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yurinaa-world · 2 months ago

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💫𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓇𝒶𝒸𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓈: Jing Yuan, Sampo, Veritas Ratio, & Aventurine x female reader

💫𝒮𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: with female Nameless! reader who is secretly a phantom thief. stealing treasures around the galaxy that belonged to her deceased parents

💫𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈: Fluff, & Spelling Mistakes

💫𝒪𝓇𝒾𝑔𝒾𝓃𝒶𝓁 𝓇𝑒𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉

💫𝒥𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒴𝓊𝒶𝓃 "𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒢𝑒𝓃𝑒𝓇𝒶𝓁 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒳𝒾𝒶𝓃𝓏𝒽𝑜𝓊 𝒞𝓁𝑜𝓊𝒹 𝒦𝓃𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉𝓈"

It took you a while to slyly squirm between the vast amounts of people that are around the general’s office. Going into a place like that isn’t going to be helped just by looking at the schematics of the office willy-nilly

Charming people into being your ally with a couple of persuasion tactics is quite an easy feat for you. But the one you need to keep your eyes on is your dearest general who apparently shows up at every corner you take.

Every man has desires, right? Like not wanting to do work or being quite slothful when it comes to his work—you’ve seen him out and about, running around in places he shouldn’t be in. The night is no excuse.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

To the esteemed Arbiter-General,I hope this note finds you well. It is with great delight that I announce my next challenge—tonight, beneath the moon's watchful gaze, I shall claim what is rightfully mine. A certain treasured weapon in your collection calls to me, and I intend to take it.

I invite you to my stage; try and stop me.—Your Phantom Thief

A dancer needs a stage.

Tonight, his office will be your stage to dance on.

The moonlight filters through the windows, casting silver streaks across the polished floors. The weapon—the prize of the evening—rests upon its mantle, the marks on the blade almost glowing in the dark—with your name on the steel (not literally), but begging you to steal from its mantle.

That weapon was dear to you, And now, it was reduced to nothing more than decor in the office of the Arbiter-General.

How insulting.

You move silently, a phantom gliding through the dark, each step perfectly placed. The window behind you remains open, the cool breeze dripping from the window, which also will act as your escape.

Your fingers hover just above the weapon’s hilt. Close—to close—

Then, a voice, low and amused:

“Tell me, thief, coming in here at this time of night, you went with your word, I'm quite flustered.”

A sharp jolt of adrenaline spikes through your veins. You turn your head, gaze settling on the figure near the entrance. Not that you’re too shocked—or even at all, just caught slightly off guard (since you didn't sense him in the slightest), but that's fine

Jing Yuan leans casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, golden eyes sharp beneath half-lidded eyes—you can’t fooled by this laid-back attitude.

You let out a soft hum, fingers brushing the weapon’s hilt. “Flustered, General? I didn’t take you for the shy type.”

He chuckles, stepping forward. “Bold words for someone caught red-handed.”

You twirl the weapon in your grip, testing the weight. “Caught? Don’t forget I invited you to see my presence.”

Jing Yuan tilts his head, amusement flickering across his features. "Ah, so this is a performance, then? How gracious of you to send an invitation."

You twirl the weapon once more before resting it against your shoulder, light on your feet as you take a step back. "A dancer needs an audience, don't you think?"

The Arbiter-General chuckles, unhurried as he closes the distance between you. "And yet, you expect to leave before the final act?"

"Of course," you say smoothly, taking another step toward the open window. "A proper phantom never lingers for an encore."

Jing Yuan exhales a mock sigh, placing a hand over his chest. "How cruel. And here I was, hoping to ask my esteemed guest for a dance."

You smirk behind your mask. "Then keep up, General."

With a flick of your wrist, a small, metallic sphere drops to the floor between you.

The second it makes contact, a burst of thick, shimmering smoke explodes outward, swallowing the room in a dense haze.

You feel the shift in the air before you see him, his hand reaching for you through the smoke. A mere second’s delay, but it’s enough for him to grasp the edge of your cloak just as you leap onto the windowsill.

For a moment, you’re tethered to him.

A single thread in the grand performance.

Then, with a sharp twist, the fabric tears, and you slip free right through the window

You’ve got a chokehold on his heart. He loves the mysterious personality, makes his heartbeat with how swiftly he moved and caught off guard—even slipping through his guards.

Only a few days or so before the realization hits. It’s odd, right, the second the Astral Express made its appearance, the weapon went missing just like that. Makes the gears in his turn to you—a gut feeling you could say, like a little slip up from your part made the puzzle pieces match up. That ripped piece of cloak remained in his hands till he got his hand on you.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The torn piece of your cloak never left his possession.

Jing Yuan kept it between his fingers, idly twirling it as he mulled over the events of that night. The way you moved—put him in utter awe, he was so sure that he got but you slipped from his grasp just like that (if that isn’t something then what is).

Jing Yuan wasn’t one to rush things—no, a hunter doesn’t startle his prey before the trap is set. Instead, he watched. Observed. Let you think you had slipped away completely unnoticed.

One second, you were standing there, and the next—a firm yet effortless tug had you pinned against the nearest wall, a warmth pressing against your back. His voice traced with amusement, ghosted over your ear.

"Ah," Jing Yuan mused as if greeting an old friend. "What a troublesome little phantom you are."

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t struggle. No, that would be too obvious. Instead, you tilted your head slightly, faking innocence. "General, this is quite the way to welcome someone. Should I be flattered?"

His grip didn’t tighten, but he didn’t let go either. "Flattered? I’d say caught is the better word."

You felt it then—something brushing against your shoulder before it was raised before your eyes. That small, torn piece of your cloak, held between his fingers like a prized relic.

Your lips curled into a smirk behind your mask of feigned composure. "I’d say you're quite sentimental, keeping that."

Jing Yuan chuckled, and that was the dangerous part—the way he wasn’t angry, wasn’t accusing. Just entertained. Thoroughly entertained.

"Keeping it?" He hummed, lowering his lips just near your ear. "No, no. I was simply holding onto it until I could return it to its rightful owner."

"How generous of you," you mused, your voice steady despite the weight of his presence. "But I must admit, General, I don’t recall asking for it back."

Jing Yuan exhaled a soft chuckle, his grip still firm, keeping you in place as though he were indulging in a moment he had long anticipated. "Mm, true," he conceded. "But you did leave in quite a hurry. I thought it only fair to return what was left behind."

You can't but a scoff leave your lips as you look to the side—this wasn’t what he expected"And here I thought you’d be more interested in the weapon I took rather than a scrap of fabric."

"Who’s to say I can’t be interested in both?"

💫𝒮𝒶𝓂𝓅𝑜 𝒦𝑜𝓈𝓀𝒾 "𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒮𝒾𝓁𝓋𝑒𝓇-𝒯𝑜𝓃𝑔𝓊𝑒𝒹 𝒮𝒶𝓁𝑒𝓈𝓂𝒶𝓃"’

How funny, He wasn't doing anything shady, he's not that type of guy y’know, sure, it was odd that you both were at the exact same museum at the exact same time of the night, BUT! He was just checking the place out and not doing anything bad per se.

Maybe his butter fingers were looking for a certain painting to take from the museum for quite a high-paying client of his, only to run in out of nowhere with your cool moves and leave him there to deal with the guards and be thrown into jail.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

To the Curators of the Everwinter City Museum,

The painting in your possession was never yours to keep. Tonight, I’ll be taking it back.

Do what you will—I’ll see you at midnight.

—Your Phantom Thief <3

That painting was nearly yours.

Just against the wall of the museum with a small tether around the painting to keep guess from getting too close to the piece of art with some reinforced glass to protect the piece. It belonged to you and only you.

A few more seconds, and it would be back where it belonged.

But before she could make her final move, a slow, amused clap echoed through the dimly lit room.

“Well, well. Here I was, thinking I’d have to go through a whole song and dance to get my hands on that.”

you sized him up. “And you are?”

Sampo pressed a hand to his chest, faking offence. “C’mon now, don’t tell me you haven’t heard of me! Sampo Koski—businessman, entrepreneur, and, in this case, the rightful owner of that painting.”

Of course, you knew him.

You raised an eyebrow beneath your mask. “Rightful?”

“Well, rightful once I deliver it to a very generous client,” he admitted with a grin. “And let me tell you, they are paying a lot for it. So, how about we make this easy? You walk away, I take the painting, and no one has to get in trouble.”

Then, in one swift motion, he lunged—not at you, but at the painting.

Clever. He was trying to force you into a choice: either fight him for it or lose it entirely.

you twisted away, evading his grasp, and the chase began.

You led him through the showroom, past display cases and velvet ropes, weaving through the maze of priceless artifacts. Sampo was grinning the whole time, his own amusement growing as he tried to cut her off at every turn.

Then, just as he thought he had you trapped—

A sudden blare of alarms filled the room.

Sampo barely had time to register the sound before the security doors slammed shut behind him.

He blinked. Then looked at you, who was perched on the railing of an upper-floor balcony, painting secured under your arm.

"I’d stay and chat, but you look like you’ve got company.”

Sampo turned just in time to see guards storm into the room.

"Hey—!" He raised his hands, backing up. "Now, fellas, I know how this looks—”

Just like how he got out of that jail cell by being a slimy worm, he can do the same by finding you out—why? You stole his thunder, put him in jail, basically made him lose big bucks on this simple deal; live in his head rent and that is no can do for dear ol’ Sampo. A week or so to find your pretty face.

Just for him to find that you are his dear old friend the Astral Express, how about you two make a deal?

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

At first, it's just a tiny, grudge. That thief got him thrown in prison.

One moment, he was trying to secure a high-paying deal, and the next, he was on the floor, guards dragging him away, all because some masked woman thought she was clever. He spent weeks in a cold, miserable cell, spinning lie after lie just to escape.

And worst of all, he lost one of the biggest clients he had.

They say, in business, there are wins and losses but this was too big of a loss for him to let go.

And maybe he was into your mysteriousness, it put him to shame. You were the only thing he could think about while he spent the days in prison.

Sliding into the seat across from her, he gave her his best charming-but-wounded grin. “You know, most people would send a little care package. Maybe a ‘Sorry for letting you rot in jail’ card.”

you didn’t even look up. “I’m not most people.”

He let out a dramatic sigh. “Clearly.”

There was a pause. Then you finally looked at him, unimpressed. “How’d you figure it out?”

Sampo leaned back, grin widening. “Oh, I put the pieces together while starin’ at those lovely cell walls. Y’see, I had a lotta time to think, thanks to someone.”

Sampo’s grin didn’t waver, but there was an edge to it now, something sharper beneath the usual easy charm.

“At first, I thought about holding a grudge,” he said, tapping his fingers against the table in a slow, deliberate rhythm. “Because, y’know, getting locked up in a frozen cell for weeks? Not exactly my idea of a vacation.”

You didn’t react. Just watched him, silent, patient. It was infuriating how unreadable you were.

Sampo leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. “But then I got to thinking… You didn’t just steal a painting. You stole my deal. You stole my time. And the worst part?” His smirk twitched, a little too forced.

“I spent all those days in prison thinking about you,”

You can’t help but scoff at his words—but he seemed serious on his part.

“Perhaps we take some time and understand each other differences.”

💫𝒱𝑒𝓇𝒾𝓉𝒶𝓈 𝑅𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜 "𝑀𝑒𝓂𝒷𝑒𝓇 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝐼𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓁𝓁𝒾𝑔𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓈𝒾𝒶 𝒢𝓊𝒾𝓁𝒹"

He felt things were off, small sensors were never seen on the cameras before, or The same sensors somehow were on the door, he’s doubtful for any reason Herta’s space station would have something like that, but the other folks there told him otherwise.

Until that letter made its appearance that confirmed his suspicions.

Yet when he went to check on the artifacts later on, he found you and your grubby little fingers all over the precious release—your dirty hands ready to steal knowledge away, which is something he can not allow.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

To the Brilliant Minds of Herta Space Station,

Your relic has waited long enough—it’s time it came home. Tonight, I’ll be taking it. Feel free to make it interesting.

See you soon.

—Your Phantom Thief

"Late, are we?" he mused to you. "Disappointing."

Your grubby little hands so close to touching the artifacts, before getting stopped by a voice—not that it scared you, but you thought you got rid of all the rats in the space station from getting in the way.

You sighed, straightening up but not turning around just yet. "And here I thought the esteemed Dr. Ratio would be a bit more subtle," you said, rolling your wrist as if the whole thing bored you. "Do you always greet your guests with such little faith?"

“You? Insinuating someone as yourself as a guest, don’t be so delusional.”

You finally turned to face him, your mask concealing the small smirk tugging at your lips. "Ouch. And here I was hoping for a warmer welcome."

Dr. Ratio didn’t bite at your words, he knows better than to do so. Funny, he was wearing that hideous bust.

"You know," you continued, eyes glancing over his figure, "if you spent less time making yourself look... distinguished and more on actually stopping me, you might have had a chance."

Dr. Ratio raised a brow, his gaze flicking over to the relic, then back to you. "Such confidence for someone who’s standing in front of me," he replied dryly, his voice laced with a challenge. "I hope you realize, delusional or not, I'm not letting you take it."

You can’t help but grin at those words

“You know what, I have to thank you, for giving him another idea for the next thing to swipe.”

Dr. Ratio exhaled sharply, amusement flickering in his gaze. "Oh? And what exactly would that be?"

You took a step closer, tilting your head slightly as if considering your answer. Then, with a flick of your wrist, you tossed a small device toward the relic’s display case. A sharp click echoed as the lights dimmed just a fraction—a misdirection, a sleight of hand. His attention barely wavered, but that was all the time you needed.

By the time the lights steadied, the relic was gone.

But something else was missing.

Dr. Ratio's eyes narrowed. His hand twitched toward his collar as if adjusting his posture—but no, his bust.

It was gone.

You twirled it between your fingers as you stepped back into the shadows, the absurd gold-rimmed likeness catching the dim light. "Distinguished indeed," you mused, barely containing your laughter. "Not my usual bonus prize, but I couldn't resist."

You gave him a playful salute, the bust and artifact still in hand. “I’ll be sure to put it somewhere special.”

And with that, you vanished, leaving only a faint trace of laughter in your wake.

He's quite furious in the moment, You had stolen his bust—that phenomenal face-sculpted mask that he always wears, your fingers were able to get the better of him and steal something that was literally on his head. Ridiculous.

If you truly believe you’ll get away with this then you’re sorely mistaken. He’ll have you figured out in mere hours, he’s a man of knowledge after all.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

It doesn’t take him long.

For all your skill, wit, and misdirection, you made one crucial mistake: you underestimated him. Dr. Ratio has always prided himself on his intellect, and this time is no different. The way you moved, the subtle way you carried yourself, the moments where you seemed just a little too familiar with high-security systems—it was enough for him to start watching you. And when he watches, he finds answers.

So when he finally confirms it, he doesn’t waste time with pointless theatrics. No grand confrontation, no drawn-out accusations—just a simple, inevitable checkmate.

You took his bust and an artifact, he won’t let this go

You return to the back to the herta’s space station, so shamelessly, only to find Dr. Ratio waiting for you, arms crossed, expression unreadable. The moment you step past him, his voice cuts through the air.

“I must say, you really had me fooled. Or at least, you tried.”

You freeze.

Slowly, you turn to meet Dr. Ratio’s golden eye, glowing with sharp amusement. He stands in your path, posture relaxed yet deliberate, like a predator that has already snared its prey.

“A phantom thief, masquerading as a Nameless. How utterly predictable of you.” His tone is as smooth as ever, but there’s something razor-sharp beneath it.

Your mind races through possible explanations, quick lies, anything that could throw him off—but one glance at him tells you it’s already too late. He knows. He’s known for a while.

Still, you refuse to make it easy for him.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Your voice is steady, casual even, as you fold your arms and raise a brow. “But if you’re looking for a compliment on your detective work, I’d say you need to try harder. I’ve been nothing but an upstanding citizen.”

Dr. Ratio chuckles, low and amused. “Oh? Upstanding citizens don’t typically steal priceless artifacts—let alone my bust.”

you blink. Then, without missing a beat, you grin.

"Your bust? Oh, please. I prefer to think of it as a… relocation. It looks much better in my collection."

Dr. Ratio exhales through his nose, shaking his head as if you’re the most amusing thing he’s come across in ages. “A thief with an ego. How original.” He steps closer, his golden eye gleaming with something between intrigue and satisfaction. “Though I must admit, it takes a special kind of arrogance to waltz back in here so shamelessly. Were you testing me?”

You shrug. “Would it be so bad if I was?”

His smirk deepens. "Not at all. In fact, I quite enjoy being tested—especially when the outcome is so predictable."

“Then if I'm so predictable, steal it back from me, Doctor.”

Somehow he likes those words.

💫𝒜𝓋𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓊𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑒 "𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒮𝑒𝓃��𝑜𝓇 𝑀𝒶𝓃𝒶𝑔𝑒𝓇 𝑜𝒻 𝐼𝒫𝒞 𝒮𝓉𝓇𝒶𝓉𝑒𝑔𝒾𝒸 𝐼𝓃𝓋𝑒𝓈𝓉𝓂𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝒟𝑒𝓅𝒶𝓇𝓉𝓂𝑒𝓃𝓉"

He’s a man with many treasures and money with many wanting to nab some of his riches away with him. None have truly done so always getting caught by him. Pity, it is fun watching their little “heists” and soon fail almost Immediately.

Only when you leave him speechless in your appearance, holding the pretty neckless—which first caught his eye when he saw it— in between your fingers with a smile on your face. He feels his heart racing at a challenge. Just disappearing without even bothering or threatening him

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

To Aventurine, one of the ten stone hearts,

A precious thing should be where it belongs. You understand that better than anyone, don’t you?

I’ll be reclaiming the pendant soon. Consider this a courtesy—an opportunity to turn the odds in your favor, if you think you can.

Midnight. Try and stop me.

—The Phantom Thief

Usually, heists when it comes to his collections, never work out, they always get caught. When he saw your letter he didn’t take seriously, since ‘that's what they all say’

Until he saw you.

Standing in his private vault, completely at ease. No fear, no panic—just a quiet confidence as you held the pendant between your fingers. The same pendant that had once caught his eye, gleaming under the dim lights of the few lamps turned on, in his home.

For the first time, Aventurine was left speechless. Not because of the theft itself, but because you knew he wouldn’t stop you. And strangely enough, he didn’t.

“You don’t mind I take this back, you already have many pieces of jewelry, one missing won’t do you harm.”

Blowing him a gentle kiss before slipping away from his gaze into the night, just as the guards arrive.

Far late.

You utterly stole his heart. He felt his thoughts completely overran by that night. Perhaps regretting not saying anything in that moment, if he did maybe your ‘conversation’ could’ve led on for more than the short words that were exchanged.

It takes him a while but he wants to meet you again. Even if you would take all of his jewels this time.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Since that night, his thoughts had been filled with one person.

You.

The recollection of your victorious smirk, the glint in your eyes as you stood there, so confident in his home, haunted him. He had let you go, and now, your absence was more than he would ever acknowledge. Maybe if he had been more vocal, drawn out the conversation a little bit longer, things would have turned out differently. But he had hesitated. And you had vanished.

And Aventurine didn't like being left in the dark.

It was time, but he pieced it together. The rumors, the trends, the thefts across different worlds—it all pointed to one person. You. And as it would later turn out, you were closer than he expected.

The realization hit him like a good hand. You weren't just a fleeting mystery; you were someone he had already encountered more than once.

You were a Nameless.

The revelation didn't anger him. Instead, it thrilled him. You'd been in his face the entire time, double-dealing in two identities so seamlessly. The friendly Astral Express member by day, the dark phantom burglar by night.

So, now what?

Aventurine wasn't the type to be blabbing secrets in your face. No, he had something far more delectable in mind. He wanted to see how long you'd think you could keep up the charade, how long you could stand there and hold his gaze without realizing he already knew everything.

And above all else, he wanted to see you again—on your terms, this time.

So he did something for you.

A plain card, inserted in your belongings while you weren't paying attention. No threat, no accusation—just a letter scribbled in neat, purposeful writing.

"It took me long enough, but I found you. Do you find me now?"

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idkyetxoxo · 4 months ago

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Aegon Targaryen - Poisoned Love

Summary - In a match born of duty, Aegon swore he'd never love—but fate had other plans. Passion ignites, turning to a love so fierce it defies their world, only to be shattered by a cruel betrayal that tests the very soul.

Pairing - Aegon Targaryen x reader

Warnings - Sexual content (smut!)

Word count - 2711

Masterlist for Aegon �� House of the Dragon General Masterlist.

Love was never part of the plan.

From the very first moment, Aegon had railed against the idea of the match his parents arranged—a calculated alliance, devoid of romance and brimming with obligation. He had sworn not to be a pawn in their schemes.

But fate, with its penchant for irony, was relentless.

Against the tide of his own resistance, Aegon found himself falling—slowly at first, then all at once—into a love so profound that it threatened to consume him entirely.

Hopelessly. Tragically. Unstoppably in love.

"So, my love, why exactly must we attend this feast when I have you in such a serene position?" His voice was a rich, teasing purr, the words sending sparks of heat skittering across my skin.

The flickering light of the candles cast shadows on the walls, softening the sharp angles of his face, yet it couldn't dim the intensity of his gaze.

His fingertips traced idle circles along my hips, their warmth seeping through the thin fabric of my dress. With a gentle tug, he pulled me closer, his breath mingling with mine.

I tilted my head back to look at him, a playful smirk on my lips.

"Serene, is it?" I countered, raising a brow. "I didn't realize being at your mercy was so... calming." My words were light, but my pulse quickened as his eyes darkened with desire.

"Oh, it is," he whispered, a smile curving his lips as if I had unknowingly handed him a victory.

"Serene, because it gives me the perfect vantage to appreciate you." He leaned down, his mouth brushing the hollow of my throat, lingering long enough to draw out a soft gasp. His lips moved lower, each kiss deliberate, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

"And," he continued, voice huskier now, "it allows me to do this." His hands slid slowly, reverently, beneath my skirts, fingertips grazing bare skin.

The anticipation alone sent a shiver coursing down my spine.

For a moment, I tried to hold on to a shred of propriety. "Aegon, we have to—" The rest of my sentence disintegrated into a breathless sigh as he pressed his body against mine.

The world beyond these four walls faded, leaving only the heat between us. His name became a prayer on my lips, a whisper that carried all the longing and need I had been trying to suppress.

"We have time," he murmured, his lips ghosting over mine. "Just enough to make this moment ours." His words, laced with promise, made my resolve crumble.

He kissed me slowly, with an intensity that made my toes curl. Time stretched out as I melted into him, savouring each caress, each breath, each shared heartbeat.

When he drew back, it was only to study my face—his eyes tracing every curve as though trying to commit it to memory.

He brushed a thumb over my cheek, then lower, tracing my jaw and down the column of my neck. His touch was light, reverent.

He leaned in once more, this time catching my lips in a kiss that was deep and unhurried as if he had all the time in the world to taste and explore.

He lifted me gently, laying me back onto the softness of the bed, and I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him closer.

Our movements were slow, languid as if savouring every second.

His hands roamed, mapping familiar territory but treating it like uncharted ground, and I arched into his touch, needing more of him, more of this.

He smiled against my lips, sensing my impatience.

"Patience, my love," he teased, trailing kisses down my collarbone, taking his time.

Each touch, each press of his lips and whisper of his breath against my skin left me trembling. I ran my fingers through his hair, desperate to ground myself as desire built within me.

At last, he met my gaze again, and the look in his eyes made me feel as if nothing else in the world mattered.

"You are everything," he said softly, a confession that left me breathless. He moved then, slowly, achingly so, guiding our bodies together.

The sensation was overwhelming; a slow burn that built intensified with every motion.

"Aegon," I breathed, my hands clutching at his shoulders as he set a rhythm that was both torturously slow and deeply satisfying.

