without wasting time, you believed their gratefulness and their willingness to lend you the address. since nothing is working — you will definitely try anything at this point.

the moment your car landed on the geto estate you knew this man was no joke. why else would he be able to afford something like this otherwise? on the other hand — you were suspicious as to his ulterior motives. what if he was a mafia boss or something? who knew. finally, after some wait; you were advised to follow the instructor who led you to suguru geto.

he sat there, a merry & a friendly smile over his face. something that’s practised even as he talks to your friend. “yumiko san.” he grins, “you have symptoms like rape nightmares, don’t you? you feel like you’re being touched in the wrong places & there’s nothing you can do about it?” your best friend teared up, she had never felt so intricately seen and heard the way geto had made her feel. he raised a hand, and the curse that was latched into her, unseen by you. unseen by her.. latched itself into suguru’s hand.

she instantly felt lighter & felt better. while you were extremely considerate of what suguru geto did, you were not pleased. what even was that — you and your best friend bowed and on your way to leave. you turned back, “what did you do?” you couldn’t help but ask.

“ah, i have god’s grace in my hands thankfully. nothing much. prayed on her behalf that her problems go away. little one.” he hums, monkeys are usually dumb enough to be happy-go-lucky with the treatment. you weren’t. suguru hums, “if that’d be all, you may leave. i have other things to cater to.”

your siren eyes met his own, deep down. you could sense suguru hated your best friend. it was just a hunch— the vibes were so off. you hum, “what do you practise then? what form of meditation?” you crossed your arms, eagerly wagering for more answers on his behalf.

suguru chuckled in disbelief, an insignificant, puny monkey was asking ‘him’ questions? “be grateful and leave.” he said dismissively. and your best friend held your wrist, dragging you outside. you were adorable and so curious. pity you were just an ordinary, low-class monkey.

“he’s a scammer, a fraud! i’m fucking sure! let’s go to a doctor.” you scoffed, gritting your teeth. glaring daggers at the man who laid down in front of you on a stage, seemingly uninterested. suguru wanted to play with you too, the same curse that was latched onto your friend, he transferred it into you, going out. now you’d have the same symptoms and suffer. shouldn’t have voiced your shit so hard, tsk…

unfortunately for suguru, you ended up like one of those who can see curses once subjected to cursed energy. you screamed gutterally when you saw the hideous creature attached to you. an amused smirk ran past his lips at the way you tried to shove it away. your friend was in utter confusion — what did she do? got on her knees and apologized on your behalf to ‘geto sama’ who promised to treat you. and forgive you of course. forcing her to leave.

you screeched curses and profanities at suguru, who was more than pleased to see you hit some sort of a standard he has for people he’s allowed to care about. his hand touched your crotch, right where the curse was supposed to be holding, unconcerned with your flustered resistance as he absorbed it.

“there we go, little girl.” he smiled, while you watched the curse turn into a ball. “this is the thing that was latched onto your friend. normal humans can’t see these. some of them can. i can.” you sat next to him and asked him a multitude of questions about this. you don’t remember the last time you had talked to someone this much & suguru doesn’t remember the last time he was so thoughtless. he was observing literally everything. your facial features, the way your brows scrunched when you emphasized over something, how you overcommunicated with your hands at times, rolled your eyes ever so often and shook your legs while you asked questions and waited eagerly for your answers. you blinked and your lashes looked so long and luscious, your hair suited you just well. he wonders how your soft looking skin would look all marked up with hickeys. he wonders how your voice would sound when you would moan or scream out his name. he wonders how his name would sound. how your lips would curve a certain way to pronounce ‘suguru’. oh he’s slowly losing his mind isn’t he?

he asked you to stay the night and join for dinner since it was quite late because of everything he just told you. you of course obliged and met his adopted daughters, miguel and the others who he called family. holy fuck they worshipped him. you knew that because of the way they respected you — treated you as their own because suguru said you are a guest today. his daughters were bratty but they knew their limits; seems like suguru raised them well.

after dinner, you joined him for a walk outside, pouting and flushed because he wasn’t wearing his gojo-gesa anymore. he almost looks so normal with that. “you aren’t an actual monk are you?” you raised a brow, grinning when he shook his head in denial. “no, i’m just here to collect cursed spirits because of my technique for a greater cause.” he hums; replying gently and looking deeply into your inquisitive eyes. you threw another question at him, seemingly obvious. “what greater cause?” you tilt your head like an indulged bird, and he caught that gesture. “want to know everything at once? hmm? little bird.” he smiled, looking relaxed and like a normal human being. “i’ll let you know with time.”

you had a peaceful and a sound sleep, why? because you were unaware how suguru watched you sleep in awe. just thinking of the ways he would watch you smile again, just thinking how he could make you feel special again? he can brain wash you into thinking humans are detestable, no?

the next morning, you were called for breakfast and had a great time, making promises to visit again while suguru bid you a farewell by kissing your knuckles. looking ever so charming. oh you will visit again, otherwise suguru geto would: either way… your red thread of fate was sealed.

suguru geto had a little crush…

or was he in love?

[mysticheathenn]

Hard Messages From Love

Hi, Hexlings!

This pick-a-card reading is all about messages from love itself. If you were looking for a sign from any kind of delusions...this is it. Hopefully this isn't too harsh.

This is a general reading, remember to take what resonates and leave what does not. This reading does not supplement your need to seek professional help. Tarot should be used as entertainment and not a for sure answer to your problems but as a guide, a sense of hope, and amusement.

Take your time when choosing your pile. Ask yourself the question and choose the picture that you can’t stop looking at. Listen to your intuition.

MasterList

Patreon Link

Pile l:

Messages from love? Tarot: 2 of Swords, 9 of Pentacles (reversed), 9 of Swords, The World, The Chariot (reversed), 10 of Pentacles.

Things that may surround your mind about love? Give me a sign if things should end or if I am being paranoid. I can't eat or sleep about a decision. I feel suffocated by this person and I don't want to feel this way or leave them. I need to follow my heart but what if my heart is wrong? I deserve someone who shows and gives me the world. This person deserves the world and more than what I can give them.

Pop Culture Reference: Pride and Prejudice Move (2005)

Message: Someone here has been on your mind for quite some time. For some of you, this is a decision that you need to make regarding breaking up and for others of you this is regarding following your heart. Following your heart can go two ways: 1) breaking up or 2) giving someone you have "friend-zoned" a chance at dating you. Either way, your overall message is to follow your heart. Make the tough decision that needs to be made and stop second-guessing everything. If you haven't been happy in a long time in your relationship then it's time to leave. If you know dating someone would bring you great joy it's either you date them or be upfront and honest by telling them you are either scared or just don't want to be with them. Either way, you need to let that person be free to date someone who actually wants to be with them or has the guts to go after what they want. There is no long-term benefit of stringing someone along. This pile is also about the required action that needs to be taken place. There are so many things in this pile that are impossible to mention, but you deep down know what this required action is. It's the action that will give you freedom from the torment of your mind. This group reminds me of the scene in Pride and Prejudice where Mr. Darcy says "Miss Elizabeth. I have struggled in vain and I can bear it no longer. These past few months have been a torment. I came to Rosings with the single object of seeing you. I had to see you. I have fought against my better judgment, my family's expectations, the inferiority of your birth, my rank, and circumstances. All these things I am willing to put aside and ask you to end my agony." (Yes, I had to put the entire iconic quote in this reading). Do the thing that needs to be done. Have the courage to either go after what you want or end what needs to be ended. No one can make or do these decisions for you. Just do it.

Pile ll:

Messages from love? Tarot: The Sun, Strength, The Tower (reversed), The Wheel, 2 of Swords (reversed), Death

Things that may surround your mind about love? Is this ever going to end? But I can't give them up. They will be back. They always come back. I want to be happy with only them. I need them. Ride or Die. Bad Marriage/relationship for life.