He shifted slightly, finding that perfect angle, and I bit down on my lip to stifle a cry.

Every thrust sent pleasure radiating through me, a tide that rose higher with every touch, every whispered endearment.

"Let me hear you," he urged, his voice low and rough. His thumb traced the edge of my bottom lip, a gentle pressure that sent sparks skittering down my spine.

I gave in, letting him hear every sigh, every soft moan that escaped. The intimacy of it—the closeness, the vulnerability—was almost too much to bear.

He held me as we moved together, his touch firm but tender.

My senses were overwhelmed: the press of his body, the weight of his gaze, the way his breath hitched when I responded to his touch.

I felt myself spiralling higher, pulled inexorably toward release.

When it finally came, it was like shattering into a thousand pieces. I clung to him, calling out his name as waves of pleasure crashed over me.

His own climax followed, and he held me tighter, as if afraid to let go. For a moment, we were both suspended in that perfect, breathless stillness.

Slowly, he withdrew, his touch still gentle, almost reverent.

"My pretty wife," he murmured, the words a soft caress against my skin. He reached for a cloth to clean us, his movements tender and unhurried.

He rearranged my skirts, his fingers lingering as he smoothed the fabric.

"I cannot wait for the day you carry my child," he whispered, a hopeful smile curving his lips. The thought made my heart ache with both joy and trepidation.

I felt my cheeks warm, the secret I held threatening to spill forth. But instead, I met his gaze and smiled.

"Soon," I said softly, kissing his cheek.

With a deep breath, I slipped from the bed and took his hand, leading him toward the feast in the great hall, the promise of our future shimmering between us.

We moved together through the grand feast, weaving our way past the gathered lords and ladies, exchanging greetings and nods.

The hall buzzed with life—laughter mingling with clinking goblets and the melodies of minstrels perched on the dais. Black and crimson banners hung from the high stone walls, flickering in the torchlight, casting shifting patterns over the revelry.

Yet, despite the opulence around me, I felt a growing heaviness in my limbs.

My feet throbbed with each step, a dull ache creeping up my calves. The hours dragged on, and an unsettling churn took root in my stomach, as though the venison I had forced down earlier was a beast clawing to escape.

I pressed a hand to my midsection, hoping to calm the storm.

"Aegon, I don't feel well," I murmured, barely able to keep my voice steady. Within moments, he was at my side, guiding me away from the throng with a gentleness that belied his imposing presence.

He led me to a cushioned chair, his touch firm but tender.

"What troubles you?" he asked, his voice low and laced with concern. He brushed a stray lock of hair from my face, his fingers lingering at my temple.

His gaze pierced mine, searching for answers I was not ready to give.

I swallowed hard, struggling to mask the truth that threatened to spill from me.

How could I tell him? How could I reveal that every ache in my body, every wave of nausea, was more than fatigue from the night?

That I carried a secret, nestled deep within, stirring with every heartbeat?

Before I could summon an answer, a shadow fell over us. I turned, and Aegon shifted, his hand instinctively resting on my arm.

A man stood before us, his presence both familiar and foreboding.

"Lord Darry," I said, my voice tighter than I intended. He regarded me with a smile that never touched his eyes—a smile I remembered all too well.

It was the same expression he had worn in my father's halls, where harsh words and sharper glances had been exchanged between our houses.

The rivalry between House Darry and my kin was a bitter one, more entrenched than even the long-standing feud of Blackwood and Bracken.

Marrying into the Targaryen family had done little to soften those wounds.

"My lady," Lord Darry intoned, his words slow and deliberate as if testing their weight. "Or should I address you as 'Princess' now?"

His laugh was light, a mocking echo that resonated beneath the surface pleasantries.

I clenched my jaw, forcing a polite smile. "Whatever pleases you, my lord," I replied evenly, determined not to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

Aegon's posture stiffened beside me, his protective instincts flaring. I placed a hand on his arm, a silent plea for restraint. This was not the time or place for old grievances to be rekindled.

"Is there something you require, Lord Darry?" I asked, keeping my voice calm.

Beneath the mask of civility, I could feel the pulse of history—a history filled with blood and betrayal—stretching taut between us.

Lord Darry's smile widened, his eyes narrowing as he took a small step closer.

"No," he said softly, the false warmth in his voice barely concealing something darker. "I merely wished to ensure you are well. You appear... pale."

His smile, a blade hidden beneath velvet, never reached his eyes. "Pale, indeed," he murmured, as though tasting the words. "The Targaryen court must be... exhausting."

I forced myself to hold his gaze, my stomach twisting tighter. "I am just a little unwell," I replied, striving for a lightness I did not feel.

My words came out brittle, a thin veneer of composure over the turmoil within.

"Ah," Lord Darry said, his expression one of exaggerated concern.

He reached for a nearby goblet and filled it from a nearby pitcher. The water gleamed in the torchlight, a deceptive mirror to the innocence he feigned.

"Please, take this. It will help," he insisted, pressing the cool metal into my trembling hands.

I hesitated. There was something in his gaze that set my nerves alight, some unspoken malice that I couldn't shake.

But the eyes of those around us were upon me, and refusing his offer would be seen as a slight—a provocation.

Reluctantly, I raised the goblet to my lips and drank. The water was cold, the taste clean, but an icy dread settled deep within my chest.

"Thank you, my lord," I managed, my voice thin. Lord Darry bowed with a flourish, his smile never wavering.

"Rest well, Princess," he murmured, before disappearing into the crowd, leaving only the faintest scent of his oils and the weight of a promise unspoken.

Moments stretched into a cruel eternity. Aegon's voice reached me through a haze, his words distorted, as if carried from some distant shore.

His hands were warm against my shoulders, anchoring me to the here and now, but the world had begun to tilt, a spinning blur of noise and light.

I tried to focus, to hold on to something solid, but my breath caught in my throat, and an overwhelming wave of dizziness sent me reeling.

I clung to him, desperate, as the edges of my vision darkened, shadows closing in.

"Something's wrong," I gasped, my fingers digging into his arms as though he could pull me back from the abyss.

Panic flared in his eyes—an intensity I had rarely seen, raw and unguarded. My mouth flooded with warmth, metallic and bitter. I tasted blood before I saw it, crimson spilling down my chin.

"Poison," I whispered, barely audible. The word hung in the air like a death knell.

"No," Aegon breathed, a plea more than a denial. He gripped me tighter as if he could hold back the inevitable by sheer will.

"Stay with me," he begged, voice cracking, his desperation slicing through the haze. He guided me down, his movements careful, his touch reverent, lowering me onto the cold stone floor as chaos erupted around us.

The sounds of the feast faded—distant shouts, the pounding of footsteps—but all that mattered was him.

I saw his face above mine, his features carved in anguish, his eyes searching mine for answers, for hope.

Tears burned at the corners of my eyes, blurring his face. I had so little time. My heart thundered in my chest, every beat a cruel reminder of what was slipping away.

I needed him to know—I needed him to understand.

"Aegon," I managed, each breath a struggle. "There's something... I have to tell you." Pain rippled through me, but I forced the words out. "I'm... I'm with child."

The realization struck him like a blow. His breath caught, his face crumpling with grief that cut deeper than any blade.

He drew me closer, his eyes wide with shock, disbelief, and a helpless sorrow that broke my heart all over again. For a moment, he was silent, his lips moving soundlessly as if struggling to comprehend.

When he spoke, his voice was low, trembling. "You'll be alright," he insisted as if saying it would make it true. "You have to be."

I felt the sting of tears on my cheeks, mingling with blood. "I don't... want to die," I whispered, my voice cracking under the weight of fear. "I'm scared, Aegon. I'm so scared."

He pressed his forehead to mine, his tears falling onto my skin.

"I'm here," he swore, his words fierce, desperate. "I won't leave you. I love you." The confession hung between us, raw and unvarnished.

His grip tightened, his hand trembling around mine as if he could hold me here by force alone. I felt the warmth of his touch begin to fade, and with it, my strength.

The pain surged, twisting in my chest, a reminder of every breath I was losing. Around us, the world blurred, but I focused on his face—the desperate lines of his jaw, the tears streaking down his cheeks.

The sight of his anguish was a dagger to my heart.

"I'm with child," I repeated, my voice weaker now, barely a breath. The words, once a promise of life, became a cruel taunt—a cruel joke played by fate.

I watched the hope that flickered in his eyes shatter, leaving behind nothing but raw, unbridled grief.

"No," he whispered, shaking his head as if he could deny reality itself. "You can't—" His voice cracked, a jagged sound that tore through me. "You can't leave me. Not now. Not like this."

"I don't want to," I managed, my chest tightening with every word. I tried to reach for him, but my strength was gone. "I wanted... I wanted to see them. Our child. I wanted—"

The rest was swallowed by a sob, my body trembling in his arms.

"Please," he begged, the mighty prince reduced to nothing more than a man pleading with the gods. "Don't go. Fight. For me. For us."

The pain sharpened, and I knew there was no fighting this. Death had its claws in me, dragging me down.

His forehead pressed against mine, his tears mixing with my blood. "I love you," he said, his voice fierce but laced with despair. "I love you. I should have told you every day. I should have—"

His hands cupped my face, his touch both a comfort and a cruel reminder of everything slipping away. "No," he said, his voice a broken echo. "We still have time."

But time was a lie, slipping like sand through his fingers. I drew in one last ragged breath, each heartbeat a hammering drum of finality.

My vision dimmed, the world receding, and in those last moments, I saw him—just him.

Grief-stricken, helpless. And I hated it. I hated that he had to bear this weight. That he would have to live with this cruelty, to carry our love as a scar.

Darkness took me, cold and unrelenting, and the last thing I heard was his scream—raw, animalistic, echoing in a world that no longer had room for the life we had dreamed of.

The gods had been cruel. Fate had been cruel. And love... love was the cruellest of all.

A/n - I feel cruel xx

#house of the dragon #house targaryen #hotd #hotd x reader #house of the dragon x reader #hotd one shot #hotd season 2 #house of the dragon fanfiction #hotd fanfic #aegon ii targaryen #aegon x reader #aegon targaryen x reader #team green #aegon the second #aegon targaryen #king aegon #hotd aegon

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bjlipss · 22 days ago

Text

sneaking away with commander erwin during a fancy military event <3

the ballroom shimmered with candlelight and polite tension. velvet banners hung from high ceilings. crystal glasses clinked softly between conversations steeped in rank, strategy, and thinly-veiled diplomacy.

you stood near the edge of it all, half-listening to a high-ranking officer recount a supply chain miracle, nodding in all the right places, eyes drifting often — toward him.

erwin smith, in full formal uniform, hair swept back neatly, medals catching the light just enough to remind everyone who he was. his presence was magnetic, even when he was just standing, speaking calmly to a pair of generals.

but then his gaze flicked toward you.

and held.

a second too long to be appropriate. a curl of a smile that was just for you.

you glanced away, cheeks warm.

“excuse me,” you said with a polite nod, then slipped away from your little circle.

your feet led you through the crowd, slow and unhurried — but your heart was already racing. because you knew. you knew he’d find you. you didn’t need words or signals. you just needed a moment where no one could see.

you drifted past the double doors into a quiet corridor lined with tall marble columns and tall windows open to the cool night air. moonlight poured across the floor in long silver streaks.

you barely had time to turn around before he was there.

erwin.

less “commander” now, more him. his expression had softened the moment he left the room, and now he was all warmth and mischief.

“i believe i owe you a dance,” he said.

“you were being very important in there,” you teased, stepping toward him.

he took your hand — gloved — and pulled you close.

“i’m always important,” he said softly, “but you’re the only one i want to impress.”

you rolled your eyes at the line, but your smile betrayed you.

“i can’t stop thinking about how you looked at me across the room.”

you flushed, your free hand curling into his lapel.

he leaned in, just a breath away from your ear. “you make it very hard to be professional.”

“good,” you whispered.

his lips brushed your cheek, barely there. then the corner of your mouth. then finally — finally — your lips. it was slow, careful, but full of that electric tension you’d both been holding in all night.

his gloved hand slid behind your waist, pulling you against him gently, while the other stayed tangled with yours. you swayed there together, no music, just heartbeats.

“you’ll be missed soon,” you murmured between kisses.

“let them miss me,” he said against your lips. “i have everything i want right here.”

you kissed him again, longer this time, letting yourself sink into the taste of him — faint wine, cool night air, something deeper that was only ever him.

when you finally pulled back, you rested your forehead against his chest. his heartbeat was steady, grounding. his hand stroked along your spine like he needed to keep touching you or he’d disappear.

“one day,” he murmured, “we won’t have to steal moments like this.”

you smiled against him. “until then… meet me behind the pillars.”

“always.”

you stayed in his arms a moment longer, wrapped in the hush of moonlight and the warmth of something you still hadn’t named aloud. but then — footsteps.

you both heard them at the same time.

he stepped back immediately, posture sharpening, the mask slipping into place with terrifying ease. you turned toward the nearest window, pretending to admire the view, heart pounding as voices grew louder.

“…saw commander smith come this way,” someone said, laughing lightly. boots on tile. more than one person.

“you’re good at slipping away,” you whispered, eyes still on the courtyard below.

erwin glanced sideways, voice low. “so are you.”

you didn’t move — didn’t even breathe — as two officers passed behind the column. their conversation was casual, but the tension between you and erwin buzzed like static. his pinky brushed yours once, barely a touch, and it was almost worse than a kiss. it burned.

as the voices faded, you finally exhaled.

he turned to you again, jaw set in that way it got when he was holding himself back. “if i kiss you again, we will get caught.”

you stepped in, bold and dangerous, brushing your fingers lightly over the front of his uniform. “then don’t.”

a beat.

“but i want you to,” you whispered.

his eyes darkened, just for a second, and then his hand was at your waist again — not pulling, not demanding. just there. grounding.

you rose to your toes and kissed him, soft and fleeting. he didn’t move. didn’t even blink.

“that one doesn’t count,” you murmured. “you didn’t kiss me back.”

and that was all it took.

his mouth was on yours in half a heartbeat — sudden, intense, but quiet. desperate in the way you could feel but not hear, pressed against you like he couldn’t bear to be apart one second longer. your back hit the marble column as his hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your eye, like he had to memorize every part of you in the few seconds you had.

you tangled your fingers in the front of his jacket, hands itching to ruin his perfect hair, and kissed him harder.

“we are going to get in so much trouble,” you whispered, breathless.

“you’re worth it,” he said, kissing you again — one, two, three quick, stolen kisses like he couldn’t stop. “i’d risk it every time.”

and then: more footsteps. closer.

erwin broke away with one final brush of lips, then turned on a dime — posture back to perfect, voice back to calm. “ah— lieutenant,” he greeted casually, just as a young officer stepped into view. “i was getting some air.”

you stayed in the shadows, adjusting your dress, smoothing your hair, trying to breathe.

“sir,” the officer nodded. “they’re looking for you.”

“of course.” erwin glanced back — and just for the briefest second, his eyes flicked toward you.

then he was gone.

and your lips still tingled.

#miyan writes ⭑.ᐟ #he is so DREAMY #erwin smith #aot erwin #commander erwin #erwin x reader #snk erwin #erwin smith x reader #erwin smith x you #erwin smith x y/n #erwin x you #aot x reader #attack on titan x you #attack on titan x reader #attack on titan #aot #attack on titan fluff

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inkykeiji · 10 days ago

Text

maybe next time

character: todoroki touya | dabi warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, pseudo-cest (eventual step brother + step sister), fem!reader, pet names, drug use, generally toxic and manipulative behaviour words: 4.4k

notes: just a lil relationship study set two weeks after touya and reader’s initial encounter in the kitchen! no smut, but the piece contains dark content and heavy themes.

It’s late when the knock comes, the tiny clock on your desk reading a couple minutes past midnight, and you frown, glancing towards your closed bedroom door.

You were positive Rei and your father had already gone to bed.

“Come in,” you call softly, a slight tremor of anxiety sewn into your words.

The brass knob begins to turn, slow and steady, the door creaking open a second later to reveal a dark, spiky silhouette, Touya’s face swimming into view a moment later as he peers through the gap.

“Touya?”

The surprise must show on your face, his name nothing more than a gasp of shock on your tongue, because the corner of his mouth curls up, something sinister wriggling on his face. An eyebrow raises, and his head tilts a little, as if to say aren’t you forgetting something?

“-Niichan,” you tack on hastily, and his smirk grows.

He holds your gaze for a moment, lidded eyes boring into a wide stare, your breath stagnating in your lungs as you wait.

“What’re you doing tomorrow night?” he finally asks, pushing the door open wider and inviting himself into your room, heel kicking it shut a moment later.

“Tomorrow?” you repeat, brows furrowing as you attempt to recall. “Uh, I dunno. Studying, I guess?”

Throwing a scoff over his shoulder, Touya regards you with skepticism. “On Halloween?”

“Y-Yes?”

Your answer comes out hesitant, as if you’re afraid of being wrong, and he snorts.

“That’s lame.”

He doesn’t look at you as he talks, strolling languidly around your room as his eyes sweep across the space, unhurried and interested. Slowing to a stop in front of your vanity, his dirty fingers flip open a jewellery box, sapphire scanning the contents quickly before flicking the box shut again.

“I don’t believe you,” he pivots on his heel, belt scraping against pink ivory wood as he leans back against the edge of the vanity, arms crossed loosely over his chest.

“What?”

“I don’t believe you,” he shrugs a shoulder, but his eyes are gleaming. “Are you lying to me?”

“No, Touya-nii, I swear—”

And, really, you should be ashamed of the way the words rush from your mouth in a singular breath, head shaking with ardency. “I don’t have any plans.”

Silence blankets the room once more as he observes you, stare narrowing. Your desk chair creeks as you subconsciously lean forward, physically imploring him.

“Pretty girl like you doesn’t have any party invites? That doesn’t sound right.”

The subtle compliment has your eyes darting down to the tangled mess of hands in your lap, heat flooding your cheeks, his unblinking gaze heavy and scalding. It’s hard to suppress the shy smile incessantly tugging at the edges of your lips, and your head droops further, chin tucked into your chest.

“See? You’re even hiding from me.” He’s moving again, footfalls muted, the hem of his jeans dragging across hardwood, just a touch too long for him without his boots. “You know, it’s not very nice to lie to your niichan.”

The term sends a jolt rippling through your blood, still not used to hearing it drip from his lips, and your head snaps up immediately, instant denials bubbling up in your throat.

“I promise I’m not lying,” you nearly whine out. “I—I’d never lie to my—my niichan.”

It’s still foreign in your mouth, but you spit it from your tongue anyway, trembling and awkward, gazing up at him with a particular desperation, begging to be believed.

He’s nearly toe-to-toe with you now, looking down at you with those bright, bright eyes, pinprick pupils swimming in a sea of azure. His stare is sharp and hungry, skinning the flesh from your bones and consuming it, and you let him, willingly holding still as he feeds.

“I’ll hold you to that, you know.”

“I promise,” you repeat, a breathy vow.

“You better,” he says, voice low and smooth, remnants of a threat infusing his tone. “Because good girls don’t ever lie.”

“No,” you shake your head, trancelike, ensnared in his hypnotic eyes. “They don’t.”

Something flickers in his irises, a shard of pride shining in the dim light of your bedroom, and his smirk mollifies to something softer, something sweeter, something you hope might be just for you.

“Good,” he murmurs, nimble fingers reaching out to stroke your temple in a feathery caress.

Satisfaction swells your chest and you preen beneath his praise, suddenly starved for more—his touch, his attention, a soft noise of contentment vibrating in your throat as you attempt to nuzzle into his fingertips, Touya huffing out a chuckle in response.

He awards you with another stroke of his thumb, callus rough against your supple skin, and then he’s pulling away, stalking toward your fluffy pink bed as he continues, you quickly swivelling in your chair to follow him.

“Well, if you’re not doing anything tomorrow,” he begins, flopping himself down on your mattress, looking sorely out of place among lace and frills and cute stuffed animals. “Why don’t you come to a party with me?”

A party?

“I—I, um,” your breath tangles in your throat and you cough a little, sputtering. “You…Really want that?”

“Sure,” he pushes himself up on his elbows, head quirked to one side. “Why not?”

“It’s just—I’m—Isn’t it kind of, like, lame to have your little sister tag along?”

Touya’s smile drops, and your heart sinks with his disappointment.

“You know, if you don’t want to come, you can just say so.”

“No!” you hasten to say, head shaking frantically. “No, that’s not what I meant at all—”

“I wouldn’t have invited you if I didn’t want you there, stupid.”

“I’m sorry,” the apology tumbles from your lips automatically. “I’m sorry, Touya-nii, I didn’t—I really want to come with you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” you breathe out, nails digging into the soft plastic of your armrests. “Absolutely, yes.”

He pretends to contemplate, stretches the moment, lets you marinate in the uncertainty and soaks up your yearning for his approval.

“Alright, it’s a deal.” He pushes himself up off your bed, grinning at the way your body visibly deflates. “Be ready for eight.”

“O-Okay. But…Um—”

A sigh is exhaled, slow and sharp, and he glances at you over his shoulder, hand flexing around your doorknob. “What?”

You wince at his growing impatience, eyes darting to your trembling knees before peeking at him again, protected by a shield of eyelashes.

“Is it a costume party? I don’t have anything to wear.”

Annoyance fades from his face immediately, eroded by something nefarious.

“Oh, don’t you worry your pretty little head about that,” he says, smirk resurfacing, tinged with malice. “Niichan will take care of it all.”

✰ ✰ ✰

Halloween night finds you on the counter of the upstairs bathroom, your older brother positioned between your spread thighs, callused fingers wreathed around your jaw as he holds your head in place.

In the two short months you’ve known him, you’ve never been this close to him. Sapphire eyes stay focused on his actions, carefully following the trajectory of his fingers as they draw tiny black capillaries beneath your eyes with a thin stick of eyeliner.

He shifts a little, sharp hipbones bumping against the bare flesh of your inner thighs as he readjusts his stance, and your muscles tense, toes curling in an attempt to keep from squeezing your legs shut.

It is maybe a little inappropriate, just how close he actually is, gentle exhales infused with smoky hickory wafting across your cheeks, damp and hot. You can’t help but lick at your lips, hoping to soak up remnants of his breath, disappointed to taste nothing more than cheap Halloween makeup.

“Come now,” he murmurs, stare never leaving his hand as it works. “Don’t ruin niichan’s hard work.”

Pins of humiliation prick your cheeks and you squeak out an apology, resisting the urge to jerk your face free from his grasp, yearning to hide from his inquisitive eyes.

It is maybe a little inappropriate, just how reactive you are to him—just how much you crave his attention, just how easily you melt beneath his heat, a handful of words and a wicked smirk reducing you to something pliable and easy in his rough palms.

It is definitely inappropriate, just how sinfully strong those feelings towards him are—feelings no good little sister should ever feel for her big brother, feelings that have your stomach swooping and your mouth watering and your thighs clenching, saliva collecting beneath your tongue and slick arousal seeping through cotton panties.

This man is supposed to be your brother for Christ’s sake, yet here you are, fawning after him like some lovesick schoolgirl.

It makes the costume he picked out for you ironically apt.

While you were in class, Touya had taken it upon himself to raid your closet in search of a last-minute Halloween costume—a plaid skirt from your high school years, now much too short to be considered wholly appropriate, and a button-up linen shirt, first button popped and last three left undone so Touya could tie your shirttails up in a knot, leaving your stomach exposed.

An undead schoolgirl, he had claimed when he presented it to you.

“What are you going to be dressed up as?” you ask as Touya puts the finishing touches on the masterpiece he’s made of your face—a Chelsea smile stitched shut, not unlike his own tattoos.

Stepping back, he straightens to his full height, the smirk worming on his face making your skin crawl, blue eyes darkening as he pulls a pair of nondescript black framed glasses from his back pocket.

“A teacher.”

✰ ✰ ✰

The basement is hazy, your nose wrinkling reflexively as the smell of burnt plastic envelopes you. Touya keeps your hand trapped tightly in his own while he navigates the space, glancing back over his shoulder and laughing at your reaction to the vapour saturating the room.

What is that? you want to ask, eyes squinting against the putrid odour as you scan your surroundings, panic tingling in your chest at the sound of a glass pipe clacking against front teeth, a gentle crackling following a few seconds later.

Oh.

Your other hand curls around Touya’s wrist, nails biting into his flesh as you shuffle closer to him—so close that you bump into his back, fighting the impulse to bury your face against his spine.

It’s okay, your inner voice echoes in your brain, a feeble attempt to calm the pounding against your ribs. You’re with Touya, you’re safe.

“What’s wrong?” he looks down at you, a wide smile slapped across his face, sapphire glittering with amusement. “You scared?”

“I—I’m—”

The confession sticks in your throat, the words I’m terrified sounding much too childish and lame to tell your big brother, a rush of heat seeping into your cheeks.

But you don’t need to tell him; it seems he already knows.

“Aww,” Touya coos, smile stretching to inhuman proportions. “That’s cute.”

It’s spit from his mouth like it’s an insult, yet his eyes are gleaming, bright and alive with a misplaced excitement you couldn’t ever hope to understand.

“Don’t worry,” he continues, wrapping a strong arm around your shoulder, a thumb stroking your bicep. “Niichan will protect you.”

Your body relaxes the instant it’s consumed by his embrace, a comforting cloak of home. It’s interesting how only a day ago you had feared him—feared his coolness, feared his callousness—yet now he acts as a solace, a safe place.

“You promise?”

“Pinky,” he vows. “What’re big brother’s for?”

Touya really does keep his promise, his arm slipping down to stay secured around your waist, heavy palm resting on your hip, fingers curling into your flesh slightly, massaging halfhearted lopsided circles into your bare skin.

He refuses to let go of you for a single second, dragging you along with him as he makes his customary rounds, greeting blurred faces painted with cheap makeup, half-melted by sweat. The hand on your hip has gone slippery with combined perspiration, but he grips you all the same, blunt nails nipping your flesh whenever he has you tug you out of the way.

It’s hard for you to catch much of the conversation exchanged between your big brother and an assortment of partygoers, the music too loud and the voices too slurred, their words encoded with foreign language and unfamiliar terms.

It’s boring for the most part, and you’d feel exceptionally left out if it weren’t for Touya’s hand, hot and damp against your skin.

It’s boring, but his touch is exciting, mind flooded with a never-ending stream of sordid thoughts about how such rough hands, peppered with hard calluses, would feel smoothing along your skin—up your skirt, between your thighs, along your waist, over your cotton panties…Would you be able to feel that hardened patch of tissue coating his thumb through the material if he were to stroke you there?

Revulsion erupts across your body, followed by a scalding flush of shame, and you nuzzle your cheek against Touya’s chest, face half-hidden by the fabric of his shirt.

His scent cloaks you, a thick swamp of saliva collecting beneath your tongue, and you inhale deeper, filling your lungs with him, ribs expanding with his essence. Would his skin taste as spicy as he smells? Have any of these sloppy girls, stumbling in stilettos with cloudy heads full of crack cocaine, been afforded the privilege of finding out?

The sudden shock of jealousy that sears through your chest startles you, intense and blazing with unexplained hatred, and you wrap your other arm around his waist, fingers tangling in linen and tugging slightly, a silent claim.

Really, you should feel disgusted in yourself—it isn’t right to be feeling such powerful emotions about a man who is supposed to be your brother, your big brother—but you just can’t help it, the envy potent and the desire primal.

It seems like Touya consumes your self-discipline, burns it to smouldering cinders that simmer pitifully deep in the pit of your belly, and you find yourself indulging in your cravings despite knowing it’s wrong, so, so wrong.

The party trudges on aimlessly and you stay drowned in Touya, steeping yourself in his aura, hoping to soak some of him up—as a memento, something to keep you company long after the party ends.

There is one guest, however, who stands out among the nondescript crowd to an almost impeccable degree.

Touya doesn’t go looking for him. No, this man, sheathed in gold and crimson, finds him.

The crowd parts for him like he’s some sort of messiah, faded eyes stealing glances as he advances towards the darkened corner Touya has stowed the two of you away in, pupils full of longing, of wanting, of hunger.

The air in your lungs evaporates in the radiance of his beauty, your eyes wide and glued to his form, your gaze slowly tracing over all of his features: the sharp, angular jaw, the dusting of aureate whiskers adoring his chin, the shimmering topaz irises, sharp and alert despite the man’s easygoing speech and languid tone.

He talks to Touya for a little, his words muffled to your ears, full attention enraptured by his breathtaking nature. It isn’t until he addresses you directly that his voice finally cuts through the haze, forcing you to tune back into his frequency, dry eyes blinking stickily as you descend back down to earth.

“And who is this little miss?”

His smile is teasing, but his eyes shine with undeniable sincerity, interest perked.

“My little sister.”

And it’s the way he says it—smug and proud and slightly possessive—that has you preening, presenting yourself to his friend with a swelled chest and a bashful smile, honoured to wear the title of Touya’s little sister.

“Oh?” the man looks toward Touya, grin curling into something corrupt. “Lucky you.”

Turning back to you, the man holds out his hand. “I’m Keigo.”

It takes you a moment to whimper out your own name, clumsily slotting your hand into his. His hand feels strong, but his grip is gentle—dainty, almost, as if he’s afraid of shattering your delicate bones.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Keigo dips his head, gentlemanly, and a giggle curdles in your throat. “Has anyone ever told you you’ve got a voice like a songbird?”

Your head shakes, your whole body heating beneath his keen stare, biceps flexing around Touya’s waist as you re-embrace him.

“Well, you do,” Keigo continues. “So airy and elegant—graceful, almost.”

“You tryna recruit her or something?”

The bite in Touya’s voice is nearly tangible, sharp and harsh, and it devours Keigo’s train of thought immediately, the man heeding the implicit warning of back the fuck off.

It should make you feel sad, you think, that Touya’s being so mean to someone so lovely, but it doesn’t. Instead, it inspires a bout of giddiness to flood your chest, his concerning protectiveness conjuring a shy smile to form on your lips.

Touya must notice in some regard, because his chest puffs out a little, his grip on your body tightening, a silent notion of I’m here, I’ve got you.

“‘Wouldn’t dream of it,” Keigo eases off lightly with a pacifying smile. “Just an observation, s’all.”

Keigo’s surrender seems to satisfy Touya, though, and they slip back into a boring conversation, peppered with amounts and weights and dollars, your presence forgotten, tucked securely away beneath the arm of your big brother.

And, really, you don’t mind it there—it’s cozy, and it’s warm, and it’s safe—until you have to pee.

“N-Niichan,” your knuckles curl in the cotton of his shirt, tugging down a little. “Niichan. Touya-nii.”

He looks down at you, brows furrowed slightly in confusion.

“What?”

“I—” your eyes dart to Keigo, who feigns disinterest, then back to Touya, his gaze mimicking the trajectory of yours. “I have to pee.”

A smirk materializes on his face and something akin to dread unfurls in the pit of your stomach, thick and tarry.

“No problem,” he says easily, but you can’t shake the feeling something is off. “I’ll bring you to the washroom.”

And bring you to the washroom, he does. What you don’t expect is for his palm to catch the door, just as you’re squeaking out your thanks, a big black boot wedged in the doorframe as collateral.

There isn’t a moment to question what he’s doing, because before your stunned mind can even comprehend it, Touya’s shoving forward, pushing himself through the small space and into the washroom with you.

“Gotta make sure you stay safe,” he says as way of explanation, nonchalant with a shrugged shoulder, as though this is normal behaviour.

Blinking slowly, your head quirks, forehead puckered. “You could’ve just stood outside the door…”

“And, what? Break my promise?” His eyes are hard, his brows knitted, as if he’s offended you even insinuated such a thing. “What kind of big brother do you think I am?”

The kind who forcibly intrudes private spaces, apparently.

“No, I mean—It’s just—Is this really necessary?”

“I made you a promise,” Touya annunciates slowly, the pace insinuating your stupidity, his gaze boring into your own, imploring you to understand. “And I intend to keep that promise.”

Claws of panic encase your heart, your chest beginning to feel tight and heavy, as if his steady stare is depressing your ribs, pressing the life from your lungs.

You think you are finally beginning to understand the full extent of Touya’s bullheadedness (as Rei calls it), because it is becoming abundantly clear that he will not be taking no for an answer, under any circumstances.

His unrelenting glare wears you down easily, quickly, and you can feel your bones crumpling beneath his eyes, haughtily staring down the bridge of his nose at your folding form.

“Can you at least turn around?” you mutter out weakly, wincing at how pathetic your voice sounds, a timid request instead of a terse demand, one last desperate plea for privacy.

But the disapproval coating Touya’s face cracks, revealing sterling satisfaction, and he nods with a small smile, pivoting on the balls of his feet. “Of course.”

It’s intimate in the most invasive way, to have his presence in the room as your skirt flips up and your panties pool around your ankles—white lace; you wonder if Touya likes lace?—his aura powerful and suffocating.

“Wash your hands.”

The order comes the moment the toilet flushes, calm and stern and strong over the rush of flowing water.

“Y-Yes, niichan,” your head ducks obediently, even if he can’t see you, quickly thrusting your hands under the faucet.

“Good girl,” he murmurs when he finally turns around, and his eyes are soft, melty, as you dry your hands on a dirty towel.

You should feel ashamed, horrified, at the way you preen beneath his praise—an innate reaction, entirely subconscious as you’re drawn to his heat, a sunflower yearning for fiery sun—but you barely even notice it’s happening, the response so instinctual it feels natural, normal, right.

You expect it to be awkward after; he did just force you to pee in front of him, essentially, a violation of your basic rights as a human—but it isn’t.

If anything, you suddenly feel inexplicably closer to him, as if the whole bizarre experience has united you in some way, a new bond birthed, a special secret to share between the two of you.

The rest of the party passes in an incomprehensible blur, Touya the only constant in your mind—the feeling of his hands on your hips, palms rough but warm; the sensation of his fingers threaded through yours, slim and bony but strong in their grip, pressing intermittently into your knuckles with varying degrees of force; the warmth of his lap beneath your bum and his chest cushioning your back, one of his hands in both of yours as he allows you to idly trace the inked sutures lining the back of his hand, symbolically connecting puckered skin to healthy flesh.

You’re pretty sure siblings aren’t supposed to act this way—touch like this, be this close—but you can’t be certain; maybe it’s different when the siblings aren’t related by blood? Or maybe, since you aren’t technically, officially step-siblings just yet, then it doesn’t count?

Either way, if Touya’s doing it, then it’s probably okay, isn’t it? Touya presumably knows better than you do, anyway. Touya’s been a big brother to three other siblings all his life.

And if Touya’s behaviour is okay, then it must mean that it’s okay for you to nestle into his body, face nuzzling into the junction of his shoulder and neck—a cozy little curve, perfect to cradle your cheek—as dainty little fingers crawl across his chest, right?

There’s nothing wrong with that, is there? Brothers and sisters cuddle sometimes, don’t they? This is mostly harmless, right?

So what if being this close to him ignites a flock of sparks to fizz in your tummy? So what if feeling his hands on your body—his palm petting the back of your head, his fingers trailing the notches of your spine—inspires your own greedy hands to wander, too: tiptoeing down the buttons lining his sternum, trailing along the collar of his shirt, aching to trace the sharp line of his jaw or twirl in inky tufts of hair at the base of his skull.

And so what if this makes you crave more of him—more of his touch, more of his time—what’s so bad about a little sister wanting more of her brother’s attention?

It’s not a big deal, is it? That’s normal, isn’t it?

He’s so warm, and he’s so strong, and he smells so good, your eyes slipping shut against your better judgement, the pulsing thrum of his blood rushing through the thick veins in his neck, steady and calm, the perfect lullaby.

You have no idea what time it is when Touya finally hoists you up, legs locking loosely around his waist and arms draped over his shoulders as he carries you from the dingy basement.

“S’going on?” you mumble into his collarbone, question smeared across his skin.

“Party’s over,” he chuckles, and you can feel his amusement, deep and warm and real, rumbling against your ribs. “And someone needs to be put to bed.”

“Already?”

“It’s nearly three AM, baby.”

Baby. Baby. Weak sparks flare to life in your chest at the utterance of the pet name, and you smile into his skin, rubbing your mouth along the protruding bone—a crude imitation of a kiss.

It doesn’t go unnoticed by Touya—you’re beginning to realize, slowly but surely, that no part of you ever goes unnoticed by Touya; the nervous tremble in your voice always caught by his keen ears, the timid winces and yearning, bashful stares always catalogued by his inquisitive eyes.

You’re not quite sure it matters either way. Maybe big brothers are supposed to catch this kind of stuff; maybe it’s their duty to know all of their little sister’s mannerisms.

So you know he doesn’t miss the way your fingers curl against his shoulders, nails scraping linen, after he’s laid you across your mattress, still in your Halloween costume, and is beginning to pull away.

“Don’t go.”

The desperation in your voice is palpable, and in any other circumstance you’d be writhing with horrified humiliation, but your brain is too tired to process the weight of your words, floating in the purgatory between conscious and unconscious.

Touya wavers, dreamlike, in your sleep-tinged vision, a gentle noise of disgruntlement sounding at the back of your throat.

“Hm?”

“Don’t want you to go,” you manage to mumble out through a pout.

“Oh?”

Your bedroom is dark, the waning moon bathing it in a soft silver glow, sapphire eyes catching in the beams as they search your face, slow and purposeful, almost as if he doesn’t believe you.

“Is that so?”

“T’is,” your arms tighten around his neck, weakly tugging him toward you. “Stay.”

He goes willingly, his elbows digging into the plush of your mattress on either side of your shoulders, his body half-blanketing yours.

“I don’t think you understand what you’re asking for, sweetheart.”

His breath is hot against your face, his voice low and smooth as it rumbles against your heart.

Perhaps not, but you want it anyway.

“Please?”

Something sharp glints in his eye as his gaze sweeps your features again, a predatory smirk smeared across his lips. His thumb ghosts over the apple of your cheek, a promise written in the action, and a responding shiver skitters up your spine.

“Maybe next time.”

#todoroki touya x reader #dabi x reader #tw: pseudocest #tw: toxic relationship #tw: manipulation #touya nii universe #inky.touya

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dead-boys-club · 6 months ago

Text

† kisses : izuku.

❥ scenario: kissing izuku. ❥ no triggers; not rated. ❥ i don’t have any beta readers - you get what you get. ❥ requested: @florascent

❥ series: tomura - izuku

✧*̥˚ some stuff *̥˚✧

kissing izuku is like melting into the warmth of a quiet embrace, a softness that's almost surprising with it's intensity. each kiss carries a gentle, earnestness, and you can feel the relief in him, the way he let's go of the days weight and sinks into you with each kiss. of course, some days, he gets a little carried away.

he kisses you with a quiet strength that he's built over the years - kind and patient. sometimes, there's a slight hesitation, as if the kiss is an overwhelming moment he's still getting used to, even after all this time. his lips are warm, only slightly chapped due to his lack of self care with his busy lifestyle, but you wouldn't change a thing. he pulls you close, one hand in your hair or at the back of your neck, another on your back, preferring to keep you flush against him, safe and secure - it's his way of saying he's never going anywhere.

his kisses can be a little less careful on bad days. it goes over some people's head that he can be possessive; a little jealous, insecure. and some days, he can't help but kiss you in a way that says 'you're mine' but never harsh enough to scare you off.

and on other days, his kisses are full of care; he pours his heart into each touch, each kiss, all the strength and protectiveness that comes with being a hero, but with all the vulnerability of someone who's found a safe space. each kiss reminds you that no matter how heavy his burden, his love for you will remain and be a constant - strong, unwavering, and so beautifully sincere.

nose kisses

temple kisses

shoulder kisses

slow, tender makeouts

kisses over yours ( and his ) scars

izuku would be a nervous, eager wreck in the beginning, letting you take the lead because he would rather experience than worry about if he's screwing up. he is absolutely not beyond letting you be in control. he would be hesitant at first but would hold you carefully, gently gripping at your waist to anchor himself. probably having one of those 'this is really happening' type of thoughts.

it's intense, each kiss feeling like a silent voice he isn't able to put into words. he's absolutely an emotional kisser, the type to memorize every touch, savoring the warmth and feeling of your lips and frame against his own. it would happen on accident the first time, but he wouldn't stay so gentle - once he found his confidence, he's pretty much obsessed with it. kissing you becomes his favorite way to unwind; it grounds him in something good and you happen to be his favorite flavor of good.

but, oh boy, when he's worn out? he is at his clingiest, leaning in for longer kisses, considering you the calm to his storm. these are the times when things tend to just... last a while. buuuut, sorry reader, the body worship is a different post.

✧*̥˚ tiny things *̥˚✧

❥ nose kisses: light and playful little pecks, usually when he's feeling all sentimental and fond, wanting to see you smile. these usually come when you're all wrapped up together, staying close and he's pressing lazy kisses around your face in general, but he likes the way you scrunch your nose and peek up at him when he does it.

❥ temple kisses: these are a calming thing for him, usually after long days. he likes to hold you close, letting his lips linger there and he calms down, letting go of everything the best he can.

❥ shoulder kisses: subtle but meaningful. izuku will generally wake you up with kisses to your shoulder and back/side of your neck, whispering little things before he'd nudging at the back of your ear. it's an affectionate gesture and he also does this in moments when words aren't needed at all.

❥ slow, tender makeouts: his favorite thing in the world is to have you on his lap, kissing you. especially something deep and unhurried, savoring every second, pouring both of your hearts into every movement. these are the moments where his hands are under your shirt, splayed against your lower back to keep you close, and ( surprisingly ) letting everything on his mind fade out that didn't revolve around you.

❥ the one time you almost died: izuku had a very important event to speak at, leaving him pacing to the point you were sure there would be a path marked on the flooring. you'd chuckled and grabbed his face, pulling him into a kiss that was supposed to calm him down and reassure him. what it did? the opposite - especially when neither of you heard the announcement and the curtain pulled open. it wasn't anything unwholesome but he was ready to wither away and so were you. however, to be clear, he wasn't ashamed to be caught with you - no, never.

✧*̥˚ a kiss *̥˚✧

it had been a quiet evening after a long day and everyone had already parted ways, back home and wherever they may disappear to. you found yourself lounging on izuku's couch, having followed after him to discuss a few things and possibly grab dinner. however, as you talked, you noticed there was something different in his gaze - softer, warmer, like he'd been holding back words he wasn't sure how to say.

as the conversation lulled, he glanced at you, hesitant but reaching to find your hand with his own. "can i...?" he asked softly, eyes searching your own for permission. you were a little surprised and barely even able to nod before he leaned in, closing the space between you.

the kiss was gentle at first, cautious and slow like he was savoring every second. his free hand rose to brush his fingers at the back of your neck, while the other slipped away to settle at your waist, guiding you closer. but soon, his initial shyness melted away, replaced by an intensity from both sides. you felt him pull you in a bit tighter, his grip at your side steadying him just as much as you did.

when you broke apart, his gaze was flushed and his gaze bright with quiet awe as he took you in. "i've been waiting for that all day," he admitted with a breathless laugh, showing that little smile you couldn't help but coo over. you responded by leaning close, bumping your noses together, your own smile breaking through.

the night went on, the two of you sharing small kisses and light conversation, staying close.

#mha scenarios #mha imagines #mha imagine #mha #mha headcanons #mha hcs #mha drabbles #mha x reader #izuku x reader #izana x reader #izuku midoriya #deku x reader #deku #mha deku #mha izuku

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 1 month ago

Text

A Curse [Chapter 9: Hollywood]

A/N: We're in the home stretch now, besties! Only 3 chapters left until the curse is lifted 🪄

Series summary: You are an aspiring actress. Aegon is a washed-up and disenchanted agent…at least until he sees something special in you. But within paradisical seaside Los Angeles you find terrible dangers and temptations, secrets and lies. Maybe Aegon’s right; maybe the City of Angels really is a curse.

Chapter warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), age-gap situationship, Maroon 5, illness/death, angst, ice cream, Sunshine makes her red carpet debut! 😍

Word count: 6.5k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @lauraneedstochill @mrs-starkgaryen @chattylurker @neithriddle @ecstaticactus, more in comments! 🥰

🏝️ Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🏝️

Time machine, walls like glass, the dial turned back to 2009. It’s Viserys’ funeral, and no one can even pretend they’re sad. They stopped being sad years ago, and only relief is left. No more long nocturnal hours of the deathwatch, no more hushed sympathetic updates from the hospice nurses, no more unrecognizable white-haired organic matter contorted in his hospital bed. The chains are broken and they are free, all except one of them, the nineteen-year-old son who believes—without proof, without logic—that the curse is not lifted but only transferred, living on in him like an echo down a long hall.

It’s 2005, and Viserys has turned mean: paranoid, volatile, lashing out with fury at his increasing limitations as his brain is hollowed out like a Halloween pumpkin, like a cored apple. He roars and he throws things. He forgets his family are not torturers. Alicent could shut him away somewhere, but she doesn’t, the guilt would eat her alive; and so while nurses are present at the Malibu mansion around the clock, the Targaryens are not spared his wrath. One night Viserys breaks a window and wields a shard of glass like a dagger, and when the nurses flee screaming, Aemond stops Alicent from entering the room and goes in himself to clean up the mess. Someone has to.

It’s 1999, and after years of anomalies that nobody knew were symptoms—mood swings, muscle weakness, difficulty making decisions, balance problems, memory lapses—Viserys has been diagnosed with a disease that must have been lurking in his forebearers for generations, unbeknownst to them without the longevity or genetic tests of modern medicine. And like so many absent husbands and fathers who experience a revelation of their impending doom, he is determined to make up for lost time. He bakes with Alicent in the kitchen. He walks with Helaena in the garden. He stops condemning nine-year-old Aegon for long hours spent with his favorite toy, a charcoal gray Nintendo 64, first edition; the Fire Orange console won’t be released until the following year, part of the Funtastic Colors series. And now that it’s too late, Viserys’ children learn to love him.

Viserys takes Aegon’s hand and asks the boy to show him how to play Nintendo 64, here at the very start like a mirage, already beginning to disintegrate around the edges.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s Thursday, August 7th. You don’t have an appointment to see Aegon, but you’re here in Elysian Park anyway. You park on the curb and sweep out into the gilded morning glow, already mid-80s and rising, wrinkled goldenrod-yellow sundress that you left in the drier too long, flip-flops, bare-faced. You barely slept and ran out the door as soon as you clawed your way out of brief, fitful dreams, autumn leaves and endless corridors through apple orchards, distant stars and deep water.

At his desk, Brandon is on the phone and making notes with his flower pen. He gives you a smile; you can only manage a quick wave. You continue into Aegon’s office, where he is engrossed in Mario’s expedition into an ice world where snow falls in unhurried, harmless white spheres. The music is pleasant, but the pools of frozen water are so cold they burn. Mario is making his way towards a block of ice in which a star has been hidden, accessible by navigation through narrow tunnels. Aegon, his green Nike Killshots propped up on his cluttered desk as usual, is surprised but not disappointed to see you.

“Hey, sunshine!” he says, still clicking the buttons on his transluscent orange controller, still swiveling the joystick. “What are you doing here so—?”

“Your dad died of Huntington’s disease.”

He freezes, and on the television screen, so does Mario; a malevolent snowman entity appears and hurls snowballs at the abandoned avatar until he is dead. You wait for Aegon to say something—no, that’s not true, no, you’re wrong, no, that would be a death sentence—but he only sits there, jaw fallen open, eyes filling up his face…and then he jolts to his feet and goes for the door.

You whirl around to watch him leave. “Aegon…?”