Pop Culture Reference: Round and Round by Selena Gomez, Will and Jada Smith's marriage

Message:

"We're going 'round and 'round, We're never gonna stop going 'Round and 'round, We'll never get where we're going, Round and 'round, Well, you're gonna miss me, 'cause I'm getting dizzy, Going 'round and 'round and 'round" - Selena Gomez. This pile somewhat was attracted to some degree to pile l. This pile is all about prolonging the inevitable when regarding a person. The tower card is in reverse and the death card is also here. There is a change that needs to happen between you and whoever this pile is about. The rain may fall today and tomorrow but eventually, you're going to have to give way and make room for the sun that desperately wants to clear some of the toxic patterns and unfulfilled desires that have plagued you for some time now. Just because someone keeps coming back into your life doesn't mean they are for you. Just because you have been with someone for a while does not mean you have to keep dealing with them because of history. History is great but also lessons are never learned there and you are not learning your lesson from the past history of this person or anyone else you have dealt with that is similar to them that you seem to not being able to escape. It's time to end the cycles you keep repeating. There is nothing romantic about struggling and settling. There is nothing cute about being a "ride or die" especially when that ride or die would watch you die. It's time to pull yourself by the bootstraps and end the cycles. You can't keep wondering why life gives you the same people with different bodies when all you do is continue to go after them or allow them to entertain you. Love wants you to know a change is coming and you're not going to like it. You may be left heartbroken to the point you may be turned off from love or people in general but you forced love's hand to do something you were not willing to.

Pile lll:

Messages from love? Tarot: The Emperor (reversed), 8 of Swords, Knight of Swords, 3 of Cups, Strength.

Things that may surround your mind about love? Speak no evil. See no evil. Hear no evil. Ignorance is bliss. I can fix him/her/them. Misunderstood. Little Red RIding Hood.

Pop Culture Reference: DW from Arthur "This sign can't stop me because I can't read." Link "This is your man. That's mine and I'm going to stick beside him." Link In My Head by Ariana Grande / Papa Don't Preach by Madonna

Message:

This pile might be attracted to pile ll but not all that much. This pile is for those who know someone isn't good for them but keep hanging around them. Your friends and family have told you this person isn't who you think they are or aren't how you keep trying to paint them. It's as if you keep trying to gaslight yourself into staying with this person because of the potential or the made-up version you have of them in your head. "My imagination's too creative, They see demon, I see angel, angel, angel, Without a halo, wingless angel" - Ariana Grande. You have the blindfolds on in this connection or about this person and you refused to take the blindfolds off all because what might either be of three reasons: 1) FOMO, the fear you might miss out on if this person does change or does something spectacular like get a record deal or win the lottery. 2) You have some sort of spiritual tie to this person through sex. For those who don't know yes, you can have an energetic pull or tie to someone through sex. If you find yourself in a dead-end relationship where you can't truly give substantial reasons as to why you aren't leaving even though you know the relationship has resulted in nothing but sex and history....soul tie. Or for most people it can be a codependency. 3) They suckered you into their web of victim mentality where they told you everybody has left them and basically uses the same techniques as an abuser to hook people into them to not leave. You remind me of the story of Little Red Riding Hood where it's quite obvious the wolf is a wolf and not her grandma but Little Red kept ignoring the signs of being in danger of the wolf. It's okay to lose out on someone. It's okay to want to be someone's cheerleader and see the potential in someone. What is not okay is when the person doesn't change or show these potentials that you know are somewhere in them. There is a saying that people change who they want to change for and unfortunately that person might not be you and that's okay because there is better out there who will or can match the person you want in your head and you have to stop to forcing those who don't want to be that person into that box.

Pile lV:

Messages from love? Tarot: 9 of Swords, Hange MAn, 5 of Wands, 5 of Swords, Queen of Wands, 9 of Pentacles (reversed).

Things that may surround your mind about love? They've changed. This time is different. Nobody is perfect. The heart wants what it wants.

Pop Culture Reference: Hanging on by Kim Wilde. Heart Wants What it Wants by Selena Gomez. 27 Dresses Movie.

Message:

It seems every pile might have two piles they may have been attracted to and pile lV you are no exception. You may have also been attracted to pile lll. Instead of having a blindfold on like pile lll when it comes to others or connections, you don't see your worth when it comes to matters of the heart. You constantly allow others to play you and you keep allowing them to because of the kind heart you have thinking that people change and maybe this time is different. It's wild how you would go to bat for people who treat you horribly but they won't do the same for you and for some of you you're okay with that because you feel you don't deserve healthy love or connections. Others of you, you secretly crave wanting someone to show you the same kind of love that you show others but low self-esteem as well as possibly history from dating people who don't speak positively to you have made you to believe you don't deserve that kind of love. You remind me of those who feel that they will always be the bridesmaid but never the bride, similar to 27 dresses. The main character was after a man who didn't even know she existed outside of her job (she loves her boss) and was always there for other people even when they were selfish and weren't there for her. You have such a big heart to give to others, but it's time to give your heart to those who deserve it. Stop allowing those who don't see your worth to treat you any kind of way. See a spade as a spade and not an Ace (again similar to pile lll). I don't know you pile lV but I wish I did so I can give you a big hug because you deserve all the greatness and beauty of this world. You shouldn't have to fight for a spot in anyone's life nor fight to have the love you deserve from others. It's time to pour that love you give to others back into yourself and attract healthy and loving relationships and people into your life.

Thank you for liking and reblogging my readings. I always appreciate you guys on here and on Patreon.

Stay safe and be blessed

[veilofaponia]

Actions Better Left Undone

yan chrollo x reader

word count: 1.5k

warnings: yandere content, kidnapped reader, unhealthy relationship, shitty first fic

The constant thumping of your heartbeat drowns out the sounds of the movie playing on the television. You’re surprised Chrollo hasn’t noticed (or atleast, commented on) how violently your heart is beating against your ribcage.

You try grounding yourself. Deep, slow breaths, occupying yourself with your hands, focusing on the movie playing in front of you on the screen. Focusing on anything but the man sitting comfortably next to you. The way the air feels heavy with his presence. The way his cologne is the only thing you can smell. The way how when you accidentally make eye-contact with him, he simply gives you an easy smile in return.

It does little to reduce your stress. If anything, it just makes you feel more uneasy. Even if there’s no actual proof, there’s just the underlying feeling that he knows. That he’s feigning ignorance just to see what your next course of action will be. Whether you’ll confess your wrongdoing to him (if you can even call it that), or if you’ll remain stubborn and pretend you did nothing of the sort.

Back in highschool, you and your friends would combine bobby pins and paperclips to make lockpicks. Then, you’d unlock the lockers of strangers in your school and fill them with fake letters and secretly giggle at their reactions. In the past, you were embarrassed of how you acted back then. But now, you can’t help but feel a sense of relief and pride that you developed a talent for creating makeshift lockpicks.

Chrollo had supplied you with hair ties and bobby pins when you complained about your hair constantly getting in your face. You felt a bit suspicious at first. Surely he knows bobby pins can be turned into low quality lockpicks. Yet you’d brushed it off, simply deciding he must’ve thought the lock to be of too secure.

You knew this too. There’s no way he wouldn’t have settled for the highest quality when it came to the lock that keeps you confined. But even then, when you came across paperclips in a little container on his desk, it was hard to resist. Without thinking too much of it, you’d already made a lockpick. The rational part of you told you not to bother; what would such a cheap alternative do against a heavy lock? But you had to try, right? It’d be a wasted opportunity otherwise, wouldn't it?

That’s what you told yourself when you inserted it into the lock and continuously tried to twist it open. You opted to try your luck while Chrollo was in the shower; the time at which he might come was always irregular, but you noticed the amount of time he took cleaning himself was constant. You spent minutes messing with the lock, but it showed no signs of budging. Just as you heard the running water shut off, the lockpick snapped. Part of it was stuck inside the lock, while the rest was in your clenched hand. With no other options coming to mind and time running out, you walked away from the door and pretended not to have done anything.

All this brings you back to your current predicament: sitting next to your tormenter on an expensive couch while a romcom functions as white noise for your overactive thoughts.

He’s definitely going to notice. He’ll know there’s something stuck in the lock. He’ll immediately realize I tried to escape. He’s going to punish me he’s going to punish me he’s going to—

“Are you okay, dearest? You’ve been acting off all evening."

Chrollo’s steady voice breaks your train of thought. You just blankly stare at him. It takes you a few moments to regain you ability to speak and give a somewhat solid response.

“No– I mean– Yeah, I’m fine. I just have a headache, that’s all.”