He stops in the doorway to the lobby and calls out: “Brando, you’re done for the day. Bye.”

“Oh for cute!” Brandon replies. “Let me just send an email to that moving company and then—”

“No, now. You’re done right now.”

Brandon sounds perplexed. “Okay, literally right now, you got it.” You can hear him gathering up his things, the jangling of car keys, the snapping shut of a laptop, and you remember all the hours you’ve spent gazing into a small rectangular blue-light screen as you combed through Aegon’s filmography, inspired potential that came to a collision of a stop in his mid-twenties. From the threshold, as he waits for Brandon to leave, Aegon watches you with his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes thrashing with dark choppy waves like the riptides of the Pacific. You stare back thunderstruck, and only now do you realize how desperately you were hoping you were mistaken.

Out in the lobby, the front door of the half-duplex opens and closes, and now you and Aegon are alone. He walks back to his desk—loose papers, manila folders, framed photographs, that ever-present bowl of Honeycrisp apples—and drops into his chair, drags his fingers through his slicked-back hair, gazes vacantly at the mint green wall and sighs deeply.

“Who told you?” he asks, like hardly anyone knows, like the few who do wouldn’t have said anything.

“Nobody,” you say, startled. “I just kept guessing different diseases, and I didn’t think it was cancer, and…and…Aegon, Huntington’s is genetic.”

He looks up at you. “Yeah. Yeah it is.”

“Have you been tested? Because if one of your parents had it then you have a fifty percent chance of inheriting the gene.”

“No, I haven’t been tested.”

“Why not?!”

“Because I just haven’t, okay?”

“Have your siblings?”

“Yeah, and they’re all negative. But I didn’t take the test.”

“I think you should take the test, Aegon.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Because you should know!” you burst out, and your hands are trembling like his do sometimes, dire adrenaline in your bloodstream and your voice frayed like someone has taken a razor blade to it. “Because if you’re negative then you’ll be relieved, and if you’re positive then you can…you can plan for it, you know? And there are treatments that can help manage the symptoms! I looked it up, I spent like four hours last night on Wikipedia—”

“But no one can stop it,” Aegon says. “They can’t even slow it down.”

“You think you have the gene,” you realize, horrified. “You forget things. Your hands shake. And that’s why you’re leaving Los Angeles and avoiding your family, and that’s why you’re marrying Becca—”

“Stay the fuck out of my head,” Aegon says, the first time he’s ever spat his venom at you, and his knuckles are unbruised and yet it feels like he’s hit you, a crack in a wall, bones that split and arteries that hemorrhage.

“Aegon, you can’t run away like that when you don’t even know for sure if you’re sick!”

“It’s actually really common for people in my situation to not want to take a test.”

You speak without any awareness of what you’re going to say. “I would take care of you.”

“You think I want to hear that?!” Aegon shouts. “You think I want to imagine you being there when I lose the ability to walk, and speak, and feed myself, and remember who the fuck I am?”

“I would do it,” you insist. “You believed in me. You helped me. I would help you.”

He shakes his head and glares at you, his eyes going slick and glassy. “You have no idea what you’re offering.”

“Your family has money, they can afford the best doctors and nurses. You wouldn’t be a burden on any of us, but we’d still get to be with you—”

“I saw what my dad dying did to my mom,” Aegon says bitterly, hatefully. “First he was himself, mostly. And then he was depressed, and then he was angry, and then he became a monster. He’s the reason my mother still has nightmares. He’s the reason Aemond lost his eye. You don’t do that to people you care about. You don’t inflict that on someone you love.”

“But what if you move to Texas and you’re fine, and you don’t have Huntington’s, and you don’t die and nothing terrible happens to you?!”

“Then it will be a relief,” Aegon says softly. “And I can always come back.”

“What about me?” you ask, your voice splintering. “If you’re sick, you’re just never going to see me again?”

Aegon smiles faintly, sad, resigned. “I would rather you remember me the way I am now.”

“Afraid? Avoidant? In denial?”

“Just get out,” he snaps, rubbing his face with his palms, wincing like he’s in pain.

“Aegon—”

“No, you don’t know what it’s like to watch someone die of this!” he roars, slamming his fist on the desk. Documents rustle; photographs fall over. “And if I don’t want a diagnosis, if I don’t want to live staring down the barrel of a gun, then that’s my fucking right and you don’t get to say I’m a coward for it!”

“You’re already living like you know you’re dying,” you moan, you plead. There are tears flowing down your cheeks and turning to salt on your lips; your face is hot with blood. “You don’t have anything to lose.”

“I don’t want to know.”

“But you’re making all these choices for the wrong reasons, and you deserve to know the truth, and if you take a test then you can make an informed decision about what you want your life to look like—”

“I would never pick you,” Aegon says, flat, direct, gutting. “So get that out of your head, because it’s not happening.”

You gaze at him helplessly. “Then what are we doing?”

He shrugs, like this is an idiotic question. “I’m your agent. I’m helping you get jobs.”

“That’s not what this is!” you sob. “It’s always been more than that, it’s been more than that from the very first day! Why did you sign me when no one else would? Why were you feeding me boneless spare ribs off your fork? Why did you throw me that apple?!”

Aegon is incredulous. “Why did I fuck you in this office, why did I fly to Minnesota to have dinner with your awful parents? Because I wanted to. Because I really like you, and I think I’ve been honest about that. But that doesn’t mean it’s serious.”

Never serious, you remember miserably. That’s how Aegon had described his affairs. “Does Becca know you could have Huntington’s?”

“No,” Aegon says. “But if she did, it wouldn’t change anything. She would still want to get married.”

“She would want to take care of you.”

“Yes, exactly. She would be upset for a while, yeah, but she…she needs someone to need her. Her parents were doctors, and they weren’t abusive or anything but they were gone all the time, and the house was like a museum, and now she’s…I don’t know, I guess she’s obsessed with creating warmth, and for Becca warmth means homemade bread and bento boxes and dogs and getting my suits tailored for me, and me being her full-time project…I think a part of her would enjoy that. Having me to herself, finally being the center of my universe. And when I get really bad, when I’m…” Aegon swallows noisily. “When I’m dead, she can move on. She can find someone else to marry and she can have kids, and she’ll always have that trophy on her shelf: I was a Targaryen, I was the perfect long-suffering wife. And Aegon loved me more than any of the others.”

More than me, you think. And then a ricochet of Aegon’s words: I would never pick you. “She’s not mad at you? Because of what we’ve done?”

Aegon chuckles uneasily. “I mean, I’m sure she’s not thrilled about you still being around. She’s been a little temperamental, she’s been suspicious. Right before we left for Minnesota, I woke up from a nap and she was swabbing my cheek for an STD test, can you believe that? But she knows this is temporary.”

What had Becca said the day she pushed you just outside this office? And if he was going to leave me, he has better options than you. You nod like any of this makes sense.

“Can we just be us again?” Aegon asks, and now he’s calm, gentle, exhausted. “We have a month left together. I don’t want to waste it.”

“Okay,” you say numbly.

“Don’t forget about the music video premiere tomorrow night. And I haven’t heard anything from the vampire movie people yet.” Then he adds: “That doesn’t mean you didn’t get it.”

“But it’s not a good sign.”

Aegon tries to soften the blow. “They might just be thinking it over. They might still be scheduling the callback for the other actress.”

You—unsteady, dazed, despondent—stare down at the scuffed wood floor and try in vain to smooth the wrinkles out of your sundress. “Sounds like we’ll both be leaving Los Angeles soon,” you tell Aegon; and then you walk until the walls disappear and only the city is left, sun glare, humming air conditioners, dogs barking, children laughing, engines revving, the immense metallic shadow of Downtown on the horizon.

At home in your apartment building, just as you are about to scan your keycard to unlock the front door, you hear Baela and Jace talking inside. The television is on and the microwave is purring—maybe Jace is making one of his favorite snacks, corn dogs or pizza rolls—and their voices are just barely distinguishable.

“What am I supposed to say to her?” Baela asks, sounding distressed. “That I’m officially too rich and famous to need a roommate? I can’t just kick her out. It would break her heart. She’s so sweet, and I know she’s trying really hard but it’s just…well…”

“No, I get it,” Jace replies. “She’s chill.”

“It sounds like her parents are going to make her move home soon anyway, unless she lands a big part, and…you know…I don’t really see that happening.”

“Yeah.” The microwave beeps and someone pops open the door to retrieve the contents.

“So just please don’t say anything, okay? And when she’s gone in a few months we’ll start looking at apartments in Venice or Santa Monica…”

You put your back to the hallway wall and wait long enough that they won’t think you’ve overheard anything, listening to the sounds of cars whooshing by outside, people coming and going from the places where they belong in the world, and you wonder what that feels like.

~~~~~~~~~~

You stay up too late watching YouTube videos of people with Huntington’s disease, and so the next morning at Cold Stone Creamery you are in a haze, dull throbbing headache, eyes bloodshot from crying, and the frat bro you’re making a Gotta Have It-sized Cookie Mintster for probably thinks you’re high but it’s the opposite: you’ve never felt lower, you’ve never been adrift like this, and you don’t know what to do next. You can’t unknot the threads fate has tied to Aegon. You can’t imagine a life for yourself back home. You can’t remember why you ever thought you’d be able to build something here in the City of Angels, glittering and golden and ever-rushing towards perfection, those who fall behind drug under the wheels.

“Can I get some gummy bears on that?” the frat boy is saying, but your gaze catches on someone behind him. The little metal bells on the glass door jingle and Aegon scrolls inside, khaki cargo shorts and a wrinkled short-sleeve white Oxford thrown over a pink tank top, and he’s traded in his Nikes for flip-flops, and his hair is gelled back from his face so you can see him clearly, vividly, and he leans against the window with daylight flooding in all around him and grins at you.

Why…?

“Can I please get some gummy bears?” the frat boy asks again.

Your manager Josh is blending up a strawberry banana smoothie and glowering at you. “Yo, what is wrong with you today?!”

But you don’t care what he’s saying, because Aegon pulls his black aviator sunglasses out of the pocket of his cargo shorts and slides them on and beams at you, and you hear the words as if he’s spoken them aloud: You are so bright, sunshine.

“I got the part?” you say from behind the counter.

Aegon nods. “You got the part.”

You scream and sprint to him, and when you throw your arms around Aegon he catches you, laughing and warm, and right now his hands are perfectly fine, steady and strong as they cradle the small of your back, the arc of your neck.

“Where the hell are you going?” Josh snaps from the blender. The frat boy, still waiting for his Cookie Mintster, is glaring at you impatiently. “I didn’t say you could take your break yet!”

“Hey,” Aegon says, taking a hundred-dollar bill out of his wallet and waving it around so Josh can see before dunking it in the tip jar. “She’s quitting. Call someone else.” And then he pulls you, grinning and exhilarated, out of the Cold Stone Creamery and into the August air, moving swiftly beneath a cerulean sky full of cumulus clouds, 90-degrees and diesel fumes.

“Aegon, I can’t quit yet, I still have to pay my rent—”

“I’ll pay your rent,” Aegon says. He stops when you are under the shade of a palm tree and stands there with you in the oasis. His Sebring is parked illegally in a fire lane; it is adorned with a new malady, a massive dent in the bumper. “You’re going to have costume fittings and table-reads, and you have to learn the script, and you’ll have appointments with hair and makeup, and you’ll have a personal trainer, and promo obligations…you won’t have time to work.”

“You didn’t force them to hire me, did you?” you ask, the effervescent high dissolving away. “You didn’t threaten to blacklist them with your whole family or anything, right? Because I don’t want this if it’s not real.”

“What?” Aegon says, mystified. “No. No, I swear, I wouldn’t do that. And I don’t think it would have worked even if I’d tried. First billing is a huge deal. Not even Taylor Swift has managed to buy herself a starring role in a movie yet. They liked you. They wanted you.”

The hope quivers in your voice. “I’m going to be an actress?”

Aegon smiles. “You already are one.” He takes off your red apron and your grey hat and stuffs both in a nearby trashcan. “Are you parked around here?”

You point to your Honda Accord, 2003, Desert Mist Metallic paint that gleams under the sun. “I’m just across the street.”

“You aren’t bringing Jace to the Maroon 5 thing tonight, right? Because it’s in your best interests to appear unattached.”

You raise an eyebrow, teasing. “Unattached?”

“Yeah. Being ostensibly single makes you confident and alluring and mysterious. Dragging along your mop-haired boyfriend makes you look like a high school kid at prom.”

“And how does dragging along my sulky, disillusioned Targaryen agent make me look?”

“Like a star,” Aegon replies simply.

“I’m not bringing Jace. Or anyone else besides you.”

“Great.”

“Can we drive to the premiere together?” You don’t want to be away from Aegon; you are a little petrified of the fanfare that awaits you in Downtown tonight. You have no idea what to expect.

“Yeah,” Aegon says, outwardly casual, unmistakably pleased. “I have a driver booked. We’ll swing by your apartment in the limousine around 7 p.m.”

“Why aren’t we taking the Sebring?”

“Because people don’t drive themselves to premieres, sunshine,” he says, like he’s explaining to a child an obvious and fundamental truth: the sky is blue, the Earth is round. Then he gestures to his white convertible and its sizeable new dent. “And also I keep running into things and I don’t want you in the car when I’m driving.”

Because his hands shake? Because his reflexes are slowing until they inevitably stop? “Maybe you’re just stressed because of the wedding,” you say softly.

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“Or it’s psychosomatic. You expect to see symptoms, so you do. But really you’re fine.”

Aegon sighs as wind blows eastward from the Pacific Ocean. He wants to change the subject. You can’t stop yourself from talking. “It’s possible.”

“Maybe whatever’s wrong with you isn’t Huntington’s. Maybe it’s something else, like a vitamin deficiency or a thyroid disorder or lupus or fibromyalgia, or diabetes from all the super unhealthy food you eat. Maybe it’s something a doctor can fix.”

“I’ll see you tonight, okay?” Aegon says; and he kisses your cheek and climbs into his Sebring and speeds off towards the interchange of the 110.

~~~~~~~~~~

You told your parents you needed a dress for Clara’s bachelorette party so they wouldn’t yell at you when they saw the charge on the credit card. You will have to devise a new strategy for future purchases; you are running out of wedding-related excuses. The gown is electric yellow and less formal than the one you wore to the charity gala, sufficiently frivolous for a music video premiere, a V-neck and a high-low hemline. Your hair is down and your eyeshadow warm and smokey: Gilded Ganache and Semi-Sweet by Too Faced, Night Star by NARS. You drench yourself with sugary Shimmer Mist from Bath and Body Works, then realize that was probably a stupid idea. But there’s no time to try to scrub it off; Aegon has texted you that he’s five minutes away.

You click out into the kitchen in the yellow heels you found at T.J. Maxx. Jace is sprawled on the couch and bobbing his head as he sings along to a Charli XCX song pulsing out of his iPhone:

“You wanna guess the color of my underwear,

You wanna know what I got goin’ on down there…”

Baela, who had been getting a can of La Croix from the refrigerator, turns and is startled when she sees you. “You’re glittering. And that looks like a prom dress.”

You scrutinize yourself, suddenly self-conscious. “Is it bad?”

“No!” Baela cries, overcorrecting, not wanting to hurt your feelings. “No, it’s so cute. Jace, isn’t it so cute?”

“Totally,” he says from the couch, not looking at you.

“No contrast, huh?” Baela muses, glancing at your shoes and clutch purse.

“Doesn’t yellow go with yellow…?”

“Of course it does.” She beams, too broadly. “Have fun tonight! Walk really slowly on the red carpet. It will feel ridiculous, but that’s how they get good photos. And cycle through four or five different poses. Count to ten in your head and then switch to the next one. And don’t smile too much! You’ll look creepy and your cheeks will get tired and go numb and you’ll start twitching. Do a small smile and then laugh a lot when the interviewers make their dumbass jokes. It’s good television and they’ll like you and give you more airtime.”

You try to commit this to memory. “Okay.”

“Here.” She gifts you an ice-cold can of La Croix, coconut flavored. “Drink this on the ride over, then make sure you have a lot of water at the premiere. Stay hydrated. Keeps you peppy and glowing.”

“Okay,” you say again, a good little foot soldier.

Baela gives you a quick hug goodbye; but you catch the way she frowns at your carefree hair, the deep but not-so-revealing V of your neckline. Maybe she’ll reconsider the implants thing, Baela’s face reads. You can feel cold beads of sweat bleeding from your ribs, your spine. Then you are out the door, descending in the elevator, trotting onto the sidewalk to find the limo already waiting there, black and sleek under a sky that is slowly sickening from midday blue to dusk embers. The windows are tinted so dark you can’t see anything from outside.

“Hey, sunshine,” Aegon says as you slide into the back where he is waiting in the suit he wears to auditions and film shoots and, apparently, premieres: skinny black tie, slightly rumpled and untucked white shirt. He sees the La Croix. “Don’t you not like that?”

“My roommate gave it to me.” You set the can, wet with condensation, in a cupholder. Aegon hands you an iced vanilla latte to replace it. And as you buckle your seatbelt and the limo driver coasts east to hook into the 110 and then heads dead north towards Downtown, Aegon pulls a tiny spiral notebook out of the inside pocket of his suit jacket and reads off names to you: people who were involved in the production of the music video you filmed over a month ago, people to praise, people to thank. You’re trying to listen to him, but your thoughts are fuzzy and your heart is racing.

“What’s wrong?” Aegon asks, and you return to him and smirk guiltily.

“I’m sorry. I’m just nervous.”

“Why? You’re not nervous when you’re acting.”

“Because I’ve acted a million times, but I’ve never done a red carpet before. Not even a mini one like this. What if they ask me something I’m not expecting and I freeze up? What if I accidentally offend someone? I’m always saying things that make people think I’m stupid.”

Aegon laughs lazily, peering through the window as the freeway takes you through Vermont Vista, Broadway-Manchester, Florence, blurs of houses and palm trees and graffitied concrete barriers. “Yeah, you are always saying ridiculous things. But that’s who you are, and it’s charming.”

“You think it’s charming.”

Aegon smiles at you. “I do.”

You stir your latte so the ice cubes clink together and you make a jittery little sound, half-sigh, half-whimper. Aegon puts a palm on your bare thigh, pushing the hem of your dress just above your knee; his hand is warm, and gentle, and heavy enough to ground you.

“You’re shaking,” he says, alarmed.

“Yeah,” you admit. “I’m fine. I think it’ll stop once we get there.”

Aegon lifts his hand away—no! you think, pathetically—and then unbuckles his seatbelt and crawls over to the window just behind the driver’s seat, which is all the way down. The limo driver is in his fifties, salt-and-pepper hair and a full beard, classic rock radio station. The opening notes of Dani California pump out of the speakers, the bass reverberating through the leather seats. “Hey,” Aegon says to the driver, thumping his fist on the window slot. “Roll that up.”

“Yes sir,” the driver assents immediately.

“Don’t park or unlock the doors until I tell you to.”

“Yes sir.”

The dark opaque window closes, the driver disappears, and Aegon comes back to you. He takes your half-finished latte out of your hand and places it safely in a cupholder.

You’re smiling as you ask: “What are you going to—?”

He reaches beneath your dress—tulle ruffles the color of unclouded daylight, or lemons, or butter, or sunflowers—and his fingertips know where to go, their corporeal memory is perfect, and they apply divine spiraling pressure over your panties, silk to leave no lines beneath your dress; that’s a trick Baela taught you. You gasp and clutch for the back of the seat, sweated skin on black leather, your spine arching, your blood cascading south as the freeway runs northbound.

“Are you nervous now?” Aegon whispers; and his words are taunting but his voice is hushed, and he’s in front of you, leaning in so close your lungs are filled with him, Juicy Fruit and sunlight and the heat and the city, and his other hand turns your face away from him so he won’t ruin your makeup. Instead of your lips, his mouth finds your throat and collarbones, and he kisses you there as his fingertips press down more forcefully beneath your dress, so insistent, so hungry, and you are blinded by the realization of how much you have craved him, how desperately you miss him each time you’re apart, and only being with him feels like this, you don’t belong anywhere else, and your chances to touch him are vanishing like sandcastles turned to ruins by the surf.

He’s getting married in a month.

But he’s here now, and you want him.

He’s choosing Becca.

But his hands are choosing you, and his lips, and the outline of his hardness that you can feel when he leans against your thigh, nudging your legs further apart, and surely even through the silk he can feel how wet you are.

“You shouldn’t have taken your seatbelt off,” you say breathlessly. “That’s not safe.”

Aegon laughs as if this is a ludicrous concern, and maybe he doesn’t think that dying in a car accident of a fractured skull or an aortic dissection would be the worst thing in the world. “Don’t worry about me.” He breezes the fingers of his left hand through your hair, nuzzling you, inhaling you, saccharine sweetness and young frenetic nerves, endorphins pouring from your bloodstream.

He’s good, he’s very good; but for you it can take a while, and how far is the limo from the premiere venue? “I’m not going to be able to finish—”

“Yeah you are,” Aegon says, drawing back to look at you, his eyes locked with yours; and you moan as his fingers move the strip of silk aside and sink into you, and you are filled with him as his palm keeps up the euphoric friction, and then it collides with you—knuckles, gravity, riptides, fate—and it takes everything left in you, worn wrung-out scraps, not to cry out, because you’re not alone now, and you’ve never truly been alone with him when this happens, and you know you never will be. The sweetness and the bitterness are coiled up together like threads of fabric, like the lines of a family tree.

You are still panting as Aegon sweeps his left thumbprint just beneath your eyes, clearing away the eyeliner and mascara that has begun to run as your eyes water.

“Don’t cry, sunshine,” he murmurs, concerned.

You chuckle shakily. “I’m sorry. You know I get like this.” When it’s good. When it’s with you.

“Are you still nervous?”

“No,” you answer truthfully.

“You’re going to do great.”

“What should I say?”

“Whatever you want,” Aegon tells you. “Be yourself. Be real.” Then he kisses you on your lips only once: feather-light, immaterial enough to not mar you. “Oh, we have to clean up,” he realizes, panicked, and he hasn’t thought this through.

“It’s okay. We’ll figure it out.”

You open the can of coconut La Croix that Baela gifted you and soak a handful of napkins that Aegon gets from the driver. You erase the evidence between your legs as best you can; Aegon cleans his hands and gives himself a generous squeeze of hand sanitizer from a tiny travel bottle in your clutch. Then he uses the corner of a napkin to dab away stray flecks of mascara on your cheeks. You check your face in the mirror of your makeup compact: dewy, but acceptable. Natural. Lived-in. Aegon rearranges a few wayward strands of your hair. You slurp down the rest of your vanilla latte. The limo is rolling to halt. You reach for the door handle.

“No,” Aegon says, stopping you. And he gets out first and then waits for you, hand open, until you emerge from the limousine and into a new world: flashbulbs, video cameras, microphones, assistants dressed in black, screaming Maroon 5 fans. Aegon fluffs the train of your electric yellow gown and then leads you into the chaos.

The music video premiere is being held at the historic Broadway Theater. The red carpet rolled out for the occasion, in a nod to the name of the band, is not a bright bloody red but a deep maroon. People are shouting and waving at you, and you have no idea what’s going on; and yet in your ribcage your heartbeat is slow and measured and strong. Aegon has a hand on the small of your back, and you think: I want it to be like this all the time. I want it to be like this forever.

Now a young man in a teal suit is rushing up to you and Aegon has disappeared to the sidelines, and the man is telling you that he is from E! News, and although he says his name you immediately forget it. You don’t panic; you smile softly and try to listen through the noise of the crowd. Now Maroon 5 has arrived and is posing for photographs as the fans screech and beg for autographs.

“So how’s your day going?” the man from E! News asks, a microphone held to your lips.

“It’s been so exciting, this morning I got to quit my job!”

The man laughs hysterically. “What? Are you serious?”

“Yeah, I’ve been working at an ice cream place for months, but not anymore!”

“And do you have a passion for ice cream?”

“Not really, I just had to pay rent, you know?”

“Girl, do I ever!” the man says, still laughing. “What’s your favorite kind of ice cream?”

You smile sheepishly. “Vanilla.”

“Oh, so you’re a vanilla girl, huh?”

“I am, I really am, and I know the joke. But vanilla can be great! It’s a classic, and it’s sweet and uncomplicated, and it’s not trying to be anything it’s not. It’s pure. It’s innocent.”

“Oh my God, that was poetry! I might have to give vanilla another shot. You’ve convinced me.”

“Cool,” you say. Aegon is watching you from behind the video camera that you’ve just noticed; he is nodding, he gives you a little thumbs-up.

The man from E! News asks next: “So, ice cream expert, if I was an ice cream flavor, which one would I be?”

You ponder this. “Well someone once told me that interesting adults like strawberry, and you seem really interesting, so I’d say you’re strawberry ice cream.”

“Adorable,” the man sighs, marveling at you. “What are you going to be up to now that you aren’t working at the ice cream shop anymore?”

“Well according to my agent—and I have the best agent in the world, he’s absolute magic—I just got my first starring role in a movie.” The E! News man shrieks in excitement. “And I can’t really tell you anything more about it just yet, because I don’t know what I’m allowed to say publicly, but I’m so so so excited and so grateful, and Los Angeles is an incredible place. I’m in heaven and I’m thrilled to be here with you tonight.”

Another E! News correspondent, a woman in a salmon-colored dress, dashes in to join the conversation. She has blindingly white veneers and so much Botox she can’t move her forehead. “Could you tell us what it was like working on this music video?”

“It was an amazing experience,” you say; and in this moment you believe that, and Dan doesn’t exist, and neither does the bathtub scene that almost happened, and neither does the terror that threatened to consume you before Aegon smothered the flames. Now, Aegon is watching closely as Dan navigates the red carpet. They make split-second eye contact, Aegon glares fiercely, Dan keeps a wide swath of space between you and him as if you are radioactive, a silent poison that cooks malignancies into blood and bones. “We filmed in this gorgeous mansion in Beverly Hills, and everyone involved in the production was so imaginative and professional. I got to wear outfits designed by Schiaparelli and Rodarte, oh, and Phoebe Philo, and the actor playing my awful ex-boyfriend was fantastic, and there were these weird exotic cats that kept trying to bite me…”

You keep talking and interviewers keep descending, appearing out of nowhere, and then you are posing on the red carpet—you even take a few awkward photos with Maroon 5, none of whom remember who you are—and to your surprise, several fans even ask you for an autograph. Without thinking, you add a tiny sun after you sign your name each time.

“There, a little bit of sunshine,” you say to a preteen girl who beams up at you. “Not that you need it, look how brightly you’re shining!”

As you are about to enter the theater, you glance back to see where Aegon has gone. An interviewer has entrapped him, although Aegon clearly resents being caught on camera. He’s a good sport though; he forces a smile and answers the questions. He’s being asked about you.

Aegon says: “She has a great attitude about work, and about life in general. She’s very talented. And obviously she’s beautiful, so…yeah. I feel really lucky to have found her. She’s usually the best part of my day.”

“And are we going to see you in any upcoming films?” the woman from Entertainment Tonight asks flirtatiously. “We all know you have the chops!”

Aegon throws his head back and cackles. “No. You wish. Okay, thank you very much for your time, I’ll talk to you afterwards.”

“Thank you, Aegon!” the interviewer calls out, waving, and you think: He really could have been a star if he never left acting.

You and Aegon sit together at the screening, and he keeps feeding you pieces of popcorn—your lips brushing his fingertips, salt stinging on your tongue—and you have to resist the urge, no, the gravity, the effortless instinct to rest your head on his shoulder. Maroon 5 do a panel after the music video and take questions from the audience. They manage a few comprehensible responses.

Afterwards, Aegon doesn’t take you straight home to Harbor Gateway. He doesn’t take you to his office in Elysian Park either. Instead, he tells the limo driver to follow the 101 northwest to Hollywood, and he drags you out into the cool indigo night—veined with florescence and neon—and onto the intersection of Vine Street and Sunset Boulevard at the genesis of the Walk of Fame, a trail of 2,800 stars carved into the sidewalk, into eternity.

Aegon stands on a star of this earthbound constellation and says: “You’re going to have one of these someday.”

And here under the aisle of a streetlight with Aegon smiling like that, kind and radiant, you could almost believe him.

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just-aake · 1 year ago

Text

Thankful for You

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Summary: You invite a mysterious red-haired stranger to join you for a Thanksgiving dinner.

Warnings: light fluff, light angst

Words: 2547

Sitting alone on a bench in some park, Natasha looks up at the sky when the sound of thunder rumbles and echoes through the trees.

Soon, she feels drops of water drip down her face as rain begins to pour all around her. She must have looked crazy to anybody who saw her, drenched from head to toe, just sitting alone in the park and staring stoically at the sky.

It didn’t matter though. There was no chance of anyone being around at this time anyway, given what day it was.

Thanksgiving Day

A time when friends and family spend time with their loved ones and express gratitude for the good things in their lives.

Natasha’s lips twitched slightly with a hint of amused resignation at the thought–the holiday defined everything that she didn’t have.

No friends – the mission in Budapest with Clint helped form a good teammate relationship, but even after other missions together, they have not reached the point where Natasha believes Clint has trusted her enough to be considered friends, and that sentiment is also returned by her.

No family – she was abandoned by her actual mother when she was a child, and as for her other temporary family, she has not tried to find any of them; though, she hoped Yelena was still alive and able to escape after Dreykov was killed.

No good thing in her life – she has been trained to be a killer her entire life, doing terrible things for others just to survive. She has always been a tool to be used. Now after recently joining Shield, she is still not sure if there will be any changes to her life that would ever be good.

There is nothing for her.

Natasha closes her eyes as she lets the rain hit her face, hoping that time will pass by quicker and end this dreadful day so that she can return to work and go on missions again.

Suddenly, the consistent sound of rainfall is interrupted by a small splash in the distance, which Natasha already deduced as a single person’s footsteps.

With her eyes still closed, Natasha’s brow twitches slightly when she realizes that the steps are coming closer to her position. However, judging based on the unhurried pace and sensing no malicious intent from them, Natasha ultimately decides there is no threat with this newcomer.

They are probably just another individual on their way to some Thanksgiving party or dinner.

Natasha is about to return to her previous mindless thoughts when the footsteps suddenly stop.

In front of her

Natasha frowns when she no longer feels the cold touch of rain falling on her. Opening her eyes in confusion, the first thing she sees is the underside of an umbrella hovering above her head.

Following the stem of the umbrella down to the hand holding it, her eyes eventually meet yours.

Standing in front of her, you give her a small smile as you hold the umbrella above the two of you, shielding both of you from the rain.

Natasha glances down at your other hand, which holds a couple of bags of what looks like drinks and snacks.

When she returns her gaze to yours with a questioning look, your smile turns sheepish, unaffected by the intimidating glint Natasha has in her expression.

“This might be weird and a bit forward,” you start before nodding your head in a particular direction, “but would you like to come back to my apartment to dry off and wait out the rain there?” you offer her gently.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

In the hallway of your apartment building, Natasha stands with her arms folded, closely observing you as you fumble to find your keys.

She is still unsure about why she accepted your offer.

Maybe it was a curiosity to understand the kind of person you are—whether genuinely generous and kind or perhaps just naive and clueless.

Or worse, you might just be offering help only to boost your own ego and feel superior; she’s met enough of those kinds of people during her brief time at Shield already.

Seeing you continue to struggle with the bags, umbrella, and keys in your hands, Natasha wordlessly extends her hand toward you in a silent offer.

You pause at the gesture, your mouth opening slightly in surprise.

“Thanks,” you say softly, accepting her offer of help.

Natasha raises an eyebrow curiously when you only hand her some of the bags, not all, just enough relief for you to find the key and open the door of your apartment.

Walking into the apartment, you leave the door open almost as if it were an invitation to her, with no pressure to accept.

She could just walk away and leave now, forgetting that she ever met you.

Again, Natasha doesn’t know why she decides to enter.

However, maybe this time, it is partially due to the fact that she is still holding some of your bags from earlier.

Once she closes the door behind her, your voice calls her from the kitchen, and when she comes closer, she sees that you are already in the process of sorting your items into their appropriate area.

Glancing up at her approach, you ask her casually.

“So what’s your name?”

In response, Natasha presses her lips in a thin line, deciding on how much she should share with you, given her new 'clean slate.'

At her hesitance, you give her an amused smile.

“You know, it doesn’t have to be your real name. I just need something to call you instead of saying, ‘Have a seat, stranger’,” you tease lightly.

Understanding your point, Natasha contemplates for a second before settling on a safe option.

“Call me Nat.”

You repeat the name a couple of times softly under your breath before nodding your head satisfied and giving her a welcoming smile.

“I’m Y/n.”

“Y/n…?” Natasha trails off in question for your last name, her instincts automatically activated to obtain as much information as possible.

You chuckle amusedly at her, going over to her to grab the bags from her hands. Turning around, you make your way back to your kitchen.

“You never gave me yours,” you point out over your shoulder.

Natasha’s eyes widen slightly, impressed at your deflection. So, you are not completely naive. She decides to initiate another conversation to learn more.

“You know, it’s pretty reckless to invite a stranger into your home,” Natasha points out as she examines your living space. It was a small apartment but comfortable for one person to live in. She can spot your personal touches throughout the area, making it feel cozy and warm.

“It’s pretty reckless to follow a stranger to their home too,” you quip back at her. “What if I was a serial killer?”

Natasha huffs in disbelief, shaking her head and crossing her arms.

“I don’t think so.”

You shrug casually as you take the remaining items out of the bag.

“You’re right. I don’t think I even have the strength to take somebody down.”

Finally finished with putting away your things, you lean back against your kitchen table, crossing your arms in a similar position as her.

“You, however, definitely look like you know how to fight,” you state plainly.

Natasha frowns skeptically at your wording, her defenses raising slightly in preparation.

Seeing her expression change defensively, you relax your posture and gesture to her body in explanation.

“Your wet clothes are sticking to your skin, and I can see your muscles and abs from here.”

Examining herself, Natasha can see what you mean. Her light clothes clinging to her skin reveal the contours of her toned body clearly.

Natasha returns her attention to you when you snap your fingers.

“That reminds me. I need to get you some dry clothes. Wait here,” you tell her.

Before Natasha can respond, you leave through another door that she assumes is your bedroom.

Natasha remains in her position, staring at where you left in confusion as she tries to figure you out.

You’re not evil or dangerous–she is certain about that. You’re also not completely clueless and blindly trusting.

And you are honest but careful. She recognizes the subtle hints of caution with your actions and words, but you don’t overtly show distrust towards her.

You give off the impression of making an effort to maintain a welcoming atmosphere with her, but Natasha can sense that this isn’t a familiar territory for you.

It feels like a door attempting to close, yet a small invisible force is working to keep it open.

She is brought out of her thoughts when you return to the room and stand in front of her.

“Here you go,” you offer some clothes to her and then point to another door behind her. “Bathroom’s right there, and there should already be some towels that you can use to dry yourself off in there.”

You tilt your head curiously when she doesn’t move.

“Thanks,” Natasha finally whispers before taking the clothes, her hand touching yours lightly. That brief touch left a lingering warmth in her hand as she headed to the bathroom.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Upon leaving the bathroom, Natasha is greeted by the beeping of the fire alarm and the sight of you standing on a chair, fervently waving a towel at the smoke alarm.

You don’t notice her presence when she quietly joins you in the kitchen, too focused on your task of silencing the annoying beeping sound.

Standing on your tiptoes to reach the smoke alarm button, the chair beneath you wobbles as you shift your balance. After finally pressing the button, you exclaim softly in victory, but the chair wobbles again, causing you to lose your balance.

Instinctively, your hands reach out for the back of the chair or table to stop your descent, but to your surprise, instead of cold furniture, you feel a warm touch.

Natasha gently holds your arms in a supportive grip, steadying you back on your feet.

“Be careful,” she cautions lightly.

When you don’t respond and just stare at her in surprise, she raises a questioning brow at you.

Shaking your head lightly to snap out of your thoughts, you give her a small, appreciative smile.

“Thanks,” you tell her before turning to look at the pot on the stove and then back to her with a sheepish expression.

“I hope you like slightly burnt mac n cheese.”

The two of you sit across each other in silence as you both eat the dinner that you made.

Natasha eats slowly, glancing at you whenever you are not looking in observation. The food tasted normal, nothing special, but for some reason, every bite she took made her feel this warmth inside.

Eventually, you break the silence with a question to her.

“So, Nat, you had any Thanksgiving plans?”

“No.”

You nod your head in understanding.

“Yeah, me too. I didn’t even plan on making anything tonight, but I thought maybe I could make you a small Thanksgiving meal. Luckily, I found some of these mac n cheese boxes in the cabinet. But if you are still hungry, there are also some chips and cookies that you can snack on.”

Natasha’s lips quirked up slightly, amused at your rambling.

Your eyes widen at the sight before pointing out happily.

“Oh! You smiled. I was hoping to cheer you up, even if just a little.”

Natasha furrows her brows curiously at your words, giving you a questioning look at what you meant.

“Why did you invite me here, Y/n?” Natasha asks.

You sit back against your chair at the question, already expecting it eventually. Playing with the bottle in your hand and spinning it on its edge in a random pattern for a moment, you finally let out a deep breath.

“To be honest, I saw you earlier today when I left. Then again, on my way home. You had the same sad expression during both times,” you admit softly before raising the bottle to your lips.

You shrug nonchalantly, saying, “I guess, something about the way you looked reminded me of myself.”

Natasha watches you take a sip as she tries to understand the meaning of your words.

Seeing her confused expression, your smile turns downward slightly as you explain.

“My parents passed away on Thanksgiving.”

You wave away her concerned gaze reassuringly.

“It happened long ago. There was a car accident on the way to a Thanksgiving gathering. I was upset at something stupid at the time like most teenagers do, so I didn’t go with them.”

You let out a regretful breath at the memory, a brief lingering sadness in your eyes before shaking your head and giving her a rueful smile.

“Typically, when this day comes around, I get too depressed to be around anyone, but when I saw you, I had a sudden thought.”

You lean forward, placing your hands on the table, and raise your eyebrows at her as you explain.

“On the day when people gather together to be happy and thankful, I thought why don’t the two sad souls also try coming together?”

At Natasha's doubtful expression, you continue your explanation.

“Maybe there’s a chance we can cheer each other up, even temporarily, and if we can’t, then we can always just be sad together.”

Natasha stares at you with wide eyes, astonished at your words. You are even more intriguing than she thought.

You give her a small smile at her reaction, turning one of your hands upward in an open invitation to her.

“What do you think, Nat? Do you feel a little bit better or should I just bring out the entire case of beer for the remainder of tonight?”

Staring at your open palm offered to her, Natasha notices the same lack of pressure to accept as before.

That’s when Natasha realizes something.

For the first time in a long while, in an unfamiliar apartment, wearing clothes that weren’t her own, and eating a slightly burnt meal prepared for her, Natasha was experiencing an unexpected sense of comfort and warmth, relieving her of the previous emotions that had weighed on her before.

All thanks to you.

And as she expected, when Natasha places her hand atop yours, she feels your warmth spreading to her through your touch.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

The next morning, as you enter the living room, you are not surprised to find the empty couch, with neatly folded blankets and your clothes on the cushions – no signs of yesterday's guest.

Turning around to prepare for the day, you notice a small note on your kitchen table and, upon reading it, you smile gently.

Sorry, I left without a goodbye. I had to leave early. I wanted to let you know, compared to my original plan for this holiday, I’m glad I spent it with you. Maybe next time we meet, I can make you a meal that isn't as burnt as thanks. From one sad soul to another. – Natasha Romanoff

You say her real name out loud softly with a small smile, grateful that you took the chance to meet the mysterious stranger. Anticipation builds as you look forward to the next opportunity to see her again.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

a/n: Thanks for reading! I am still working on Boundless Devotion. I just got a little busy lately. Hope you all have a happy Thanksgiving!

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha romanoff x fem!reader #natasha romanoff fanfic #natasha romanoff x you #black widow x reader #natasha x reader #natasha romanoff

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jeanforestauthor · 1 month ago

Text

Hey, My Book is Great and You Should Read it For Free

Hi there! I wrote a book, and I want to let you read it for free!

In The Princess and the Peaches we follow Ethan, a young man with a lot of heart, and not much spine, who is struggling to run a small failing grocery store after the untimely death of his parents. Ethan also has the misfortune of being a thoroughly Normal Guy in a world where fairytales are far more fact than fiction.

Ethan has always lived with the understanding that magic was quite firmly None of his Business, but when a wayward Princess falls victim to a curse inside his shop, he is informed by an iron-fisted Fairy Godperson that it has suddenly become Entirely his Business.

As a result, Ethan is forced to deal with flirtatious dragons, sadistic Princes, and more than a few deep seated insecurities.

So, you may be wondering, if this book is so great, why is it free? Well, because of my burning resentment for the stranglehold of capitalism on the accessibility of art. Uh, Marketing... or something. The point is, I think my book rules, and I wanted it to find people who also thought it ruled, so here it is!

You can access it on multiple e-reading platforms, including Apple and Smashwords here:

Or on Google Play here:

If you STILL aren't totally convinced, that's cool! I generously put the first three chapters under a read-more so you can check them out without even having to leave the safe harbor of Tumblr.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.

Book Cover by Andrew Filion

First edition, 2025

Chapter 1

It was always the same dream.

For twenty-some years Ethan Green had enjoyed placid, peaceful sleep. He'd had boring, pointless dreams and loved it. Then everything had changed, and now, for four years, it had been the same stupid nightmare, every single night. He drifted through it, carried along in its insistent, unchanging rhythm.

He passed through the living room, warm and full of light. Meandered towards the door, his stride easy and unhurried. At this point, Ethan always somehow felt calm, even eager, despite knowing how this was inevitably going to end. Reflecting on it later, he knew it made a sad kind of sense. This was the only way he could see them now.

He heard them before he'd even reached the door. Laughter so deep and loud it sounded like trains passing outside the window. Then a quiet, lilting tone, rising and falling like birdsong.

With one twist of the handle, one swing of the door, he stepped out into the bright, sun drenched storefront, and for just a brief moment, everything felt right.

Ethan's gaze traveled over the deep velvety green of the walls, the worn pine floor, dappled with light. He looked at the big, arched windows, draped in the same old green gingham curtains, heard the quiet chatter of customers, and now, just like every time, he could swear he smelled the scent of sweet, ripe peaches.

And then came the moment he always anticipated. His view swept from the windows, to the neat, trim counter waiting at the front of the store, over the battered old till, up into the lively, animated face of his father.

He was exactly the way Ethan remembered him. Big as a bear and nearly as hairy, booming with laughter, his rough, calloused fingers almost too large for the spindly keys on the register. Ethan took in his twinkling eyes and crooked grin fervently, as if to fix every minute detail in his memory.

And then there, nestled in amongst the bins and barrels of fresh fruit was his mother, as small and willowy as his father was large, but no less intimidating. Her voice was bright, her movements brisk and efficient. Ethan watched her long, elegant hands tug trimly at the curtains and found himself remembering the way they'd often done the same at the collars of his shirts.

Ethan basked in this moment, like the sight of a sunset, brief and fleeting.

Because of course, it never lasted. It started with the windows, like Every. Single. Time.

Small cracks, that began to spread, like ugly, spiraling spider webs, reaching greedily for the corners of the panes, until suddenly with a deafening crash, the air was full of cascading shards of glass.

As usual, his parents made no reaction, still cheerful, unshaken. Ethan always tried to reach them, even while knowing it was pointless.

"Dad!" He cried, working off the same unending script. "The windows! What's happening!?"

His father turned to him, a placid smile in place.

"It's alright, kiddo, don't worry. I know you can handle it." He replied in his deep, bass rumble.

Ethan stared down at his feet, shifting through the piles of shattered glass.

"But dad-"

Then the fruit would go. Where there was once jewel-bright piles of fresh, ripe produce, suddenly there would be putrid mounds of rotted fruit, their stench overpowering.

"Mom!? How did this-!?"

His mother would give him that soft, exasperated look, like he'd forgotten to comb his hair again.

"Ethan, it's okay, honey. We know you'll take care of it."

And then came the groaning, rending sound of splintering wood, and Ethan's heart would drop into his stomach. The long beams overhead would begin to tear, shaking dust from the ceiling. Every inch of the walls would begin to crack and buckle.

Ethan would look to his parents, still blissfully smiling back at him.

"Everything's falling apart! Can't you see it!? Come on, help me!" He'd cry.

"Ethan calm down," His mother would laugh, "Everything will be fine."

"Yeah kiddo," His father would add with a grin, "You'll just need to take care of it."

And like every time, Ethan would find himself brought up short, paralyzed. He'd stand in the midst of the destruction, his whole life going to ruins around him, and he'd be useless.

"You can do it." His father would add, with such perfect, maddening certainty.

"But..." Ethan muttered, as always, his voice strangely clear among the chaos. "But I don't know how."

Ethan awoke, a few seconds before his alarm, like always, just a little too late to stop it from going off. It's grating, jangling tones piercing straight into the center of Ethan's brain.

He levered himself out of bed immediately. A Green did not snooze, he told himself wearily, not when there was work to be done. Ethan had never once in his life slept past the alarm and today was no exception.

Groggily, he shuffled into the bathroom and stared at his reflection. There was that curly mop of comb-destroying hair. There were those same, tired brown eyes. A nose a little too long, a mouth a little too feminine, a frame far, far too scrawny.

Nothing new here.

He went through his usual routine, dressing in the same white shirt, and the same green slacks he wore just about every day of his adult life. He slipped on the same, stiff loafers, and then… Well, then the apron.

He'd thought he'd have gotten used to it by now. He'd seen it on his parents since he was a child. He'd worn it himself since he was a teenager. But somehow, it still managed to give him pause. Probably because it was hideous.

Family legend said that his great grandmother had chosen the color because it reminded her of springtime, of freshness. Most people Ethan knew would never in their wildest dreams have come to these associations. Looking at it, the words of Ethan's best friend ran through his head.

"If that's fresh anything, it's fresh vomit. Unhealthy vomit. Go to the doctor, something's gone wrong, vomit."

But... It had been a family tradition for generations. It was the Green family's trademark.

And so, dutifully, Ethan put it on, tying it in a tight double knot, even though it made it near impossible to get off later. It was what he always did. It was how it had always been done.

With heavy feet, he trudged downstairs, into the living room.

In truth, it looked almost no different from his dreams. Everything was still in its place, untouched, as it had been for four years now. A few low couches, huddled around the room, a tall bookshelf standing sentinel in the corner, a battered TV sitting silent nearby. The same pictures, arrayed on the mantelpiece, familiar faces staring out. It was exactly the same, an almost perfect monument to the way things used to be... except.

It was so empty. Ethan had managed to preserve every inch of the room, as though nothing had changed, but somehow, like sand slipping through his fingers, he hadn't been able to keep the life that had once existed here, the almost palpable feel of warmth and joy. Now, absence seemed to hang like dust in the air.

Well, that wasn't the only change. Slowly, Ethan made his way over to the bookshelf, and ran his fingers over the glossy, cool stone of the urn sitting high on its shelves. He muttered a quiet, customary, "Good morning." For a moment he forgot his rituals, forgot his duties, and let himself get lost.

The soft tinkle of the bell on the other side of the door jarred him out of his reverie though. There wasn't really time to pause, he reminded himself. With brisk, purposeful steps, he crossed the room and exited out of the dim, musty corners of his home, and into the bright halls of the storefront.