He looks to be considering your answer for a second. He wants to pry for more, because there’s definitely something off. But he merely blinks and responds softly with “I see.”. Then he redirects his attention back to the movie.

A wave of relief washes over you when you conclude he believes your (rather weak) lie. Just as you think you’ve managed to escape the topic, he strikes again.

“If it's that much of a bother, I could get you some painkillers.”

“Oh. Okay, sure.”

He pauses the movie and stands up. You assume he’s going to start walking to the bathroom, where the painkillers are usually kept. Instead, he starts walking towards the door and putting on his shoes. Panic shoots through you. You don’t do a good job at masking it. Sensing your confusion, Chrollo steps in and offers enlightenment.

“We’re all out,” Your blood runs cold. “I’m going to buy some more at the store.” He explains, while now putting on his coat.

You abandon all ideas of trying to remain calm and instead hyperfocus on your next objective: get Chrollo to stay inside so he won’t discover you tried to get out. Granted, it's just delaying the inevitable, but if he notices tomorrow morning while you’re still sleeping, he probably won't wake you up and maybe he’ll be less mad when he returns.

“No! N-No need, really! I’ll be fine, so there’s really no need to go out now. You should just stay inside, the weather isn’t very nice either. I’d hate to be such a bother.”

Chrollo himself remains composed, but his eyes give away how amused he is at your pitch.

“How sweet of you to not want to inconvenience me,” Gross. “but you were shaking heavily,” He’s reaching for his keys. “It pains me to see you like that,” He’s going to put his keys into the hole. “So don’t worry, I’ll gladly buy you— Oh.”

The keys don't fit into the hole. Because of the lockpick in it. That you got in there. Because you tried to escape.

You take a good look at Chrollo’s facial expression while he inspects the keyhole. He looks perplexed, but then again, he’s a great actor, so it’s hard to tell when he’s being genuine.

He sighs. He must’ve figured out what happend. Or maybe he’s just pretending he didn’t already know.

He begins to slowly take off his coat and shoes. You’re convinced he’s doing this on purpose; dragging the process out so you’ll be left anticipating what comes next for longer. You think to come up with another weak excuse or an awkward joke to ease the tension in the air.

Your lips part to speak, but immediately close again upon seeing the expression on his face as he walks back to the couch.

He’s not mad, no, he’s good at regulating his emotions. But there’s an odd look in his eyes that wasn’t there before, one that says more than you need to know. He’s not happy with your stunt.

Your heart is pumping blood through your body at an insane speed. Your breathing is becoming rapid and shallow. You redirect your gaze to the paused film on the television screen.

Chrollo sits down next to you. He doesn’t speak at first. He just fixates his eyes onto your figure while you continue staring at the screen.

After a moment of silence which feels like an eternity, he speaks.

“How did you create the lockpick?”

“I combined the bobby pins and paperclips on your desk.” Your voice is barely above a whisper.

“Did you think a lockpick like that would be enough to grant you an escape opportunity?” He sounds curious, but you’re guessing he’s just asking to embarass you further.

“Well, not really, but…” You can't think of a reasonable explanation.

He chooses not to linger on it and instead asks his final question. “When did you try to pick the lock?”

You mutter your answer. “When you were showering.”

“Oh? Wouldn’t it be smarter to try when I was out?”

“You always lie about when you’re going to get back. If I tried while you were showering, I could hear when you were done and if the lockpick didn’t work I'd just take it with me and walk away from the door.”

He hums in acknowledgement, but says nothing more. Your explanation seems rather flimsy now. You hadn’t considered the lockpick breaking, and you had no way of getting it out.

He’s stopped questioning you. You wish you could peer into his mind to see his thoughts, because yours are only causing you more stress.

If he’s displeased with you, he’ll reprimand you somehow, won’t he? You can’t imagine him getting violent with you, but the countless possibilities there are can’t be much better.

To give yourself some semblance of grounding, you meekly ask him “What are you going to do?”

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes when he answers. “That all depends on you. If you can make it up to me... then perhaps I’ll go easy on you.”

His reply doesn’t comfort you. Instead, now you’re left fretting about how much of your pride you’ll have to throw away to please Chrollo and soften your punishment.

[ryrywrites]

Drunken Schoolboy - Anthony Bridgerton

divider creds: @cafekitsune @saradika-graphics

Pair: Viscount Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Description: Attending a ball hosted by Lady Danbury, the newly-engaged Lady Y/N Roman and Viscount Anthony Bridgerton become separated by the ton. When the watchful eye of high society becomes too much for Y/N, she retreats into the library where she's met with her very drunk fiancé.

Warnings: Anthony coming onto the reader drunk, nothing but fluff here 🫶🏻

WC: 2.6k

A/N: Work has been tearing me up and I needed some Bridgerton fluff. This one is little short but I'm working on some longer stuff for you guys. This was just a cute lil idea 🥰 Enjoy!

Update: As I was writing this, Tumblr said fuck you to my hard work and deleted literally everything so...I want to die. Okay, enjoy 😃

anthony bridgerton masterlist × main masterlist

Y/N crept down the silent hallway and made her way into the dusty room, scanning her surroundings to make sure no one had spotted her. The dull hum of chattering society and soft music could still be heard from the ballroom as she walked through to shelves of books. Y/N was practically raised among these books and found that her favorite hiding place in Danbury House was this library. Although she appreciated Lady Danbury's hospitality and the amount of work she put into these seasonal balls, Y/N never found them enjoyable. She was always to leave a ball early if she could get away with it, or simply avoid the event all together. But this was her and the Viscount's first appearance out in society as an engaged couple so attendance was necessary, at least, according to her mother. As soon as they arrived, the couple was torn apart by the droves of squawking ladies and a trio of rakish bachelors, who had dragged her dear fiancé away to God knows where. Y/N was almost immediately bombarded with questions and suspicions from the nosy mamas and jealous debutantes who all were wondering why Viscount Bridgerton would choose her over any of them. They poked and prodded, trying to determine what made her so special that she had won the Mr. Bridgerton's favor.

Truly, she herself still had trouble grasping the engagement. I suppose the only true answer to their intrusive questions was that the pair had fallen in love. Over the course of the season, they had a long feud and competitiveness that kept them constantly on their toes around the other. They could not deny their longing for the other and one night, Anthony confessed his true intentions and begged her to release him from this torment and marry him. Of course, she accepted and confessed her own feelings to the man. What the two had found in each other, they had never been able to find in anyone else. A shared understanding of loss, a similar sense of wit and humor, and a love so vast, it truly did conquer all. But tonight, the prying eyes of society had brought her to exhaustion. Her social battery was drained by the time those mothers had come to the conclusion that nothing scandalous had taken place to force the pair into marriage. Once they had nothing to gossip about, Y/N and Anthony became yesterday's news and she was pushed back to the wall, where she stood and watched the many lovely couples dancing and conversing, wondering where her beloved had been swept away to.

She had finally had her fill of tea cakes and awkward isolation. Now, here she stands, scanning the shelves for any book that may occupy her time. Just as Y/N had pulled a book from the shelf, she heard a loud bang against the wall in the library. She was immediately startled and jumped in place, dropping the book with a thump. She turned around to see what had made such a fuss and there stood her promised, a tall sturdy man with tousled brown locks and a royal blue suit coat. Anthony was leaning up against the wall, disturbed, until he spotted his fianceé, holding her chest for dear life. His face quickly lifted in drunken glee and he trudged over to her, she relaxed once she realized who he was. "My dear, what-" Anthony cut her off by wrapping his arms around her and lifting her off the ground, spinning her in a large circle. "My darling, I have found you at last!" He spoke very openly and outlandishly, not caring about his volume. The startled woman let out a yelp of surprise as he twirled her around. She placed her hands on his shoulders, attempting to ground herself. "Anthony, you must be quiet!" Y/N whispered and hoped nobody had heard his inebriated outburst of affection.