This too, like the living room, differed little from his dreams, although Ethan thought hopefully that the store at least, was less melancholy than the rest of the house. The soft light of sunrise was just filtering through the tall arched windows, catching in the gingham curtains, painting the pine floor.

There was no boisterous, laughing man behind the front counter though. Instead, there sat Todd... Or lounged Todd, his sandy, brush cut head lying in a nest of insultingly well muscled arms.

This too, Ethan had to concede, wasn't exactly new. Since Ethan had begun running the shop, Todd worked every morning, the same time, same as Ethan, and yet somehow stubbornly refused to adjust himself to actually being awake during sed time. And as he had every morning, Ethan considered that if Todd hadn't been his best friend, he'd probably have fired him by now. That, and he was pretty good at moving boxes.

Sighing, Ethan made his way over to the stool Todd had precariously perched himself on and gave it a lazy kick. Todd awoke with a start, scrambling to keep upright.

"Am I keeping you awake Todd?" Ethan asked with a weary smile.

"Bro, you are single handedly destroying my sleep cycle, but what else is new?" Todd replied groggily, "Why'd you wake me up? You don't even need me for anything."

"The produce shipment-" Ethan began.

"-Probably won't come until noon," Todd concluded sourly.

Ethan scowled. "You've noticed that too huh? He used to come first thing a few years ago... Now he's been coming later and later..."

"Fine by me, I'm in no hurry to play packhorse." Todd replied with a jaw cracking yawn.

"It's your job Todd. Being awake, by the way, is also your job."

"Yeah, when there's shit to do. Trust me, I'll be all over those boxes when they come. I'll hit those boxes like they owed me money. Fuckin' Prince of boxes over here. But for now, no boxes, no customers... So no Todd," He muttered, laying his head down again.

"Todd, come on man. You've gotta do something. Remember what dad used to say? If you've got time to lean-"

"- You've got time to clean, yeah I remember. And don't get me wrong bro, your dad was a regular fountain of wisdom, but it's gonna be a long friggin' day. The dust will still be there after my power nap."

Shaking his head, Ethan abandoned his efforts to rouse Todd and fetched his old push broom from its resting place nearby.

It was worn, it's bristles tattered, it's paint chipped, and it was heavier than a broom had any right to be, the shaft made of what Ethan suspected was solid metal, but it had been in the family for generations, and it fit in Ethan's hand like it was made just for him.

Wearily, he took it and made a few halfhearted swipes at the floor, but had to concede that all he was doing was likely wearing more of the already thin varnish off the boards. He'd spent most of last night aimlessly sweeping too, after all. It wasn't like there were customers to keep them busy.

Todd looked up, and seemed to notice the despondent look on Ethan's face.

"Hey man, I'm just fuckin' around. You know I'll work hard today."

"Yeah Todd, I know, I'm not really worried about you," Ethan replied quietly.

Todd stood and made his way over to Ethan, awkwardly clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry so much dude. Things will get better. Today's gonna be different! I can feel it!" Todd exclaimed with as much enthusiasm as one could have at six in the morning.

"I don't really want it to be different," Ethan sighed,"I'd rather things... went back to being the same."

Todd scowled. "Well, tough. I said today's gonna be different, and it will. You wait and see, bro."

"Alright," Ethan laughed, "If you say so."

As the day wore on, things certainly seemed far from different.

As Todd predicted, the produce shipment came extraordinarily late. True to his word, Todd tackled the task with gusto. Ethan was forced to admit, when there was actual work to be done, Todd was a model employee. It was just sheer boredom that tripped him up. Unfortunately, boredom was the one commodity they had in plenty at the store. Once the crates were squared away, the produce stocked, there was little else to be found, because as Ethan had predicted, only a few, meandering customers made their way into the store all day. Even fewer had bought anything.

As evening began to fall, Ethan gradually found that even he was running out of mindless busywork for himself, and so, he began to fall back on entertaining Todd's inane chatter.

"Hey, bro!" Todd called from the front of the store. From where Ethan stood, crowded in the far corner, surrounded by crates of fruit, he could only just make out Todd's frame leaning languidly on the counter, a newspaper in hand. "Did you read this story? The one in the paper today?"

"You mean that paper we're supposed to be selling?" Ethan sighed.

"Yeah, whatever dude, listen up. Apparently there was a dragon attack in South Mills. Isn't that crazy?"

Ethan scowled. "A dragon? An actual like... wild dragon? I thought those were pretty rare."

"Yeah, I know right? I guess it's the first attack in like, five years or something," Todd paused, laying down the paper, "Hey... do you think something like that could happen here?" He added, in a tone far more hopeful than frightened.

"Here?" Ethan didn't even give the question a moment's consideration, "No way. That stuff happens out in the country, not in the middle of downtown. Not here."

"I dunno, could happen. Oh! like I heard from my cousin’s friend's sister, there was that place down on Pine St, that mom and pop diner? Anyhow, so I guess the health inspector was due to visit, and they were freaking out because they'd never make the grade, right? And then like, overnight, they get one of those... Uh, those little bastards... What're they called? Something like food... a muffin?"

"A Brownie," Ethan supplied wearily.

"Yeah! That's the thing! Anyhow, I guess one of those moves in, and suddenly the next morning their kitchen is totally clean and up to code! So see man, that kind of thing happens around here."

Ethan shook his head. "Don't hold your breath Todd. This place isn't exactly magical."

Ethan had always been vaguely aware of Magic, in the same way one could be vaguely aware that elephants existed. It was a part of life for some people, and sometimes interesting to hear about, but Ethan sure as hell didn't want it in his shop. A Green, he could almost hear his father saying, did not rely on Magic. Hard work, courage and love had their own magic, he would state, and it was all their family ever needed. Ethan held by this attitude dutifully... Not that anything remotely Magical had ever shown up at his door. Life at the shop had been blissfully routine for years, so much so that it was almost easy to forget that Magic even existed to begin with.

"Still, it'd be cool," Todd muttered.

Ethan smirked. "What, you want a dragon to come burn the shop down?"

Todd heaved a sigh. "Well at least then I'd get weekends off..."

Ethan paused, a twinge of guilt running through him. "Look..." He began awkwardly, "I'm... I'm really sorry you've had to work so much lately. It's just, you know, money's tight... I can't really afford to hire..."

"Bro," Todd cut in with a laugh, "Shut the fuck up man. I don't care. I didn't really mean what I said, you know that."

"I... Yeah," Ethan sighed, "I just... Feel bad."

"You always feel bad. Constantly. You're like a little rain cloud of pure downer. Come on, bro, don't take me so seriously. I don't."

"Yeah okay. Just, I don't wanna be that boss, y'know?"

"You aren't dude. Calm down. Sweep or something, that'll cheer you up."

"Great advice. Thanks, Todd." Ethan shot back sarcastically.

"Anytime." Todd replied with cheerful sincerity.

Aggravatingly, as closing hour neared, Ethan really was still sweeping.

There was no real aim. He just skated his broom around the shop, letting his mind wander, trying to keep visions of red ink and out of business signs out of his head. He was startled out of these thoughts however, by a sharp jab to the back.

"Ow! F-Fudge!" He muttered.

He heard Todd creak on his stool. "The spinning wheel?" He drawled lazily.

Ethan wheeled to eye the contraption in question. "Yeah, the stupid thing."

"Goddamn, that's got to be the fifth time this week. You'd think you'd steer clear of that thing by now.”

"You'd think..." Ethan muttered darkly.

He hated that spinning wheel. Hated it. Nearly every day of his life he'd had to dodge its spindle, jutting out into the aisles, taking up precious space. But his mother, and his grandmother, and her mother before that had been enamored with it. Made the place look rustic, they'd said, homey. Made it a death trap, Ethan thought murderously to himself. But still, he couldn't bring himself to remove it. It was a part of the shop. Tradition.

He was still rubbing his sore back when the smell met his nose. He felt his stomach sink. Rotten fruit. Again. Just what he needed.

Striding over to the produce, he bent over the bin of peaches and poked at them experimentally. Their flesh gave way, revealing their slick, browning insides, releasing that same putrid odor. Ethan suppressed a groan of frustration.

"Todd!" He called.

"Yeah, what?"

"Did you forget to swap out yesterday's peaches?"

Todd poked his head down the aisle, scowling. "No man. I restocked those today, my own two hands."

"They're friggin' rotten again!"

"Again? That's weird. They looked okay when I stocked them, I guess," Todd shrugged.

"Well, they're garbage now," Ethan sighed.

Grumbling, Ethan seized a trash bag and set about the unenviable task of discarding the moldering peaches. He was so consumed by his frustration that he didn't even hear the bell tinkling on the front door. After a few minutes though, he couldn't help but notice Todd's frantic attempts to get his attention from behind the counter.

"Bro!" Todd hissed, "Bro c'mere! C'mere c'mere!"

Ethan wasn't sure why Todd was bothering to whisper, considering that he was also windmilling his arms enthusiastically. With a sigh, Ethan set down his bag and wandered over.

"What is it, Todd?" He asked wearily.

"Check it, bro. Unbelievable," Todd breathed, gesturing down the central aisle.

Ethan followed his gaze. It was a girl. That was unsurprising. Todd never hesitated to point out a shapely looking lady or two, with just as much finesse as he was doing now. Ethan usually didn't humor these gawking sessions, a little too respectful and very much too terrified to scope out women, but this time, he found he couldn't quite tear his eyes away.

She was beautiful. Radiantly, impossibly beautiful.

She was short, but not too short, perhaps a full head below Ethan. Her hair was cropped startlingly, boyishly close, but it was a color that Ethan, though a not poetic sort, could only describe as honey-gold. Though she wore loose, casual clothes; a t-shirt, jeans, a scarf hanging about her neck, she bore them as if they were the finest regalia.

She stood near the coolers, inspecting a drink, and as she moved Ethan found himself taking in even the tiniest aspects of her delicate form. She had slender, perfect fingers. Rosy, cherubic, perfect lips. A pert, perfect nose. Indeed as Ethan stared, he began to realize that just about everything on her was perfect, in a very uniform, depthless kind of way. This idea suddenly changed his awe to unnerved fixation. There was something... uncanny about her.

If you'd asked a man to describe what a perfect woman looked like, aside from her haircut and clothes, they likely would have rattled off her exact attributes. There were no flaws, no quirks, nothing curious or odd on her body anywhere. Not a single freckle, beauty mark, scar, wrinkle. She was of perfect proportion, curvaceous, but not overly so. Her ears were cute ears, her brows were cute brows. Even before he caught sight of her eyes, he could predict their color, a pure brilliant sky blue. The entire effect was one of a lovely woman, to make no mistake, but something struck him as off. She seemed so... generically gorgeous. So... homogenized.

Still, she was a girl, and she was beautiful, and so Todd's next words brought a twist to Ethan's stomach.

"Go talk to her, bro."

Ethan whirled to face Todd. "What!?" He hissed.

"Yeah, dude, go talk to her! One of us has to! We can't let a babe like that walk out the door without saying something!"

"Yes we can! And why me!?"

Todd shrugged. "I know my limits dude. A girl like that? Wouldn't say two words to me. But you've got that whole kicked-puppy thing going on. Girls love that. Go talk to her."

"I... What?"

"Besides, you deserve a break. Maybe if you got a girlfriend you'd stop moping for once."

"I am not going to go over there and hit on her!" Ethan exclaimed, a little more loudly than he'd intended. He froze, panicked for a moment. Had she heard? He snuck a glance at her, but she was still staring impassively at her drink. He could have sworn he heard a snicker though.

"Relax dude. I didn't tell you to go ask her to marry you. Just say something to her."

"Like what!?" Ethan demanded quietly.

"I don't know man, like, "Hey, need help finding anything?" At the very least you gotta go help her out. It's good customer service."

Ethan paused. In a roundabout way, Todd was right. She was a customer, and so far all he'd done was stare at her. His parents would be mortified.

"Okay, well... yeah. I'm going to go help her. But I mean... Just because it's my job," He stammered.

"Sure bro. Good luck. I'll be here, thinking up baby names for you."

Ethan scowled and shook his head, but nonetheless gathered his courage and began to approach the mystery girl. He saw her gaze slant over to him, and it hit him like an electric shock. Suddenly Ethan became painfully aware of his every flaw, and imagined a few new ones for good measure. Was he walking funny? Did he always walk like that? How did walking work again?

His suddenly stilted gait carried him to her, and as she stared up at him expectantly, he remembered that now he was supposed to talk.

"Hhhh...." He began. It was supposed to be Hi, but the I had jumped ship somewhere between his brain and his lungs. "So, can I... find... anything?"

Somewhere, in the back of his skull, a cruelly rational part of him began dissecting his sentence, and concluded that it was at least missing a verb and a pronoun. It decided that the obvious remedy to this problem was to make him blush furiously. The girl bit her lip. Ethan wasn't sure what this was supposed to mean, but he had a suspicion it meant something, in the mystic language of girl.

"Uh, yeah, no, I'm just looking at the sodas," She replied with a fluttering smile.

She had a soft, lilting voice. The kind you expected to hear raised in song. Just listening to it Ethan had the impression that pan flutes and violins were on standby.

"Oh. Okay. Sodas are... good," Ethan murmured. He could hear Todd's hand hit his forehead all the way from the front of the store.

"Yeah, uh... right. So..." The girl murmured back awkwardly.

"So..." Was all Ethan could manage to reply.

He knew this was his cue to walk away. But he just... couldn't. It was as if something intoxicating was radiating off this girl, like a perfume. It fixed him to his place, denying him the dignity of a hasty retreat. He was struggling for some kind of rational explanation for this when the girl cleared her throat.

"Look," She began. Her lyrical voice had taken on a wearied, flat tone, to very odd effect. "I'm sorry. This isn't your fault."

"Wait, what's not my fault?"

"The awkwardness."

Her bluntness was surprising, but somehow Ethan found himself laughing. "Oh. No. I'm pretty sure it's all my fault. It's kind of what I do."

The girl laughed in return, and it sounded like bells. "No, seriously though. I have this effect on everyone. It's not just you."

Ethan's mouth beat his brain. "Well, yeah, because you're gorgeous."

From the front came the distinct noise of Todd falling off his chair.

To his relief and bewilderment, she laughed again. "Uh huh. I know. It's kind of part and parcel of the whole gig. I'm, uh... Well see, I'm a Princess."

Ethan blinked. Even as his mouth was saying, "What?" His mind was quickly putting the pieces together. It made sense, actually.

Up to now, Ethan had only seen Princesses on the television, generally being paraded as some kind of prize in reality shows. The formula was always the same, a few handsome Princes, some perilous trials, and in the end, a happily ever after, or so the tabloids purported. The Princess in question had always stuck Ethan as more of a prop than a person, bubbly, vacuous, grinning glossily as men risked life and limb in the pursuit of their hands, cooing breathlessly as they were carried away into the sunset like hunted pelts on the back of some ridiculous horse. And they all looked the same. A minor variation in hair or skin color, height, features, but nearly always the same, tame, brand name beautiful. Looking at this girl now, he realized that she fit the same mold perfectly, as though she'd been crafted on the same assembly line.

At any rate, Princesses, like Magic, were something that didn't happen to Ethan Green. So despite instantly believing her confession, it took a few moments for the gears in his head to restart.

"Yeah, so, I guess it's normal that you're... y'know, staring and everything," She muttered, "It's okay. Well actually it's not okay, I mean, it's kind of a pain in the ass, but it's not like you're the only one."

Ethan shook his head. "I... I'm sorry. I just... Why are you in my shop!?" He blurted.

The Princess regarded him frostily, a strange expression on her angelic face. "Excuse me?"

"No! No no, I didn't mean that like, 'Get out of my shop or anything' it's just that... Aren't you guys usually-?"

Her expression only darkened, her long fingers gripping the top of her soda viciously. "Aren't we usually what? Fawning out windows, waiting for our Prince to come? Embroidering our wedding gowns? What are you saying, 'Shouldn't you be in your tower?!'"

"No! No, jeez, no," Ethan cried, holding his hands up placatingly, "I just... You're here, doing... Normal people stuff. I mean, Princesses aren't... Normal."

Somehow, he knew it was the wrong thing the moment he said it. Still, he didn't expect the tears that sprang up in her eyes.

"No. We're not. Thanks for reminding me." She seethed. Roughly, she jammed the soda back into the cooler, and wheeled around. Ethan expected her to storm off, but instead she froze.

"Miss? Please Miss... Uh, or your highness, or... whatever. I'm sorry." Ethan stammered out.

She didn't turn, didn't move.

"Miss? Are you alright?"

He walked as close as he dared to her. She was still fixed in place, and as Ethan watched her, he could see she was barely breathing. Baffled, he followed her gaze. She was staring, wide eyed, unblinking, at the spinning wheel.

She let out a small, defeated breath. Spoke only two words.

"Oh, fuck."

Then, moving like a woman possessed, she stepped forward, stretched out a hand, and pricked her finger on the spindle.

Then dropped like a sack of rocks.

Chapter 2

Ethan gaped for a second, staring at her sprawled body, stepping away from it like it was toxic. It took him a few seconds to find his voice. It took him longer to form actual words.

"Oh fu- Oh sh- Oh God. Oh god oh man. Ohhhhhh god oh man oh god..."

"Bro?" Came Todd's voice tentatively from the front.

"TODD!"

"Whoa, Bro, what!?" Todd called, scrambling out from behind the counter.

"TODD!" Ethan cried again, pointing to her prone body.

"OH SHIT!" Todd yelped, jumping back. "WHAT THE FUCK, BRO!? I told you to talk to her, not club her like a fucking seal!"

"I didn't! I was talking to her, and then she flipped out, and then she... died?"

"OH FUCK, IS SHE DEAD!?" Todd roared.

"I DON'T KNOW! I don't know! I don't know, I just... SEE THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN I TALK TO GIRLS!"

Todd let out a small burst of hysterical laughter. "Oh shit, Bro, you're a real lady killer."

"NOT FUNNY!"

"Okay. Okay, just chill, just... Just chill," Todd took a deep breath, ran his hands through his crop of hair, "Okay. First aid right? Do we check her pulse, or... CPR? Mouth to mouth?" He offered vaguely.

"I wouldn't recommend that." Came a dry voice from behind them.

Both of them jumped. Todd let out what could only accurately be described as a squeal.

Whirling, Ethan came face to face with the most bizarre looking woman he'd ever seen in his life.

She wasn't quite young, but she wasn't quite old either. Something about her eyes suggested a certain august maturity, but her face had a glossy, flawless quality to it, not unlike the Princess. Her hair was a faint lavender, pulled into a rather intricate bun at the crown of her head. In truth, everything about her was lavender, from her severe, sensible pumps to her glittering, wire rim spectacles. She even seemed to emanate a nearly imperceptible lavender aura. Her clothes smacked of the same sickly hue. Ethan was just a bit at a loss for how to describe them though.

It looked like a pantsuit, tailored by someone given only the barest description of what that entailed, and with a fanciful imagination. Flairs and curlicues and embroideries plagued the thing. Ethan absently made out that her buttons were in fact twee little violet butterflies.

And then of course, there were the wings. Gossamer, gaudy affairs, in the same precise shade of Lavender. They reached above her head, and came to an almost menacing hooked peak. They swallow-tailed beneath her, trailing just above the ground.

Ethan absorbed all of this in just a few stunned seconds. Sheer panic made him a studious observer. As the shock wore off, he felt Todd, gripping his arm so hard he was losing sensation.

"Whathafuckisthat?" Todd squeaked.

The woman... person... thing, straightened her glasses and scowled.

"My name is Louise. I'm your Godperson attendant for this juncture," She answered. Her voice was somewhere in a bland, middle range, sterile and professional, the type of voice one chose for answering machine menus.

"Our what?" Ethan breathed.

"Here, take my card." She twiddled her fingers and in a blink of an eye a small card appeared in her hand, lavender of course. As Ethan took it, he noted absently that it gave off a strange, nauseatingly sweet smell.

"Wherethafuckyoucomefrom?" Todd cut in again.

"I teleported. Standard procedure. Much more efficient than flying," She stated as if this were self-evident, "Now, before we continue chatting, I have to observe protocol," She cleared her throat, staring Ethan square in the face. Her eyes were god damn lavender colored, "We have received notice that on these premises, a Princess has succumbed to a Curse, and as such as initiated her Trial Phase."

She had a remarkable ability for pronouncing capital letters. Everything was said with an inflection of slight annoyance.

"Uh, Miss Godperson... Louise. Ma'am. May I ask a few questions?" Ethan ventured, struggling to tread water.

"By all means."

"Okay. So. Princess?"

"Her." Louise replied flatly, pointing to the girl sprawled on the floor.

"Okay... Curse?"

"The Spinning Wheel's Spindle. A rather old fashioned method. Usually avoided nowadays, the whole Coma business can put Princes off rather a bit, but it was deemed... Necessary in her case. Nonetheless, it was rather hard to trigger. I have to say I'm grateful for your assistance in that matter."

"Assist? I didn't push her into the thing!" Ethan exclaimed.

"Of course not. It would have drawn her in the moment she saw it. All the same, I'm glad you have one lying around. They're hard to come by."

"I... Yeah, sure... Anyhow. Uh... Trial Phase?"

"Ah, now here is where we really talk business. Are you the owner of these premises?" She demanded, fixing Ethan with a piercing gaze.

For a moment, Ethan almost said no. Some part of him still knew it as his parents' house. Their shop. Their home. But no, it was only his now.

"Yes. Yes I'm the owner," He nodded.

"Well then, as such, you are required, by code, to permit the use of these premises for use in the Princess' trials, and house her person until such a time as the trials are complete and a suitable Prince has awoken her."

"Waitwaitwait," Todd chimed in, "Trials? Like... Those crazy fuckin' things we see on TV? Riding up glass hills, and slaying dragons and shit?"

Louise looked at Todd as one might regard a diseased dog. "Yes, sir. Those sorts of trials. It's customary, once a Princess enters her Trial Phase, for Princes to compete for her hand. The onus of hosting these trials always falls on the owner of the-"

"Premises the Princess conks out on," Ethan surmised.

"In the cases of Magically Induced Comas, yes," Louise agreed.

"So you're going to roost a dragon in my SHOP!?" Ethan roared.

"There's no need to become excitable," Louise huffed, "Any and all damages you suffer will be compensated for. Honestly, most people are delighted to host Trials. It can be quite lucrative, you know."

"Lucrative?" Todd mumbled.

"Indeed. If you so choose, many Media outlets are happy to televise the proceedings, and pay a handsome fee for the privilege."

"No," Ethan replied firmly.

"Are you sure? It's quite routine nowadays," Louise replied airily.

"No. No media, no money, no... No trials! I don't want this! Take the girl but leave me alone!" He cried.

A look of frosty severity crossed Louise's face, momentarily contorting it into something that appeared not entirely human. Both he and Todd backed up a step. "You Don't Have A Choice Mr. Green," She intoned, every capital crisp.

"But... But this is my shop! It's my family's shop, it's been ours for generations!" Ethan protested.

"From the minute that girl fainted on your floor, for all intents and purposes, this shop became property of Fate, Mr. Green," Louise insisted.

"You can't..."

"I can. I will. You have very little choice in the matter. What choice you do have, I suggest you exercise wisely." She put firmly. Ethan felt the argument close like a pair of iron doors. "Now, as I said, you can still make a fine profit from this venture-"

"No, I still stand by what I said. No cameras." Ethan pressed. She was right. If this was the only choice he had, he was going to make the proper one. The Greens did not indulge in spectacle. The Greens didn't caper for money. The Greens did not seek fame. These were truths Ethan understood as firmly as his own name.

"Suit yourself," Louise dismissed, "It's not required. All that is required is that you don't impede the process. Do what you like with the Princess' body. Whatever is most convenient. I warn you though, lest you get visions of glory, that kissing her would be ill advised. Or any other kind of... miscreancy with her body, but kissing will have the most adverse effects."