He smiled cheerfully and obediently hushed his tone, placing her on her feet once more. Y/N was taken back by the man's forward and adoring gaze upon her. Anthony was many things. He was stubborn, competitive, and very subtle with his love in public. The most physical contact that had ever shared was a kiss and an intimate embrace, nothing further. Now, Y/N feared their discovery in such a secluded and dark place with his hands so carelessly roaming her torso. "Dearest, please, what has come over you?" She quickly halted his hands and gently removed them from her corseted waist. She examined him suspiciously and realized the man before her was absolutely sloshed. She placed a hand to her mouth, stifling a laugh. "I have been searching far and wide for you! And now you are here! I am so happy to see you." He slurred excitedly, his heart was filled with overwhelming joy at the sight of his beautiful bride-to-be. Y/N snorted and rolled her eyes at his eagerness. She held his hands and guided him slowly to a chair. "Yes, and I am happy you found me." As she slowly seated him in his chair and he laid out lazily and smiled up at her, weary and obviously tired. She knelt before him, lowered herself down to meet his eyeline.

"Anthony, how many drinks have you had this evening?" His head bobbed along with every word she spoke, he watched her lips intently with droopy eyes. His face turned slightly pensive as he thought and then held up five fingers. Y/N eyes widened in disbelief. Those damn hooligans, Anthony's condition was surely their doing. I felt irritation rise within me as Anthony's eyes drooped closed. I lifted myself up and sighed exasperatedly, walking around him and stroking his cheek. "I believe it is time we take our leave, my love." He hummed in reply, loving the feeling of her fingers rubbing his cheekbone. "Please, stay here. I shall return in just a moment." She whispered softly, kissing the top of his head and making her way out of the library, in search of either Colin or Benedict. They had most likely seen their brother in this state before, they would were the only ones who could help her discreetly take Anthony home. Y/N carefully reentered the ballroom, her eyes darting the room for any signs of a Bridgerton. She came face to face with Benedict Bridgerton, just the man she was looking for. "Y/N! How are you this even-" She quickly ignored the pleasantries and carefully pulled him by the arm to the library.

Benedict was very confused, almost concerned by her hurried strides, until they reached the library and he spotted his smashed brother, his legs spread in a splayed position and his head bobbling along to the tune playing in the ballroom. Benedict let out a boisterous chuckle at his incapacitated brother. "Good God. What on Earth happened to him?" He wondered. Y/N shook her head in similar confusion. "I hate to be a bother but I can't exactly...hold him up on my own." He nodded understandingly and moved across the room to where his older brother laid. "Come on, you knob. Let's get you up." Anthony didn't appreciate his brother's insult but lifted himself up with Ben's extended arm. He stumbled for a moment but steadied himself. "I'll alert the valet that we shall be leaving." She turned on her heels and Ben quickly followed after, with Anthony's arm over his shoulder. Anthony was beginning to sober up and groan slightly under his breath. Y/N maneuvered the two men through the crowd of socialites and they finally made their exit. She swiftly notified the valet. Their carriage was pulled around with a couple of whines from the horse and Anthony.

I opened the door for Ben to shove his brother gently into the carriage, he tumbled within the small coach and, at last, found his seat. "Thank you, Ben." Y/N whispered softly, not wanting to draw attention to the scene. He bowed before her with a sly smirk. "He will never live this down." He stated very well pleased, turning around to head back into the ball. As Y/N settled into the carriage, finally able to sit comfortably in her dress, she noticed Anthony beginning to rub his head. "My darling?" She stated curiously. He was suddenly feeling very sober and extremely sick. "Where are we going?" He inquired, his voice strained from the very clear ache in his head. "Home, my love." She placed a warm hand on his knee from across the carriage. He let out a heavy sigh, getting him inside was going to be a difficult feat. As the carriage slowly came to a stop, a footman opened the ornate door and helped the two out of the carriage. Y/N had always appreciated the staff's understanding and compassion towards the Bridgerton family. Anthony could not stand on his own for very long so Y/N placed her arm around the man's waist and threw his arm over her shoulder. She was watching very intently while Ben was carrying Anthony, knowing she would likely have to follow his actions.

He was a hefty man, heavy and large in frame. Every step up the front stairs felt like a mile, even with the footman's help. She was determined to get him inside, even if her face was turning a flushed red from the exercise. Once they reached the door, after what felt like centuries, the footman opened the door for the two of them and took his leave once Y/N dismissed and thanked him for his help. He would certainly be receiving a hefty tip from her in the morning. Anthony was beginning the sober up and hold his weight a bit as the two scuffled to Anthony's bedroom. She had not yet seen his room, it was seen as impropriety to be alone with him in his quarters but she was sure no one would mind, in this particular situation. He laid out on his back, peacefully for a moment and so quietly, she could've sworn he had fallen asleep immediately. Until his body shot up very suddenly, making her jump in surprise. "My word!" This was the third time he had flustered her tonight and she was beginning to become agitated in a very humorous way. "I believe I'm going to be sick." He said very woozily, looking as though he was going to vomit on the floor. Y/N's eyes widened in fear and quickly lifted her dress and made a dash to the kitchen.

She found a bucket and, tripping over herself, ran back to the bedroom, the sound of her heels clicking rapidly against the linoleum floor. She thrusted the bucket into the man's hands and stood back, preparing for impact. He leaned over the bucket for a moment, becoming visibly pale and sweaty. He was still, very still while her body was fully tensed. He shook his head and laid moved the bucket to the floor, placing his elbows on his knees and shaking his head droopily. "My God. What happened? And why?" He moaned annoyed at the feeling that trembled in his stomach and the bile that was beginning to travel to his throat. She cautiously sat beside him on his plush bed and rubbed his back, trying her best to ease his discomfort. "Remind me not to let you leave my side at the next ball." Y/N smiled relieved that he was coherent once again. "No more balls." Anthony groaned. He laid back, whining bitterly. Y/N could not help but chuckle at the man that laid beside her, what a dunce. She absolutely adored him and she could not help but wonder what would make him drink so recklessly. He peaked an eye at the woman, hearing her titter and arching a brow at her. "You laugh at my suffering?" He asked, feigning offense and placing to his heart in shock.

"You are a dramatic jolly man." She continued to smile down at him, attempting to wipe the beads of sweat growing at his brow. He looked up at her with admiration in his eyes. This woman was truly perfect. How could he have been so callous for so long? Better yet, why had she held out through his cruel behavior? Truthfully, Y/N could not find a rational reason why she chose to stick by his side. She considered the idea that she was a fool and lost all rational thought the moment she met Anthony. That is how she justified her stupidity, her inability to avoid the eldest Bridgerton son. "And you..." He leaned up on his elbows, practically man-spreading before her in his navy blue trousers, white-collared button-up dress shirt, and matching navy vest with gold detailing the chest. He wrapped his arms, slowly, around her waist and wiggled around to crawl closer to Y/N until his head nestled comfortably into her skirted lap. "Are a goddess." He mumbled, his words buried deep in her dress. He hugged her waist possessively, inhaling her scent of french lilacs and gooseberries. She looked down at the pretty man and savored this touch, placing a delicate finger to his cheekbone and tracing it to his slightly disheveled hair.

The light crow's feet at the corners of his eyes stretched as he smiled softly, his eyes fluttered close. As she cradled his head in her lap, she wished they weren't separated by her heavy petticoats. She craved closeness and her discomfort in such tight yet puffy clothes was evident with every shift of her hips. Anthony knew tonight had been less than ideal for his future bride, having to coddle and care for him. Anthony allowed his eyes to open wearily and he offered her a half smile which she returned wholeheartedly. Although this was not how she anticipated ending the evening, she was grateful to be away from the nosy eyes and ears of the ton. She watched the way his face contorted to one of guilt and burden. "I am truly sorry, my darling. I know you must think me a scoundrel for my behavior and I do not disagree." His mind was off it's bend and he would not admit his fault so candidly if he was not still slightly boozed. Y/N tilted her head sympathetically. He was not wrong but she did not blame him, not entirely. She did not spoke, allowing him to continue. "What can I do to make this evening up to you?" He requested. She waited a beat, for dramatic effect. There was nothing she wanted more than...

"I know one way you may make amends." She placed a finger to his jaw and smiled longingly. "Marry me, and all shall be forgiven." His eyes filled with emotion, a tender combination of love, gratefulness, and drink. He pushed himself up from her lap, the emptiness making her as uncomfortable as her dress, and leaned forward, placing a firm kiss to her forehead. "That, I shall," He whispered, placing another careful chaste kiss to her cheek. "And more." She gazed upon the man, fearing a tear would escape her tired eye from the emotions and true admiration she shared with Anthony. With such a hasty motion, Anthony did not realize how dizzy and nauseous he was until his stomach began to turn. He clenched his jaw, wired tightly shut, as well as closing his eyes once more to steady himself and tried to push the feeling away but failed with an exasperated sigh. "Dear God, I'm going to be sick." Y/N quickly lifted herself with a push of her palms to the soft quilted mattress and flew to the kitchen to retrieve a cold cloth to place on his head. It would be a long night but he was undoubtedly worth the trouble.

[devoutekuna]

Messing with him

Includes- Toji, Sukuna, Nanami, Gojo, Geto

A/N- Geto's part is from my previous blog

Sukuna-

He despises his son, it was only because he acted so much like him, tormenting his father whenever he got the chance. His favourite was pulling on his hair, the pink haired man sat in the dining room, trying to eat his food as he waited for your arrival. Feeling his son's presence already ruined his mood, but the feeling of his hair being dragged back made it even worse, using the excuse that he wanted to sit on his shoulders. "Get off before I eat you too!" Claws digging into the poor boy's arm. "Mama!" The cries of your son brought you towards the chaos, dragging your son off your husband.

Nanami-

Nanami is used to his daughter's antics, whenever she got bored and wanted attention she always ran to her father, Pulling on his leg as she cried out for him. "Papa" looking up at the dough he kneaded in the bowl. "Lemme help" begging for a chance to make him proud, feeling her body soon levitate off the ground as he placed her onto the countertop, "Pour out the chocolate chips darling" handing her the opened packet and a bowl. Surely he shouldn't have done that, leaving the room as he left a child with a packet of chocolate chips, it was a dangerous game. Soon after he comes back with some trays, she's got chocolate smeared all over her face and hands, half the packet being gone in a matter of minutes. Eye already twitching from her hand being in the packet, the way that it was scuffed all over the tissue roll, atleast she tried to clean up.

Geto-

Geto loves his little girl but ever since she was around the age to use her hands, she started to grab everything, which especially included his hair and earrings. The way she tugged on his ear loves everytine he saw that his earrings were in. "Sweetheart that hurts!" He crys out as he feels his head being dragged down to her level.

Little giggles coming from her mouth as she dragged further, trying to get a grip on his earring. He wanted to drop her right there and then but he'd know that it would hurt her greatly. Seeing her father's facial expression turn from smiles to frowns only made her let go, much to her disappointment. Mouthing the words 'papa', trying to make him happy again.

Seeing that she didn't get a respond from him, her little hands gripped onto his hair, tugging onto it to get his attention. "Papa" atleast she tried to say the word. "Yes baby?" Sighing as he felt her hands in his hair. "Papa!" She uttered out again, trying to hold back her little laugh.

Waving her hand around, making his hair move as she was so absorbed by the way it looked, hand getting sucked into her mouth along with the hair. Her toothless gums trying to eat the hair, much to his dismay as he felt her. He loved his daughter but sometimes she was just too much.

Toji-

Toji loves his food, along with his money. So when he found out that his wallet had disappeared after getting a shower, he was angry to say at least. Throwing the whole house upside down as he searched for it, he wanted to buy himself a meal after his hand work. Hearing the little giggles of his son as he portioned out his money for a quick game of shops. Laid down on his stomach as he counted the notes. "10, 20, 30" and so on. Seeing his father stood up at the door, clearly annoyed as he stood tall in his sweatpants. "Hand it over" he's wasn't gonna take no for an answer, it was guaranteed that he'd get it back. Giggling as he saw him picking up the money and storming out. Quickly getting up as he sensed that he was gonna buy something and he wanted part of it. "I want food too!" "No."

Gojo-

Satoru doesn't play about with his glasses and blindfolds, he had many pairs but for some reason he had his favourite, he'd always allow you to wear them sometimes, though it was pretty hard to see out of them since they were black out. So when he had a dinner date with you he needed to wear them, not only did they make him look hotter but he preferred them for this situation. Looking through his drawers for his glasses. "Babe, have you seen my glasses?" Shaking your head as you patted your son's pyjamas down, making sure they fit him and weren't too baggy. "Have you?" Glancing at the boy who had a mischievous look on his face, hands hidden behind his back, like he was holding something. "Do you have them baby?" Asking the boy as you squatted beside him.

"No" unable to hide the giggles as he brought the glasses from his back, seeing the annoyed look on his father's face only made him happier. Laughs erupting from him.

[sinkovia]

Silence

Kyle Garrick x Fem!Reader

Angst, violence, blood, mention of death.

Masterlist

For weeks, he had been planning to propose, to ask you to spend the rest of your lives together in love and happiness. He had envisioned the moment countless times in his mind, rehearsing the words he would say and imagining the joy on your face when you said yes.

But fate had other plans, cruel and unforgiving. On what was supposed to be a routine mission, Kyle and you found yourselves captured by the enemy. Bound and helpless, you both were subjected to interrogation, the enemy demanding information that could jeopardize the entire team.

In the danger surrounding the both of you, the thought of the proposal lingered in Kyle's mind. He couldn't help but wonder if he would ever get the chance to ask you to marry him, to express his love and commitment in the way he had always dreamed.

As he felt the weight of the small box in his pocket, Kyle prayed silently for a miracle, for a chance to make his proposal a reality and to begin building the future he had envisioned with you.

They observed the way you and Kyle gazed at each other, bound in chairs mere feet apart, the silent communication of love and desperation passing between you. It was a connection they sought to exploit.

A vulnerability.

With brass knuckles clenched in their fists, they loomed over Kyle, their intentions clear in their presence. One of them approached you, his voice laced with malice "Answer our questions, and we won't hurt him," You could only nod in response, your heart heavy with the knowledge that any refusal would only result in pain for Kyle.

Despite the agony of betrayal that gnawed at your conscience, you answered every question they posed without hesitation. Laswell and Nikolai's names spilled from your lips, your loyalty to Kyle outweighed only by your determination to protect him from harm. It was a choice made in an instant, fueled by love and the primal instinct to shield the one you cherished most from suffering.

As their focus shifted back to you, the tape sealing your lips felt like a cruel reminder of your helplessness. Despite the fear and pain that gripped you, you found solace in the unwavering trust you held for Kyle. In the depths of your soul, you knew he would do whatever it took to protect you.

As the men approached, their footsteps echoing ominously in the cramped confines of the room, you met Kyle's gaze with unspoken reassurance. You trusted Kyle implicitly, knowing that he would give them the answers they sought in order to spare you from any harm. Kyle had always placed your well-being above his own, never hesitating to shield you from danger or sacrifice his own safety for yours.

You knew he would do the same for you just as you did for him.

“Where is John Price?” Kyle remained resolute, his jaw clenched in a defiant line. He couldn't bring himself to betray the trust of his comrades, couldn't sell out Price and the others to save himself or even you.

Your heart sank as you witnessed Kyle's refusal to comply with the enemy's demands. Desperation clawed at you as you attempted to provide the answers they sought, but your efforts were futile, your words reduced to muffled noises by the tape sealing your lips. The realization that Kyle's silence was placing you in imminent danger filled you with a profound sense of horror.

With each passing moment, the torment inflicted upon you only heightened Kyle's anguish. The sight of their cruel hands leaving bruises on your skin, the sound of your muffled screams echoing in the room—each moment tore at Kyle's soul, filling him with a profound sense of helplessness and despair.

Every fiber of Kyle's being screamed for him to intervene, to put an end to your suffering, but he knew that yielding to their demands would mean betraying everything he stood for. He couldn't allow himself to falter, couldn't let down Price or the team, even if it meant sacrificing everything he held dear.

Kyle clung to the hope that the team would arrive in time to rescue you from this nightmare, to put an end to the agony and bring you both to safety. With each passing moment, he prayed silently for their arrival, willing them to come to your aid before it was too late.

With each brutal blow that rained down upon you, your world became a blur of agony and despair. Your vision swam, the relentless assault leaving you feeling as though your very essence was being torn apart. Despite the overwhelming pain and the sensation of your body betraying you, a flicker of strength remained within you, allowing you to cast a desperate gaze toward Kyle.