"I... What!? No! God no! I'm not kissing a girl in a coma!" Ethan exclaimed.

"Fuckin' right! That's creepy as balls!" Todd nodded.

"Good. See to it you maintain that attitude and I think we'll have a very amicable partnership." Louise declared cordially.

Ethan was less than reassured. He looked around his shop and fervently began to wish he really had told the Princess to get the hell out, customer service be damned.

"Oh cheer up," Louise pronounced. She sported something that it took several seconds for Ethan to realize was supposed to be a smile. "You're about to be aiding in the pursuit of True Love."

She pronounced the last two words in such a fashion that Ethan almost saw the letters TM floating after them.

"I... Okay?"

"Don't worry, dear," The endearment came off more than a little scripted, "I'll take care of the particulars. All you have to do is sit back and stay out of the way. Who knows, you may even find it entertaining."

"I... But... Okay?"

"Good lad. Now then. I have a lot of business to attend to. We must get cracking as soon as possible, very eager to wrap this case up. That being said, how does tomorrow night, around nine o'clock fetch you?"

"For what?" Ethan asked numbly.

"Well the trial of course!" Louise exclaimed, "Honestly, do keep up."

"Uh, well, it is after close," Ethan reasoned lamely.

"Lovely. Works for both of us. Good to see you're becoming more agreeable." Louise flashed another dubious smile.

"I... Yeah, no problem," Ethan replied dazedly.

"Well, if that's all that sorted, I'll be on my way. You can expect the Dragon sometime around Eight, I expect."

"The... wait, what, seriously!?" Ethan exclaimed.

"Good day!" Louise replied brightly. There was a slight flash, a small sound like rushing air, and then she was gone.

He and Todd stood stock still for what must have been minutes. When Todd finally released his grip on Ethan's arm, he left sweaty fingerprints on his shirt.

"Dragon," Ethan muttered absently, "She said Dragon."

"And you said this shit doesn't happen here!" Todd replied with a faint laugh.

"Why Dragons? Why here? Why... Why me?" Ethan whispered. He looked to Todd frantically. "Did I like, murder someone and forget about it? Kick some kittens? How did my luck get this bad!?"

"Well, you did get this chick zonked," Todd chuckled, prodding the girl with his foot.

"Don't kick her! God, what do we do with her? We can't just leave her here," Ethan moaned. Looking at her, sprawled on the hard floor, he already felt a bit guilty he'd ignored her as long as he had.

"We could prop her up in the corner, tape her eyes open, scare the shit out of shoplifters."

"Todd!"

"Alright, dude, just kidding."

"It'll have to be the couch I guess," Ethan sighed, "Come on, help me move her."

Awkwardly, Ethan bent and slipped his hands under her arms, and Todd obligingly gathered up her legs. Lifting her, Ethan found she was actually rather light. He guessed that Todd could have lifted her on his own, but it would have hurt his pride to admit he himself likely couldn't. Together, they shuffled her into the living room.

"She's not really breathing, Eh?" Todd ventured quietly.

Ethan had noticed the same thing. She looked still as death, but her skin was warm, her face rosy. "Yeah... It's creepy," He grunted as he struggled.

"Fuckin' creepy," Todd echoed.

Gesturing with his head, Ethan guided Todd over to the low, green couch set flush against the stairwell. "I don't know if her heart's beating either," He said as they laid her down.

Todd looked down at her, shook his head. "Nope. Nope I don't think it is."

Ethan shuddered. "So creepy."

Todd nodded, then considered a moment more. "Hey so... Hopefully that means she doesn't have to pee, right?"

"Oh jeez. Oh wow that's gross but, yeah."

"Or eat. Or drink or anything..."

"God, where is that stupid Fairy Godperson when you need her?" Ethan hissed.

"More like Fairy Godbitch. What a cu-"

"Todd!"

"Country fried fool, as my grandma used to say," Todd recovered.

Ethan shot him a smirk, but looking down at the stranger on his couch, he began to get the sensation that he was sliding down a very steep ravine. In actuality, it was a feeling he'd had for a very long time now, but the pace of his descent had gotten markedly faster.

"Bro? You okay?" Todd ventured quietly.

Ethan looked up, aware he'd been staring into space. "Yeah… I mean, well no, but yeah."

"I hear you. Weird fuckin' day, right?"

"Yeah, no kidding," Ethan laughed softly.

They fell into silence again for a minute. Todd seemed to become aware of his surroundings all of a sudden.

"Hey. I just realized. I haven't been back here in like, years. Man, nothing's changed," He remarked.

"Yeah," Ethan replied vaguely. He knew Todd hadn't. No one had, except for a few well-wishing aunts, uncles, cousins, but even they'd stopped visiting months ago. The Princess was the first person to make use of the couch in ages. It always felt too big to sit on alone.

"So what now man?" Todd asked hesitantly.

Ethan shrugged. "I guess... We just close up. Go to bed, right?"

"That's it? You sure I can't do anything else?"

"No. Wait, yeah," Ethan considered, "Can you... Can you get rid of that stupid spinning wheel for me? Just wrap it in a tarp and stick it in storage or something?"

Todd gaped openly, "Wait, for real?"

Ethan nodded wearily, "Uh, yeah. If it's not too much trouble."

"Hell no! I'd cart that fucking thing to an active volcano if you asked me, bro! But, I mean, I thought you wanted to keep it around. Because of... You know..."

Ethan knew. Some part of it felt like a betrayal, even thinking about discarding it. It was a piece of his memories, something his mother had been fond of… But he HATED it. The thing had stretched his tolerance just by hulking in the corner, but now it seemed it was actively trying to spite him. No more. It had to go.

"Yeah, Todd. I knew I said we should keep it around but... Well that's before I knew the thing was a friggin' Princess trap.," He laughed.

Todd chuckled in return. "It was like a freaking predator man! Waitin' for nubile young Princesses to wander into its clutches. It was probably practicing on you all these years."

"I don't look like a Princess," Ethan pouted.

"Sure, whatever you say, bro." Todd laughed. Turning, he strode on his heel, whistling cheerfully.

Chapter 3

The store closed and the spinning wheel properly squared away, Todd left, and Ethan found himself alone in his silent house.

Well not quite alone.

Standing in the living room, he caught himself staring at the Princess again. It was embarrassing, but in truth it was hard not to. Not because of her extraordinary beauty, though that was a factor, but because Ethan couldn't shake the eerie, unnatural sensation she engendered in him. His eyes fixed on her hair. It seemed... Longer somehow. He could have sworn it was just an inch when she'd walked in, but now it seemed long enough to brush her earlobes. That was impossible right?

Confounded, he let it go. He'd already been through at least four or five things he thought impossible today. What was a few extra inches of hair compared to a half-dead girl on your couch?

Wearily, he fixed himself a haphazard supper before wandering off to his bed. Slowly, he went through his morning ritual in reverse, struggling with the knot on his apron, shuffling off his shoes, combing his hair, culminating with a brief, despondent look in the mirror. Finally, he threw himself down on his bed.

Ethan's nerves were frazzled, his mind racing, but the benefit of a long day of hard work was that it was nearly impossible to suffer insomnia. Ethan had never once in his life had trouble falling asleep, and tonight was no exception.

It began the same way.

He glided into the living room, drenched with light, radiant, warm.

He headed for the doorway, eager, hopeful.

He heard their voices. Thunder and birdsong. So close and so familiar it made his heart bleed.

He reached out a hand for the doorknob and...

Suddenly, discordantly, the door flew open. A small figure pushed its way through it, walking so briskly they bumped into Ethan's chest, giving a small squeak of surprise. Baffled, Ethan looked down.

It was her.

The Princess, in all her uncanny glory. She stared up at him with her vivid blue eyes, her honey hair cropped short over her brow. Ethan stared, open mouthed at her for a long minute, his bleary mind scrabbling to understand.

"Y-you!?" He exclaimed at length.

The girl scowled up at him. Roughly, she pushed him backwards a few steps, shutting the door behind her. "Hey, douche," She replied scathingly.

Ethan tried once or twice to speak, but words wouldn't come. He grasped at his hair, frustration, panic, confusion all battling in his chest.

"What are you doing here!?" He cried, when his voice finally decided to show up.

She shrugged, avoiding his eyes. "I got bored I guess. Saw this was open. Decided to snoop."

"But... What!? How are you here, you... you're unconscious on my couch!"

The girl rolled her eyes. "Yeah. Which is why I'm stranded in fucking dreamland, isn't it?"

"D-Dreamland?"

"Limbo, purgatory, the veil, whatever you want to call it. I got bored cruising around in the dark, figured I'd come crash this dream. I didn't know it was yours," She said with a note of disgust.

"A... a dream," Ethan murmured dazedly.

Suddenly, he heard it again, the bass rumble of his father's laugh. It drew him like a magnet. Instinctively, he tried to shift around the girl, but she noticed his maneuver and leaned against the door, arms crossed.

"Move," Ethan demanded.

"Yeah, I'm not done talking to you," The girl snorted.

Ethan began to feel frantic. "You need to move."

"Why?"

"Because I need to be out there! Move!"

"You don't need to be anywhere, it's a dream," She dismissed with another roll of her eyes.

"Move!"

"So have you tried to kiss me yet?" The girl replied, her voice casual, but her glance cutting.

Ethan paused, becoming aware that his breathing was galloping away from him. "W-What?"

"Well, you were hitting on me before. I figured you probably tried to get lucky right?"

Ethan could feel himself flush scarlet, though from indignation or humiliation he didn't know. "I was NOT hitting on you, I was... offering assistance. And no, I don't kiss girls in comas, but y'know, thanks for assuming!"

"Oh, seriously! You expect me to believe you didn't try to cop a feel!" The girl shot back. There was a ragged edge to her voice, something verging on tears, but Ethan barely noticed through his rage.

"No! Jesus, no!" He shouted, throwing up his hands.

"I know how it is! You get a pretty Princess in your shop, she passes out, is totally at your mercy. Figured I was public property anyhow!? Thought it was your lucky day!?"

Even high and screaming her voice was aggravatingly lovely. Her flushed face and teary eyes were still picturesquely perfect. It only threw fuel on Ethan's anger.

"LUCKY!?" He roared. A few tight, hysterical laughs bubbled out of his chest. "LUCKY!? You think it's LUCKY when a stranger passes out in your store!? You think it's LUCKY when some psychopathic fairy-lawyer from hell tells you she can do whatever she likes with your home!? You think it's LUCKY when... when everything you love could be burned to the ground tomorrow!? Is THAT your idea of LUCKY!?" Ethan buried his face in his hands, and took a few, sharp breaths before continuing. "I didn't ask for this! I didn't ask for you, or your curse, or any of this... So just... God, will you please just leave me alone and get out of the way?"

He looked at her face for the first time since he'd begun his tirade. She stared back, wide eyed, lips pursed. Her bitterness was gone, but she still remained frozen in place.

"Why do you want to get back there so bad?" She asked in a small, blank voice. "It's just your storefront. It's barely even different from when I saw it."

Ethan's patience had dissolved. Roughly, he pushed her arm aside, grasped for the doorknob.

"I need to see them," He answered flatly.

"See who?" She still stood stubbornly in the way. Ethan turned the knob, tried to prop it open.

"My parents," Ethan continued, an edge of desperation entering his voice.

"But it's just a dream-"

"I need to see them before they disappear!" Ethan cried, wrenching at the door.

He heard the girl give a small gasp, and suddenly she sprang away from the door. Ethan flung it open, heart beating wild with anticipation, but...

There was nothing.

The doorway opened into darkness. A complete and unending void.

"I... What... What happened?" Ethan whispered.

He reached out a tentative hand, pawed at the abyss beyond. He felt only dry, empty cold meeting his touch.

"They... They're gone. It's gone. Everything's gone," He intoned.

"It's just a dream," Came the girl's voice, meek, soft.

"They're gone," Ethan repeated, choking over the last syllable.

Ethan slowly backed away from the door, shut it. The endless blackness was more than he could bear. He felt tears gathering in the corners of his eyes, and shakily raised his hand to cover them. He stood in silence for what must have been a very long time, grappling with the void that swelled inside him, the echo to that dark and empty doorway.

"They aren't gone forever," The girl chimed in.

Ethan took a quick, gulping breath. "Yeah. Yeah they are," He replied thickly.

The girl didn't reply, but her silence was answer enough.

There was another long pause, as Ethan tried to collect himself, tried to just breathe. Eventually though, he couldn't ignore the feel of the girl's eyes on him. Wearily, he straightened up, turned to face her.

"What do you-"

"I'm sorry!" She blurted.

Ethan blinked.

"What?"

"I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry!" She cried. Perfect, crystalline tears began to roll down her cheeks, and Ethan dimly considered that it was almost unfair how prettily flushed her face was, compared to his doubtlessly blotchy, red eyed one. "I'm sorry about your house and your shop, and your parents... I'm sorry I was such a fucking bitch back there... I just... Oh god, I'm really, really sorry about everything!" She sobbed.

Ethan found himself in the odd position of immediately feeling guilty. Instantly all his rage and pain were forgotten as he scrambled for a way to make things right.

"Hey, no, it's okay. It's alright. I, uh... I don't mind." He stammered.

She gave a small, tinkling laugh, between gasping breaths. "You don't mind? I've fucked up your life!" She exclaimed.

"No, I mean... Kind of. But it's not your fault, and I mean... I'm sorry?"

She gave another, louder laugh. "You're sorry? Wow, Jesus, why on earth are you sorry?"

Ethan paused, trying to puzzle out an answer, brow furrowed.

"Uh, I'm sorry... that you're sorry?" He ventured.

The girl laughed again, and suddenly, like sun peeking out from behind clouds, something new, something genuine slipped out. Her laugh started musically, but a surprising, brash note snuck in, and then a small snort. It was jarring, but oddly refreshing. Ethan found himself smiling without exactly knowing why.

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to laugh at you." She began, misinterpreting Ethan's curious stare, "It's just... You really don't like crying people, do you?"

Ethan returned with a laugh of his own. "No, they kind of freak me out."

The girl smiled, and sniffling, began to swipe away her tears. "Sorry. I just... I really am sorry. About everything."

"Noted," Ethan replied with a smile.

She sighed, and the two of them regarded each other for a suddenly painfully awkward minute. Ethan cast about for what one said to a half-dead dream Princess. A question leapt into his head and he couldn't stop himself from asking it.

"Do you eat?" He blurted.

"What?" The girl looked up at him, smiling bemusedly.

"I mean, like... If you don't eat, in the real world, will you die? I should have asked the fairy god-lady or whatever but-"

"Oh. Oh no. I don't. I don't need water or anything. It's like... Magic stasis? I should be fine."

"Oh, okay, thank god. That... that would have been weird."

They both paused for a moment, no doubt musing over the undignified scenario of trying to feed a passed-out stranger. Ethan tried to push it out of his mind. He cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"Well anyhow, uh, your body is good - I mean it's okay! It's fine. It's uh, on my couch," He supplied.

"Oh, yeah, thanks. That's nice," The girl replied hurriedly, "One of... one of these?" She queried, pointing around the room.

"What? Oh! Yeah... uh, that one." Ethan answered, gesturing.

"Huh." The girl crossed over to the couch in question. Stiffly, she sat, bounced on it a few times. "Seems comfy enough. Thanks," She added with a smile.

"Yeah, no problem," Ethan smiled back nervously. Hesitant, but feeling gawky standing over her, he crossed to the couch and sat as well, taking care to seat himself on the far opposite side. "I mean. It's not exactly... uh... fit for a Princess or anything," He muttered.

The girl gave a loud snort of derision, another strange, fascinating slip of her veneer. "I would sleep on the lumpiest couches on earth if I could stop being a fucking Princess."

Ethan smiled at her nervously. "What, seriously?"

The girl nodded, her shoulders slumped. "Yeah, seriously."

"But I mean... I thought being a Princess was every girl's dream?"

The girl gave a small, bitter laugh. "Yeah, I guess. I mean, for some girls it must be. I've seen ones that seem happy enough. I mean, money, fame, a handsome husband... It sounds pretty great. Maybe I'm weird for thinking it's not, but... Jesus, it's not."

"What do you mean?"

"What do I mean!? I mean it's... It's... It's a trap, you know? It's a perversion, it's a violation, it's... It's a fucking nightmare."

"A violation?" Ethan gulped.

The girl nodded vigorously. "Yeah, you have no idea. I mean... Where do I start?" She looked down at her hands, folded in her lap, and seemed to be struck with inspiration. "Okay," She said, holding them up, "First of all. This isn't me."

"Oooo...kay?"

"This, all this," She pressed, circling her finger around her face, "This isn't what I look like. I was made to look like this."

"How do you mean... you used to look different?"

The girl nodded. "My mom tells me that when I was born, I looked like her. I had freckles, and a bigger mouth, and a different nose... But then the fucking godpeople came." She sighed.

"The fairy ones?"

"Yeah, those ones. So... Okay, you know how Princesses used to be a monarchy thing?" She enquired.

"Uh, yeah, vaguely," Ethan nodded.

"Well now it's just a random thing. Maybe because of the march of democracy or something, I don't know. All I do know, is that one day, a few months after you're born, fairy godparents just zap themselves into your fucking nursery and decide you're a Prince or a Princess. There's nothing your parents can do, nothing anybody can do, they just decide it, and that's that."

"So... just for giggles? Why do they pick who they pick?"

"I don't know. I think they have some reasoning behind it... I mean, they're like magical lawyers, you're right, they've got all these rules and regulations, they've got to have a reason, but... I don't know. Anyhow. So they decide you're a Princess and then you get blessed."

"Blessed?"

"Uh huh. You get some kind of special gift. Three of them usually. So Princes get stuff like Courage, or Strength, or Dashing, or something like that. With Princesses though, it's junk like Grace, or Poise, or Good Posture."

"That last one sounds annoying," Ethan observed.

"I know, right? At least I didn't get saddled with that one," She laughed, gesturing at her slumped frame, "And of course they're never anything useful. I could be happy with, like, Good at Math, or Tells Good Jokes or... I dunno... Remembers Birthdays Really Well."

"Talented Beekeeper," Ethan offered.

Another laugh, another slipped note. Ethan smiled.

"Yeah, why not? Anything like that. But no. Useless bullshit. And then with Princesses, one of the gifts is always Beauty." She sighed bitterly.

"Seems kinda... subjective," Ethan muttered.

"Yeah, well not to the Godparents, apparently. When a girl is gifted with Beauty, she doesn't just become a prettier version of herself, or just stays the same and everyone thinks she's beautiful... She actually physically changes. I changed. I used to look different. I used to look like my mom. Now... Now I don't know how I really look anymore. I just look like what the Godparents think is beautiful. Like... like the most baseline kind of beauty they could come up with."

"Wait... So your face-"

"Not my face. Not my original one at least."

"And your eyes?"

"Not blue. Mom thinks they might have been Hazel... I don't know." She shrugged defeatedly.

"Oh man, that's a relief!" Ethan blurted.

The girl looked at him, startled. "A relief?"

"Well, yeah, I mean..." Ethan stammered, "I just... There was something odd about you, and it was kinda freaking me out - Not that you're freaky, it's just... You looked... Uh, a little... off?"

She stared at Ethan, face unreadable. "You don't like the way I look?" She asked flatly.

"Yes! I mean no - well wait not no, but..." Ethan could almost hear the sound of a shovel pitching dirt out of his grave.

"It's okay, seriously, do you?"

Ethan gave a small, high laugh. "Uh... Well, I mean yeah, you look pretty... and everything... but it's kind of... Uh... boring? Oh wow, that came out wrong. Just not... Interesting. Wow, still wrong!"

"No no, it's okay!" She replied. Ethan was flabbergasted to find her smiling.

"I-I like your hair though. The cut I mean," He offered.

"Oh," Her smile grew, "Thanks. I cut it myself. Every day."

"Wait, what?"

"Yeah. Turns out when they make you beautiful, they want you to stay beautiful, according to their standards. So, wounds don't scar, piercings fuse up, tattoo ink beads up and falls off. And your hair just grows and grows and fucking grows."

"Holy cow, that's weird," Ethan breathed.

"Right!?" She exclaimed. "I once tried to put on purple lipstick and it melted in the tube! Doesn't do that with pink or light red. Such bullshit."

"So, you cut your hair and wear uh, Un-Princessey clothes because..."

"Because it's the only way I can be myself," She murmured quietly.

Ethan was silent for a moment. He looked at the beautiful face that wasn't hers and saw a sorrow beneath it that she seemed to own all too much.

"Jeez, that sounds... Bogus," He offered lamely.

She laughed. "Understatement of the year, but yeah. But I mean, that's not really the worst of it. Not by a longshot."

"Oh?" Ethan ventured.

"It's not enough to take your identity, they fucking own your life. From the moment you're Princessified, you belong to them. You don't get to choose where you live, where you go to school, what you want to do with your life. No, you're as good as a slave from that point on."

"Seriously?"

The girl nodded. "On your fourteenth birthday, right? The godparents show up, and give you a Curse. Something to begin your trials. Maybe you bite a bad apple, maybe you run into a vindictive goblin, maybe you drop candle wax on a bear..."

"What?"

"Don't ask. Anyhow, they give you this curse to hang over your head for the rest of your life. Once it gets activated, you're locked in. The contest for your hand starts, and congratulations, you've lost any control you had over your life. You're just fucking Prince bait from then on."

"Okay, wait, but... Why? I've been thinking this since you passed out on my floor... Why? Why bother, why all the trouble and magic and rules? Why marry off Princesses? What's the point?"

"I don't know. It seems insane, right? All this pageantry. They practically devote themselves to forcing this weird routine... Again, I mean... there's gotta be a reason. If you ask them they'll tell you it's all about True Love."

"Trademark," Ethan added absently.

"Oh my god, you got that too!?" The girl exclaimed. "It's like they own the patent on Tru Wuv or something. So fucking annoying. It's always True Love this, and True Love that. Which is bullshit. I mean, my parents met when they were in college. They both liked bad horror movies and jazz music. They traveled the world together on like, five bucks and a prayer. Dad proposed with a twist tie ring. That... That seems like True Love to me. I don't get any of that. I can't even date!"

"At all?" Ethan asked, very conscious of trying to sound casual.

"Nope. Do you know what happens if you try to kiss a Princess if you aren't a Prince?"

"No. I get the feeling it's ominous though."

"You get turned into a frog. No fucking kidding. An actual frog. One of my childhood friends found that out the hard way, got an inch away from my lips and suddenly he's hopping. I cried for like, six days before the godparents showed up and changed him back." She'd begun to talk very fast, her face flushed. Ethan began to get the sensation that she'd forgotten she was even talking to anyone else. "If anyone tried to cop a feel, my clothes go all rigid. Like steel. No matter what I wear. They refuse to come off. For like, an hour. You know how hard that makes doctor's visits? Even though Princesses never really get sick... And even when I'm naked? Anyone who comes within eyeshot is left blind and paralyzed, and it doesn't wear off until I put clothes on!"

Ethan gulped, his face burning. "Uhhhh...."

"Because GOD FORBID anyone take my chastity! No! Gotta save that for our Princes! Gotta be pure, and demure, and fucking CHASTE. I'm twenty two years old dude, and I still haven't lost my...!"

She trailed off. Ethan heard her breath go out in a little dwindling squeak. He felt her eyes on the side of his head, but he stared devoutly at the floorboards.

They sat. They fidgeted. Ethan coughed twice.

Eventually, Ethan couldn't resist sneaking a look at her face. She looked embarrassed, yes. But also a little... Worn down. A little defeated. And more than a little scared.

"Hey," Ethan said quietly, breaking the silence, "I'm, uh... Sorry. About this. That all sounds really, really awful."

She looked up, a small smile tracing her face.

"I'm sorry about your hair," He continued, "And your life, and, uh, you know... your chastity." He finished with a slight break of his voice.