But to your dismay, Kyle's gaze remained averted, his attention fixed elsewhere as though he couldn't bear to witness the torment he unwittingly allowed to unfold. The realization pierced through the haze of agony, leaving you reeling with a profound sense of betrayal. How could the man you loved, the one you thought would always be there to protect you, turn away when you needed him most? In that moment of anguish and despair, the truth hit you like a sledgehammer.

Kyle's loyalty to the team outweighed his love for you.

The thought cut deep, shattering the illusions of security and affection you had once held dear. As the pain and betrayal consumed you, you couldn't help but wonder if the love you had believed in had ever truly existed.

“Dead already?”

As the echoes of their callous laughter reverberated through the room, Kyle's heart sank like a stone. Slowly, he raised his tear-streaked gaze, his eyes falling upon the devastating sight before him. There you were, slumped over in the chair, your once vibrant spirit extinguished, your form shrouded in a veil of crimson.

The weight of your lifeless presence hung heavy in the air, a chilling reminder of the irreversible consequences of his silence. Tears streamed down Kyle's face unabated, his hands trembling against the restraints that held him captive.

The unbearable burden of guilt pressed down upon him, suffocating him with the crushing weight of remorse. With each tear that fell, Kyle's anguish deepened, knowing that his refusal to speak had sealed your fate.

As the team finally arrived to rescue you both, Kyle's heart shattered into a million pieces. He fell to his knees before you, his hands trembling as he reached out to touch your bloodied skin.

"Y/N, I'm so sorry," he whispered, his voice choked. "I should have protected you. I should have never let this happen."

He begged for your forgiveness, his apologies a futile attempt to atone for his unforgivable failure. His words fell like broken fragments against the silence of the room, each apology a futile attempt to turn back time and undo the horror that had unfolded before his eyes.

Your lifeless form slouched in the chair, surrounded by a pool of crimson. Kyle's pleas for forgiveness fell upon deaf ears, his words lost in the suffocating silence that enveloped the room. The team watched in solemn silence, their hearts heavy with grief, as Kyle's agonized apologies echoed through the chamber.

In that moment, as he knelt there beside you, Kyle couldn't help but imagine a different scenario. He envisioned himself on his knees before you, a ring in his hand and a question on his lips, ready to pledge his love and devotion to you for all eternity.

But now, as he stared at your lifeless form, battered and broken, he realized that he would never get the chance to ask you to be his wife. The future they had once dreamed of together lay shattered at his feet, a casualty of the silent agony that had consumed him.

With each passing moment, the weight of his failure pressed down upon him, suffocating him with the knowledge that he had failed you when you needed him most.

As he continued to plead for forgiveness, his voice lost in the emptiness of the room, Kyle knew that he would carry the guilt of your death with him for the rest of his days, a haunting reminder of the love he had lost and the promises left unfulfilled.

[brbsoulnomming]

Tell Me Sweet Little Lies Part 3

Part 1 | Part 2 | AO3

----

Towards the end of the summer after his freshman year, he finds out that his soulmate must be a year younger than him, because he gets I'm not nervous about starting high school, and that - hmm. It takes Eddie a bit to figure out how to reassure him around that. High school sucks, and he's guessing it's probably going to suck for his soulmate as much as it does for Eddie. The only saving graces are that Eddie was actually able to get a DnD club started, and Kyle Housen - the absolute shithead who was the most popular boy in school, the king of all the jocks who sent his followers out like ringwraiths to torment anyone who was different - is graduated and gone.

Eddie actually is looking forward to being able to breathe easier without him around.

So that's what he tells his soulmate - find something you enjoy doing, stick with your friends, and remember if there's someone in the grades above you who's really annoying, they'll be gone before you are.

That means a lot to me shows up on his chest after that, and Eddie runs his fingers over it again and again, not thinking about who his soulmate was talking to or what they were lying about, just that Eddie means enough to them for them to make sure that appeared on his skin.

It gets him through the rest of summer and into the first few weeks of his sophomore year, until he realizes that while Kyle Housen may have graduated, some of his little sycophantic friends didn't, and a few of them are more than happy to take over the torment of the freaks.

It makes Eddie's blood boil.

"It makes absolute total fucking sense the way rich kids and jocks and all the society conforming jackasses just run this school, like little violent monarchs," he says to one of the members of Hellfire as he throws himself down onto their lunch table, purposefully making himself sound as sincere as possible so it'll get picked up as a lie. "I love this whole the king is graduated, long live the king shit they've got going on."

Eddie doesn't expect an immediate answer. He doesn't usually get one, especially when he springs stuff on his soulmate in the middle of the day. But he doesn't get one that night, or the next day, or the day after that.

And just.

What the fuck? Is his soulmate one of them? Eddie'd just assumed - a kid that had to lie about his injuries, parents never around, feeling lonely, cheating the system to talk to his soulmate before they even met - had to be a fellow freak, right?

Shit.

He thinks about saying I care that you're one of them, but he knows that isn't a lie, and it wouldn't appear on his soulmate's skin.

He doesn't say anything.

Eventually, I'm not sorry things are the way they are shows up, curled in tiny letters around Eddie's ankle, but it doesn’t make him feel better.

It makes him remember that his soulmate is talking to someone - or maybe multiple someones - when they do this, someone unaware that what he's saying are lies. The same thought that had made him feel special before now makes him think a little harder, makes him realize that his soulmate is friends with these people. These people who agree with the things that his soulmate is lying about, who think that his soulmate believes them - that's who he chooses to spend his time around?

Part of him knows it isn't fair. It's not his soulmate's fault that Eddie had built up this idea of him - a fellow outcast, maybe in a small town like this, going through the same things Eddie was, just waiting to graduate and leave it all behind, go somewhere bigger and louder and better.

But most of him is just too damn hurt. Most of him doesn't want a soulmate that says the kind of things his soulmate says, surrounded by people who think they aren't lies, and who love him for it.

Most of him can't stomach the thought that his soulmate is just like the people who have it so damn easy at school, and seem determined to make his life more miserable anyway.

The silence on his skin is as deafening as it is telling, and he starts to wonder if maybe his soulmate can't stomach the thought of it being someone like Eddie, either.

One night, so what if I don't think we should just wait until we meet our soulmates? appears on his side, and Eddie runs his fingers over and over and over it.

And says nothing.

"Haven't heard you talk about your soulmate in a while," Uncle Wayne says casually a week or so later.

Part of Eddie'd been expecting Uncle Wayne to bring it up somehow, but the other part was doing his best to ignore it entirely, leaving him entirely unprepared for what to say. He can't say that he doesn't want to talk to his soulmate any more because he found out they're probably some popular rich kid stomping around whatever school they're haunting - it's true, but it sounds stupid and petty.

He can't lie, either, though, because then it'll show up on his soulmate. So he says nothing, mulishly pushing his peas around his plate.

Uncle Wayne watches him. It's probably pretty easy to figure out that something went wrong with Eddie's hairbrained little scheme, so he isn't too surprised when his uncle hums softly.

"Some people are very different at thirty than they are at fifteen," he says, his gruff voice gentle. "Sometimes, teenagers are little jackasses with no impulse control."

Despite himself, Eddie huffs out a laugh. He considers that for a long moment, then reluctantly admits, "I guess that's probably why most people don't try to talk to their soulmate early." He smashes some peas with his fork. "….I guess it's probably not fair the other way, either. If you have this great idea of them way before you meet them, and they're really different."

Uncle Wayne gives another hum. "Sounds pretty wise, if you ask me."

"I didn't," Eddie points out, just to be contrary, but he eats the peas he'd been playing with, and he does feel a little better about all of it.

Time goes on.

He and his soulmate don't talk anymore, but that doesn't mean things don't occasionally appear. It's not often - which makes Eddie wonder if his soulmate just doesn't lie often, or if he's specifically avoiding lying as much as possible to avoid talking to Eddie - but it does happen.

Little things, mostly, lies about doing homework, about being sober, about not driving without a license. Teenage stuff, the same stuff Eddie lies about, and it lulls him into a sense of boring predictability. He perfects playing the guitar, he turns Hellfire into a sanctuary for those like him, he finds an alternative revenue source that gives him even more of an advantage over the shitty jocks than being scarier than them had, and he counts the days until he can get out.

Until the summer before his senior year.

I'm not in love with her, geez!

Eddie stares at it for longer than he should, the sting of tears biting at the corner of his eyes and feeling so goddamn angry about all of it. Not only is his soulmate some popular rich kid, but he's straight, in love with some girl, fuck.

Maybe Eddie isn't meant for a romantic soulmate. Maybe platonic is all he'll ever get, maybe someone like him doesn't -

Fuck this.

Fuck everything.

He throws himself into guitar playing, into making his next campaign for Hellfire bigger and better than anything he's ever done before.

Just one more year, and then he's gone.

In Eddie's senior year, Steve Harrington - Hawkins High's current reigning royalty - and his right hand man Tommy Hagan have some kind of falling out. Eddie honestly doesn't give a shit what or why. He keeps an eye on the situation only enough to know if they're gonna have some kind of civil war shit that could bleed shrapnel onto his flock. But Hagan doesn't seem to have the constitution to challenge for the throne - or maybe he lacks the numbers, considering Harrington doesn't seem to be hurting much as he swans around the school with Nancy Wheeler at his side - and whatever their mess is stays in a building tension amongst the popular crowd.

It's kind of nice, actually. There's less gossip about Hellfire for a little while, until the masses adjust to the new status quo. Hagan seems meaner, somehow, but he also seems less confident now that he's not at Harrington's side. It means his comments are more cruel, but there's less of them, so whatever, it balances out.

His soulmate tells more lies that year than Eddie's seen in such a short period of time, and something in his stomach twists tighter and tighter.

Yeah, of course I'm all right, why wouldn't I be?

It's nothing.

I'm sure they'll find her soon.

I'm fine.

I'm fine.

I'm fine.

Taglist: @vampireinthesun @koibug @estrellami-1 @mentalcyborg @allbimyself26 @questionablequeeries @the-s-is-silent @whimsicalwitchm @a-gae-af-racoon @tinyplanet95 @n0-1-important @velocitytimes2 @swimmingbirdrunningrock @newtstabber @jcmadgirl @roblingoblin285 @lexyvey @goodolefashionedloverboi @evix-syne666 @raisedbylibrarians @stxrcrossed186

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Part 4

[bigassmoonchild]

Happy

Pairing: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Reader

Word Count: 2.8k

Summary: Simon finally comes home, and he meets his two little angels. You’re finally happy, and things seem perfect. A little too perfect.

Content Tags: Comfort, Twins (name reveal), Death, Canonical death, SPOILERS FOR MW3, Family Moments, Good Father Simon, Simon Finally Realizes How to Deal With His Emotions, Mentions of Pumping, More Original Characters (no name mentioned), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha! Ghost, Omega! Reader, No Use of Y/N

A/N: This is the end. Maple Syrup is done, it has been finished. Feel free to keep sending asks about Doc and Simon! I am more than happy to keep answering prompts about their life together and their family <3. It is insane. I am so proud of how far this has come, and I am so happy that you all have enjoyed it. Don’t worry, I have another fic lined up!!

Part 1 | Previous | Headcannons, Masterlist

Price isn’t entirely sure the last time he could smell something like this on Simon. He isn’t entirely sure if he’s ever smelled him like this. Not in the however long he’s known the Lieutenant. There’s words that he should find, something to get his other alpha, his Lieutenant, to feel better, yet there’s nothing. No matter how much he wants to say something, the words are lost to Price.

He knows the feeling coursing through Simon. Price himself missed his middle pups birth, and yet this all feels different.t He isn’t even sure there are words to convey what he wants to say, if he could just transmit the feeling he needs to he would. But he can’t do that, that just isn’t a thing that’s possible. Maybe in the far, far future but right now? All he needs to find are the words to help make his other Alpha hurt just a little less.

The tangy scent that fills the air of the heli almost burns his nose. It’s not something he’s ever smelled before, not on Simon. Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley didn’t smell hurt, or sad. Hell, he never even really smelled anguished even when he probably should have. Price knows the pup- the pups- are here, and he knows Simon should be feeling a sense of joy. Excitement, even. But there’s nothing. No joy, no happiness, just fear and a tang of pain.

While Price knows the feeling- he missed his own middle pups birth- he can’t find the words to express to Simon that it’ll all turn out okay. That everything will be figured out, that you won’t just abandon him. Simon isn’t a bad Alpha, he might be rough around the edges but he truly does mean well. Maybe his words were a little harsh, maybe his tone wasn’t always what he wanted to convey, but Simon never meant real harm to those on his side.

The sounds of shrieking, wails and snarls coming from the other end of the phone almost haunted Price. He’d never heard his own Omega, the perfect parent to their pups, scream in such a way. Maybe it was just because it hurt, maybe because you had to push two pups out of you, but maybe it was because it was so unexpected. His omega had gone to a few classes to prepare for it all.

Christ. You’d had two pups, and Simon wasn’t there to help at all. Your own pack, the one you were born in, wasn’t even there to help you with this moment. Price knew that there was very little anyone could do to fix this, but by all the gods who knew of the green Earth he wanted to find a way.

While your relationship with Simon had definitely been through worse, he knew that it was torment. Price had been given the opportunity to slowly court his own omega, make them fall in love with him each time that they were together. He knew what it took to get an omega, at least his own, to fall in love. But neither of you were given that chance. You were just some Doctor that had been assigned to their base, just a Doctor who was sent out by your own leaders and Captains to figure out what was happening.

You were just a Doctor, tossed into a world of hurt all because of Simon. And Simon wasn’t sure if he could forgive himself for any of it. You were alone, to care for two newly born pups, all alone to give birth to them. He’d heard you snarl at one of the doctors who had come in. Just Price’s Omega was allowed in, they were the only person who was allowed near you.

Simon shouldn’t have just ran off to the mission without at least having gone and seen you first. Maybe then, just maybe, he would have had the balls to stay behind and try and fix his mistakes. Maybe then, you wouldn’t have been left alone to birth your children. God, he felt so fucking stupid. He’d missed the birth of his pups.

Maybe, hopefully, you’d forgive him. You had before, so hopefully this wouldn’t be that much different. He had to stop doing this, stop making these situations occur where he hurt you so much and had to hope to whatever god would listen that you would accept him back into your arms. He could see Price, Gaz and Soap glancing at him every now and again. Soaps nose was scrunched up, his eyes slightly narrowed while looking at him.

“You alright, L.T.?” Soap asked in the silent helo. The tension was so strong Simon thought he could cut it in half. His eyes slowly moved from staring out of the window to looking right at him. Soaps eyes didn’t move, matching his stare.

Swallowing thickly, Simon broke eye contact. “Worried, s’all,” he responded, voice slightly hoarse. A hum came from Soap, and he watched him turn to look back away where he’d been prior to it. No one else spoke for the remainder of the flight back, and Simon found himself glancing back out the window he was near and watching the ground pass by quickly.

Sometimes he wondered what other people were up to, how simple their lives might be. How they might be having a nice dinner with their pack, watching as their pups grow up with ease. He felt a pang deep in his chest, and he almost felt his eyes burn for a moment. He craved such normalcy. He wanted to curl up in your nest next to you, hold you close as you slept against him.

Take care of his pups and help you out after the birth. He barely noticed the helo land and was half conscious as he walked into the compound. People were glancing at him, their eyes following him as he walked. Simon barely noticed, though, and he felt as though he had tunnel vision on his walk to your shared room.

From a few halls down, he could smell something. It was sweet, mixed in with your own scent. Milky, almost, and slightly powdery. He swallowed thickly, as just another hall down he could hear shuffling coming from your shared room. Christ, when had his hearing become so sensitive? He heard you humming faintly, some cooing and whining from two other sources.

And he opened the door, sliding the key out of the lock as he walked in. Your eyes found him, widening just a little and the faintest scent of fear coursed through your scent. Two wails suddenly screeched through the room, your eyes darting back to the closet nest and you moved without hesitation. He heard little purrs and coos coming from you, the wails slowly dying down into soft whimpers.

His heart shatters into pieces. He feels a pain he hadn’t thought possible, the thoughts whirling through his head. His pups don’t know him, they hate him and he can’t be here. Simons muscles are tensed, ready to make a run for it. He can almost feel tears pooling in his eyes, his throat closing up as a small whine comes from deep within him.

There’s nothing he can do. Absolutely nothing. He wasn’t here when they came into this Earth, he wouldn’t be here when they left. And he hated himself so deeply. But the purrs that you gave, little coos bringing him from his thoughts. His head almost cleared, listening to you whisper soothing words to the little things. God, they’d be tiny. They had to only be a few days or weeks old at this point, but everything felt like it had ground to a halt when he’d heard you were in labor.

And he shouldn’t he absolutely should leave until he can talk to you alone but he can’t. He can’t run away again when things get difficult, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to leave you. He had to make things right, but he wasn’t sure how.

Simon didn’t feel like he could move. He slid his boots off, sliding them in their spot in the corner. He moved slowly, cautiously as he inched closer to the closet. He was barely peeking around the corner when you spun and growled at him. Growled. Deeply, from so far in your chest he hadn’t thought an Omega could make that noise.

Your eyes had shifted from being you, shifting into a deeper and more primal look. They softened, slowly, as your snarl faded carefully. You had remained crouched next to the two pups, your hands still gently laid on each of them.

When you growled, you could smell fear coming from Simon. You aren’t entirely sure if that’s what pulled you out of this weird and deeply defensive spot. The father of your pups, your Alpha was standing above you and looking down at you with wide eyes. You watched as he carefully slid the balaclava off, his eyes dropping down to take a look at your pups. You shifted a little, no longer crouching down in front of them.

His eyes became softer, his brows no longer furrowed so deep into his eyes that he almost looked awed. You knew they had his eyes, although a little lighter because of how young they were. They looked so similar, although your little Lily had more of your features than her fathers. Finley, on the other hand, had his stronger features but he had your hair. Maybe he had your nose, but you were partial to your pups.

You said nothing as you handed one of them to their father. Lily shifted, her nose scrunching up as she inhaled his scent up close but it slowly disappeared as she became comfortable. Her little hand grabbed at his shirt, and one of his hands moved to stroke against her hair. He held her closer to him, and you could see his nose twitch a little as he inhaled her scent.

“I want to retire,” he whispered, not looking away from the little pup in your arms. You could feel your heart stop, your eyes almost welling with tears as the realization slowly sunk in. Your pups would have their father, and you would have your alpha.

“Do you know their names?” You whispered softly, watching as he looked up at you. He shook his head and you gave him a weak smile. You still hurt, not just physically, but emotionally. He had abandoned you. And yet he was here now, holding Lily in his arm and his eyes felt so gentle while he looked at you. “You’re holding Lily,” and he nodded, his nose twitching a little bit. “Finley is down here,”

“How do you differentiate them?” You gave a little laugh, picking up Finley and letting Simon grab onto the two of them. Your big, scary looking alpha was standing there with his head ducked down looking at his pups. He seemed so gentle, his jaw was relaxed and his brows weren’t furrowed. He seemed almost happy.

You glanced away from the three of them, swallowing thickly. “Lily’s scent is a little stronger, kind of like yours. Finley isn’t as shifty and he’s a little quieter. Mostly it’s just their scent, though, but also. Other things,” you glanced away and heard Simon laugh from deep in his chest. His eyes were scrunched up, and his head was tossed back.

Genuinely, you don’t remember if you’d ever seen him laugh as hard as that. You’re not sure that you have, and it made you feel warm. Your chest hurt, but in a good way this time. You could feel your cheeks aching from the smile you had on your face, watching your little pack enjoy themselves.

For some time, the two of your stood there basking in the little family you had. Simon finally sat himself in your nest, and you showed him how to change their diapers. The two of you sat there for what felt like minutes, but had to be hours. He helped you to the toilet when the pain relievers finally stopped working as well, helping to prepare your new pad and helping you get back up.

The first night you were able to spend with him, you hadn’t woken up once. You’d stashed away some pumped milk in a little mini fridge they’d let you keep in the room just for this, and when you woke up and added some more that you’d packaged you noticed a few missing. You smiled a little, glancing at him snoring away in the bed you shared.

It didn’t take long for his retirement to become official. The two of you found a little place not too far from the compound, and he’d gotten a new job. It was pretty decent, but he also received an alright amount of money from the government for his service. You were still working in the medical field, but you found yourself leaning more towards finding an office job, one where you could actually have decent hours to be able to help care for the pups.

Raising two pups at once was difficult. Sure, Simon helped when and where he could, but it was just difficult in general. When one pup wasn’t crying, it was the other. When one needed a diaper change, the other suddenly needed one as well. You were just happy to have your mate and your pups healthy, happy and not at risk to die.

Until Simon got a phone call.

“They think Makarov survived,” he whispered to you in bed after you came back from finishing your pumping. You could feel your blood run cold, and you turned over to look at him.

“What?”

He sighed deeply, shifting his head to look at you. “They have some,” he paused and swallowed. “Evidence. They think he’s still alive, and we need to find him. Kill him,” and your heart was suddenly pounding.

“We?”

You watched as his eyes closed, his scent changing to one that confused you. “They need me to help them,” he whispered, his hand finding yours carefully. He squeezed it, and you squeezed back. You sighed deeply, closing your eyes and feeling your heart begin to slow down.

Opening your eyes, you looked carefully at Simon. Even in the dark, you could see his brow furrowed. “I’m coming with,” you whispered. He sat up straight, elbow locked as he held himself up.

“Absolutely not,” his voice was stern, almost a growl. “You will not be going anywhere near this mission,”

You scoffed, rolling back over onto your back. Your eyes gazed across the dark ceiling. “I’m coming with you,” you whispered once more. Simon shook his head, his free hand sliding across his face.

It was a week long argument. Tempers were short, and things weren’t very happy within the house. The two of you still worked together with the pups, but it was silent. He still took care of the pups at night, even though he was sleeping in your guest bedroom. You stayed quiet, listening faintly in on his phone calls. He was trying to stay quiet, you could tell.

It was mostly arguing, at least from his end. Anger about not wanting you to go with, and whoever he was talking with appeared to be arguing for your help. He was always a little angrier after finishing the call, but he stowed away with the pups while they took their naps and seemed to just stew with the thoughts for a while.

After a week, probably just a little longer, he finally came up to you with his head down. He wasn’t making eye contact, but his brows were still furrowed. “I’m sorry,” he whispered after a moment. You nodded, continuing to package the breastmilk you’d just finished pumping. “Price wants you to join, he’s worried there might be issues with medical care while we’re on the mission,” you nodded again but paused after finally registering what he was saying.

“Price said what?”

And the mission was horrible. Absolutely horrible.

The only part you truly remember about it was watching as Soap took a gunshot to the head. You watched the blood pour out of him, heard the shouts and ensuing chaos.

Makarov got away. You did what you could, but at the end of the day you had no way of saving Soap. Simon had grown silent, and the return to the compound was horrible. Price’s omega was taking care of the pups, as their own were almost finished with their last years of school. And you left the 141 alone as they spread his ashes, holding Simon close as he sobbed into your body.

His grip on you those next few weeks were incredibly strong, his arms not letting you out of bed when you needed to use the bathroom, and he was just a little withdrawn for some time.

You named your next pup after Soap. And Simon slowly grew better about the passing, the 141 was often around to see their pack-pups. Everything felt wrong without Johnny, though. No longer just Soap, it was Johnny. Even your youngest had become Johnny, and Simon was able to keep himself from being especially partial to the young one.

They grew up so fast, but it took so long. And maybe it should have felt good, but Christ were they some difficult pups at times. Lily had her first rut, as did Finley. Johnny hadn’t yet presented, so you were just assuming he was a Beta until he would present. Maybe he wouldn’t, but you loved your little pups more than you had ever thought possible.

It wasn’t all too bad. The 141 stuck around, and you found yourselves living in the same neighborhood as the other two. Gaz had found himself a mate, and they had a few pups of their own. You helped with the birth of the first, just as Price’s Omega had done for you. They were there as well, and Simon was holding Gaz back even with the shrieks.

Gaz had tried throwing the two of you out of the room, as his omega had ended up in a similar situation to you. In the middle of birth suddenly, and unable to make it to a hospital in time. Lucky bastard, the birth took twenty minutes.

But you were happy. And that’s all that mattered.

TAGLIST (finished for Maple Syrup, please let me know if you’d eventually like to be added to a general Ghost x Reader taglist, or just no longer be tagged 🫶)

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