She burst into giggles, and Ethan was strangely delighted to hear her little snort crop up again. He found himself grinning.

"Thanks." She replied once she'd caught her breath. "And I'm sorry too. About all the stupid shit I said, and your shop, and all the trouble I've caused," She paused, looked towards the door, "And, um... Sorry about your parents."

Ethan's smile disappeared. "Why are you sorry about that? You didn't even know them."

"Yeah, but I mean... They're gone, right?" She asked quietly.

Ethan closed his eyes. Nodded.

"And that sucks, right?"

He nodded again.

"So... I'm sorry. And I'm really sorry I stopped you from seeing them," She added, her voice heavy with sincerity.

Ethan gave her a weak smile. "Don't worry about it. It's just a dream, right?"

Another moment's silence. This time broken by the girl.

"Hey. What's your name?"

Ethan looked up, smiled wryly. "Oh. I'm Ethan. Ethan Green."

The girl smirked, a strangely incongruent expression on a Princess's face.

"Green? You own a Grocer's and your name is-?"

"Yeah yeah, hilarious right? Trust me, you haven't said anything my friend hasn't already. Repeatedly," Ethan replied with a sigh.

"Sorry," She giggled, "Uh. Well, my name's Penny."

"Penny," Ethan repeated, trying it out, "Penny what?"

She blushed. "Uh, Pierce," She mumbled.

Ethan laughed. "So wait, you're-?"

"Princess Penny Pierce." She groaned.

"Oh wow." Ethan chuckled, "And you thought my name was funny?"

"Would you believe I knew a girl whose last name was Prince? The godpeople referred to her as Princess Prince. Confused the hell out of everyone."

Both she and Ethan began to laugh, and kept laughing for longer than was truly warranted for such a small comment. They'd start to calm down, and then glance at each other and be set off all over again. On some level, Ethan understood that this was because they'd both reached a point in their stress and strangeness where they could either laugh, or cry. Laughter just seemed like the more enjoyable option.

As Ethan's giggles subsided, he looked at Penny, and suddenly saw in her... a person.

He'd seen a Pretty Girl at first, and then a Princess, and then a Pain in the Ass, but now, she was just a Person, and like that, all his awkwardness dissolved.

"Well," He smiled, extending a hand, "It's nice to meet you, Penny Pierce," He said, purposely omitting the Princess part.

She grinned back, and Ethan thought there was something fantastically crooked about it this time. "Yeah, nice to meet you too, Ethan Green," She replied sincerely.

She stretched out her hand to meet his. He felt her fingertips brush his palm.

And then everything was tangled blankets and screaming alarms.

#books #books and reading #fantasy #fiction #free books #writing

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sinisterexaggerator · 10 months ago

Text

Hard Feelings

Hancock x Fem! Sole Survivor / Reader Insert

(AO3)

Summary: You are the General of the Minutemen. Hancock is your companion when out on missions. It's all fun and games until there are hard feelings at play, the ghoul thinking that one day you just might leave him.

Warnings: NSFW / 18+ for PiV sex, public sex (sort of), MAKEUP sex, switching, praise kink, heavy petting and kissing, fingering, biting, angst, a small domestic dispute, and negative thoughts and feelings associated with oneself (Hancock). In this fic, Hancock displays golden retriever boyfriend energy, and he is more submissive. He also experiences low self-worth, and feelings of inadequacy, which leads to doubt. At some point, he has a panic attack.

Notes: Another fanfic that is completely self-indulgent. I was inspired when I took Hancock to the Starlight Drive-In for the Minutemen mission. We were briefly separated when I (sole) climbed onto the roof of the movie screen. Hancock ran around down below in a panic, thus this idea blossomed; I mention it in this post. I stole Teeth's nickname for Hancock: Hanni. ;D )

Word count: 4.7k+

A gentle peal of thunder rocked the night, just hours from daybreak, the eerie green glow of your pre-war Pip-boy casting its luminescence across the present object of your interest: a sullied movie poster. It was curling at its edges, the faded face of a starlet frozen in time with her mouth agape having snatched your attention, for better or worse, as this potential settlement had yet to be explored—there was no telling what lurked out there among the shadows.

Rita Jean Scarlett was staring into the eyes of not man, but insect, The Barfly calling out to you from a bygone era. It was an Old World tale of weird science gone wrong, filled with hubris and lessons learned all too late. Not too far off from the reality of things, you mused, though meant as fiction, actor Chip Weathers having adorned the costume of the “ghastly” monster for his starring role.

The creature had bulbous eyes and sticky clawed feet, yet wore a suit and hat. Once considered the stuff of nightmares, now things like this seemed to you like child’s play. You regularly joined in the company of ghouls; robots; synthetic humans, and even super mutants. You faced adversaries on the daily that would make prey animals of yesteryear look like teddy bears—an unnerving thought, but it caused you to smile regardless.

“What are you grinnin’ about?” a curious voice asked, the creak of worn red leather signaling his closeness; two thin arms encircled you, pitted hands smoothing over skintight, extruded rubber, shiny as the ghoul’s black eyes.

“Just about how things that used to be science fiction are now science fact,” you offered vaguely, casting a glance downward to the sight of yourself being molested, Hancock groping your tit—like any typical man—before it maneuvered lower, gliding over your belly to dip between your thighs.

“Hancock!” you breathed, your pulse quickening, loins already beginning to throb as blemished fingers stroked the line of your vault suit, teasing you at its seam.

“Hmm?” he hummed, ignoring the tone in which he had been addressed. He asked another question, even as he continued to fondle you sans mercy.

“Things like me?”

Hancock was unhurried, enjoying the sleek texture of the glossy fabric against the underside of his thumb. He was positive he was making you wet, wondering how long you might last before you were begging him to fuck you, just like a few hours previous.

However, his query caught you off guard, your mind preoccupied as your palm came to rest over John’s explorative hand, holding it firm, the ghoul taking liberty with your breasts again, cupping one’s shape to give it a squeeze.

“Things that shouldn’t exist? Like that monster up there who thinks he’s human,” he growled silkily, finely wrinkled digits pinching your pebbled nipple through that damnable suit that left nothing to the imagination, John’s prick hardening against the back of your leg.

“You might say that,” you replied without thinking, thoughts clouded with pleasure that would all too suddenly end, so careless was your answer that the ghoul recoiled.

“Really,” John flatly returned, as if for some reason not at all surprised, his warm, gentle touch leaving you longing, confused as to why he was beginning to walk away.

You turned from the ticket booth, staring after your lover as he kicked a loose rock across asphalt; it bounced, ricocheting off an overturned cigarette machine. Hancock pretended to be engrossed in the diner just up ahead, a part of the Starlight Drive-In theater, you both having been warned about raiders before traveling here.

“Hancock.” You followed closely behind; he did not pay you any mind, as if he had not heard you, acting about as mature as a spoiled child who was giving you the dreaded silent treatment.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you claimed, though it was the truth. To be asked that question to begin with seemed like he was fishing for flattery, but who were you to deny the charismatic Mayor of Goodneighbor a harmless stroke to his ego, especially when he meant so much to you.

“Is that where the “might” part comes in?” he snapped, his tone irritated; it was becoming obvious that he had not expected you to agree with him on such matters, the conversation quickly devolving.

“Is this our first fight? Are we fighting?” you asked, Hancock’s beady eyes narrowing beneath his hairless brow at the flippant way you were brushing off his feelings, or so he thought.

“Look, if you don’t want to travel with a ghoul, why didn’t you just say so— got better things I could be doing,” he groused, namely chems with his name on them.

“Is that so? Well, far be it from me to stop you from doing those better things,” you returned, not understanding why he couldn’t just forgive you for something said in passing.

“Always a smart ass,” he complained, as if Hancock himself wasn’t guilty of using his fair share of sarcasm.

Had you not been so heated, you may have remembered just how self-conscious the sociable, charming mayor actually was. His confidence was partially a façade, though he wasn’t one to normally bring down a mood with his own insecurities. Being the introspective sort meant that Hancock wasn’t afraid to get to the heart of things, even at the cost of his own self-esteem.

John had even allowed you in, being vulnerable by sharing details of his sorrowful past; it was no secret the ending had been bittersweet, if not unhappy. His own appearance had sickened him; he found it hard to believe a gal like you wanted anything to do with him, much less desire to share a bed together, especially since he wasn’t exactly a looker by human standards.

Perhaps you had failed to give him reassurance when it was needed, though temporarily blinded by your temper. Instead of trying to clear things up, you made it worse.

“You’d be one to know,” you baited.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Hancock shot back, droplets of rain beginning to descend toward the ground.

“You know what? Go over there, check that place out.” You gruffly dismissed him, pointing toward the diner. “I think we both need some time to cool off,” you added, voice sounding less than amicable toward the man whose forehead lurched, as if he had been punched in the gut.

“Yeah? Fine.” John’s feelings were hurt more by this simple demand than anything you had said thus far, Hancock behaving like a scolded puppy whose owner had treated it unfairly.

You shook your head as you watched him march away, Hancock’s red frock coat glistening thanks to a now steady sprinkle. You sighed, turning toward a slew of rusting, run-down autos, spying a shed somewhere in the distance—you hoped it had a crafting station, as your orders from Preston Garvey were clear.

---

No raiders were present, only mole rats and radroaches. Hancock had kept his distance at your request, though you weren’t so oblivious that you failed to notice the way he routinely hovered only a stone’s throw away. The ghoul was caught basking in your shadow more than once, stealing glimpses, a frown pulling down the edges of his thin-lipped mouth. Yet he would move along the moment you laid your eyes on him, as if embarrassed, not wishing to be the victim of your ire.

Overall, he seemed to be taking things about as well as you had hoped, though he had technically been the one to start it. You weren’t a mind reader, either, refusing to try and decipher his body language despite the moping, waiting for a time you felt more at ease.

Although, it undeniably tugged at your heartstrings—knowing he was suffering in some capacity—but you kept a clear head, focusing on the task at hand—building a radio relay tower from spare parts in order to reach out to others, reclaiming the theater in the name of the Minutemen with the sole purpose of making the Commonwealth a better place, one settlement at a time.

It was when another accursed mole rat burst forth from its earthy den that you yelped in surprise, drawing your double-action revolver almost a moment too late. With teeth nipping at your toes, you shot the beast, Hancock having dashed to your aid.

You glanced back at him, rattled; he seemed satisfied knowing you weren’t hurt, though his gaze lingered, as if there was something on the tip of his tongue.

After a moment, he asked, “Can we talk?”

“Not right now.” You shook yourself off, taking a deep breath to assist in the slowing of your pulse. You returned to your workstation, deciding it wasn’t appropriate to address any more personal issues at this juncture—you both had a job to do.

“Sure, got it,” Hancock said grouchily, the ghoul wandering off to continue sifting through various piles of refuse for any usable materials to add to your haul, though inside it felt as if gnarled fingers were cinching tightly around his heart. Anxiety was welling within him, as not being on good terms with you did not sit right; beneath the surface, he was a troubled bundle of nerves, though he did not want to rush you by any means.

If only you knew about the disturbing thoughts that were crawling up John’s brainpan, slithering through the cracks to possess his mental faculties, feeding them fear; unsurety, outwardly expressed by way of a sour attitude. So involved was he with the many voices collecting in his head, that he failed to notice when you had finished installing the relay tower, your instincts guiding you to the Starlight Drive-in’s once magnificent three-story screen.

You took the stairs, moving past a shoddy door to climb to the top. The sun was newly risen, a fine mist hanging over the expansive parking lot, rays of light from your planet’s star casting a beautiful glow along remnants of grass, present in patches, though the area was plagued by the contamination of rads—another item on your to-do list.

You were enjoying the view when you observed Hancock poking around the last place he’d seen you, determining you were in a better mood and willing to talk. You had planned to call out to him when you saw him run the other way, circling the diner, and then the first place you had gathered—the ticket booth where you had exchanged unpleasantries.

Confused, you continued your study of his erratic behavior, wondering if there was some unknown enemy skulking about, yet Hancock had no weapon drawn, his gait all at once frantic and without rhyme or reason, the ghoul seeming to have no particular destination in mind.

“Hancock?” you asked yourself quietly, baffled at how John was going insofar as to peek inside doorless cars, or even under them, kicking into a full-fledge run as he made his way toward your perch. He wasn’t paying heed to anything that wasn’t at ground-level, failing to notice you up high above.

“Han—” you were enthralled, the ghoul almost as fast as a feral, which was a less than comforting thought, watching as John ran a lap around the base of the screen.

You followed, pushing off the railing to walk the few short steps to the opposite side, catching him turn the corner as he looped back around. It wasn’t until you heard his panicked breathing and the terrified whisper of your name that you completely understood, gut clenching as Hancock came to a disconcerting stop.

The poor thing looked to be having a meltdown, head darting to the left and right, though the only thing visible to you was the top of his tricorn hat. He began to pace, first one direction, and then another, not keeping to east or west, but zigzagging as if he couldn’t decide where to go, or what to do.

He called your name again, this time louder, sounding more distressed. You could not tear your eyes away as Hancock fell to his knees, fingers digging into soft dirt as the ghoul appeared to be in the throes of a panic attack.

Was he—

Spurred to action, you turned toward the way you came in, quick to rush down the stairs as swiftly as your legs could carry you. You sprinted around the bend of the building, nearly bumping into an abandoned cooking station off to your right, skirting it in the nick of time; you passed behind the structure, witness to a heartbreaking sight.

“Hey,” you whispered, Hancock having pushed himself back against the wall, knees to chest. The ghoul was tightly hugging his own legs, his marred face buried in the folds of his coat.

You weren’t sure what was happening, or why, only that he seemed deeply upset he could not find you, not expecting your brief absence would have such a negative effect. The ghoul was mumbling words you could not discern as you tiptoed forward, bending down to his level to address his huddled form.

“Hanni?” you asked gently, calling him by a pet name you had given him so long ago, John’s head shooting up, onyx eyes glistening, though you dare not think he had shed tears on your behalf.

Hancock gazed at you, his expression a mix of sadness, incredulity, and stark relief. You placed a hand on his shoulder, concern marking your features, John not budging from his half-fetal position.

“I thought—" he began, voice cracking, words quavering with an emotion you could not quite define, “—I thought you’d skipped out on me,” he offered pathetically, the amount of hurt present in his eyes enough to make you feel as if you deserved to die. So devastating was the look plastered across his handsome, ghoulish face that you wanted to cry, moving to cup his ruined cheek in the crux of your palm.

“Why would I do that?” you asked, tone soft but firm, staring at your reflection within gorgeous, dark depths, as if the answer lay hidden somewhere deep inside them.

“Because I don’t deserve you; because you can do better than me,” he answered without hesitation, “because who would want to be stuck with this ugly mug; wouldn’t wish it on my own worst enemy,” he finished flatly, Hancock’s dispirited disposition arising from being rejected—that’s not to say he blamed you.

“Didn’t wanna talk, ignoring me, couldn’t find you—just figured you were through,” he continued, tone solemn, making you feel awful.

You had deeply sinned to make this man react in such a manner—that was your first thought, Hancock’s gloomy mood permeating your defenses. All the walls you had in place came tumbling down, feeling nearly sick to your stomach as you scooched forward, prompting Hancock to drop his knees, legs finding even ground.

“No,” you berated, “none of that is true.” You shifted, straddling the ghoul, your other hand joining its partner to cradle his jaw opposite. “I won’t leave you,” you pledged, placing a kiss atop his furrowed mouth. “The thought never even crossed my mind.”

Hancock searched your face; he expelled a dejected sigh, breathing out through the hollow cavity that once housed his human nose. “You—you’re the best thing I’ve got. I don’t want to lose you, sunshine. I’d be dead in a ditch somewhere if it weren’t for you, hopped up on chems,” he admitted, hanging his head. “But don’t think I would blame you for hittin’ the road. I’d manage, somehow. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had to make do, so just say the word. Don’t feel obligated to stick around.”

“Is that what you think? That I would abandon you? That I would get sick of you? That I don’t want you here by my side? Hancock—” you emphasized, running your thumb over the curve of his ear, forcing him to look squarely at you with a gentle redirection, “—I mean it when I say I love you,” you lamented, kissing his raised flesh. “Please, don’t doubt me.”

John lifted his head with your help, the concave divot residing front and center brushing lightly across your cheek. He presented you with a kiss this time, his cock enlivening beneath you, unable to help his arousal at the admission of your heartfelt words.

“I won’t, not anymore,” he promised, another kiss administered, and then another, returning each touch of his lips with one of your own until they picked up in fervor, Hancock’s sly tongue subtly snaking its way between your teeth.

“That’s what I like to hear,” you cooed, warm, wet muscles intertwining in an orchestrated dance that rekindled the deep-seated ache of your loins.

“You listen so well,” you needled playfully; you had the ghoul’s number, knowing just what made him tick.

Hancock moaned a sound of gratitude, your impromptu praise causing his prick to flex, lean, wilted fingers creeping forward to place themselves deliberately along your thighs; they ran up the dips in your hips, and smoothed over the shape of your waist.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Hancock grated between avid swirls. His cock was riding up against your slinky blue vault suit—like liquid latex poured to conform to your body, it fit tight as a glove.

John held no complaints, only that you were still wearing it. Fortunately, you had ideas.

“Being such a good boy for me,” you teased, your own hands roving, exploring the contours of his slender chest and waist, sweeping back and forth; you hooked his partially corroded throat, carefully capturing Hancock between the crook of your palm, thumb trailing his Adam’s apple in a light caress.

“Not sure you know what that does to me,” he purred, the ghoul at your mercy as you gyrated your hips, your own sex succinctly aligned as you massaged his erection through faded black slacks.

“Are you so sure?” you asked, grinning into your kiss, one of Hancock’s hands sneaking along synthetic fibers for three fingers to stroke the underside of your jumper. He pushed up only slightly, cupping your mound; you felt it in your core, a subdued moan breathed straight into the ghoul’s mouth—Hancock was so turned on, it was a wonder he didn’t just nut right then and there.

“You teasin’ me, sunshine?” John panted, groping your breast, digits fingering stitchwork; you bit down on your bottom lip as you reached for the clasp at the front of your collar.

“Get this off me,” you instructed, fumbling with the pull of your zipper.

“Is that a request?” Hancock asked cheekily, though he did not expect an answer.

“An order,” you responded, feigning authority, Hancock doing as he was told, though there was a hint of a smile crawling up the side of his face.

“Yes, ma’am,” the ghoul chortled wryly, watching as you shed your suit like a second skin. You ushered it past the arc of your shoulders, the slopes of your breasts, to the base of your hips, leaving yourself half naked and assailable; John was unable to help his amorous stare.

“You’re so beautiful,” he declared, moving to knead doughy flesh, mouth finding your throat; Hancock sucked the sweat off your flawless skin, his other hand working its way underneath what was left of your vault suit, two fingers dipping into your already soaked cunt.

“Fuck,” he hissed, slipping in and out, thumb pushing itself between the folds of your labia to rub your throbbing bud.

“Yes, let’s,” you returned, swirling your hips, riding Hancock’s thick fingers as you clumsily moved to untie the flag wrapped about his narrow waist.

“Right here?” he asked, perplexed. Though not one to argue, being out in the open without cover was dangerous; he knew better than anyone the risks of the Wastes.

“I want you,” you answered, as if that in and of itself was all he needed to hear. You knew there might be consequences, but at that moment, your hormones were the ones in charge, a sharp gasp escaping as John’s fingers curled against the anterior wall of your sex.

“I’m all yours, love, forever,” Hancock vowed, following your example. He hastily unbuckled his pants after releasing your tit with reluctance, pushing apart the flaps to withdraw his glaring hard on; precum was already seeping out the slit at its head.

“Promise me,” you insisted, lifting up off your thighs—and Hancock’s fingers—to shimmy the rest of your suit down toward your knees. It might be a little awkward, but you were too desperate to care, taking up the ghoul’s girth in the breadth of your palm.

“Cross my heart and hope to—”

“Don’t you dare,” you protested, shoving your tongue back into John’s mouth, guiding his cock inside you. You sank down onto your haunches, inch by delicious inch, his variegated shaft filling you full up.

Then, the ghoul went rigid. “But sunshine, what about—”

“Shhh, that’s it,” you whispered, though Hancock hadn’t done anything to warrant a reprimand. It was your own descent that had you crooning, dipping forward to feel that delightful pressure snug against your walls.

“Not sure you wanna end up like—”

“—I took one a few hours ago, remember?” The darling man was more concerned with your well-being than even you; you could physically feel the tension leaving his body, John relieved to know you had things under control.

“You do love me,” you stated breezily, flicking the tip of your tongue inside the helix of the ghoul’s ear; Hancock shuddered, both his hands returning to your hips, touch featherlight, prompting you to press your palms against the partition behind him to prop yourself up on either side of his head.

“Wouldn’t mind you turnin’ Ghoul,” he replied throatily, thinkin’ spending an eternity with you sounded like the best damn thing a guy could ask for.

Hancock watched with bated breath as you rose up to enshroud him in your shadow, breasts level with his eyes. He groaned his appreciation, seizing your right nipple between puckered lips, John’s bony hips pushing up against the round of your ass. The ghoul sucked diligently, dull nails clawing gingerly into supple, human flesh, incapable of keeping a straight face.

“What was all that about not doubting each other?” John huskily reminded you, the point of his tongue flitting against your sensitive skin. He returned to suckling, as if a babe latched to nurse, the hand left idle finally slipping down your thigh. Hancock spread your lower lips apart with the underside of two fingers, a third taking its place atop your thrumming clit, engorged with blood.

“Shut up,” you urged, wanting him to belay speaking for fear the moment might spoil, Hancock grunting in indignation before he bit down lightly on your nip.

You gasped a broken breath, cunt rising to the head of his cock. You dropped back down; Hancock bottomed out, sequestered in the deepest part of you, snug as anything, the ghoul hypnotized by your pretty writhing.

“Why don’t you make me.” Hancock intensified the patient revolutions of blotched fingers, dragging you down by compressing your cheeks with his thumb and index; you slumped your shoulders just enough, angling to meet his current height, tossing your arms about John’s neck to humor him with another passionate kiss.

“Done.” You rocked forward, feeling Hancock’s sizeable member immured to its base. Indecent sounds kept each other company, the squish of your conjoined loins combining with the wet, obscene spirals of your whorling tongues. It wouldn’t take much longer to climax, your slick cunt tightening its grip on John’s rock-hard cock.

The ghoul’s chest heaved between ragged breaths, Hancock practicing his self-control. He didn’t want to cum until you did, sliding his palm up to carefully cradle the small protrusion distending your lower abdomen.

Feeling the outline of himself inside you was nearly too much to handle, a visible tremor preceding what was to be an early warning.

“I-I can’t hold back, angel.”

“Wait,” you countered, guiding the ghoul’s head toward your breasts, driving his noseless face into your cleavage; Hancock’s tricorn shifted backward as he followed your lead. He vested himself in the cocoon of your limbs, moaning his approval, grabbing onto a fistful of ass as your back arched in pleasure.

You opened your eyes to gaze at the sky—it was pale blue and cloudless, for once.

You came hard, the flat of John’s palm supporting your spine as you released your ecstasy to the heavens, the ghoul’s tepid seed discharging in spurts to paint your inner walls white; his ejaculate had been offered as payment for your lovely little song.

The ghoul felt overwhelmed and full of deep affection for you; Hancock’s teeth bore down on beautiful, unblemished skin; he broke capillaries, drawing your blood to the surface, leaving his mark in the form of a dark red welt.

You gasped at the bite, Hancock ensconcing you tightly in his arms, both of you allowing your orgasms to run their course. His grip was a comfortable vise, brittle nails burrowing into lithe flesh with almost paradoxical tenderness; John was always so careful with you.

From an outsider’s perspective, the embrace of a ghoul meant certain death, with the expectancy you would be rent into unrecognizable pieces. Such a pose as you presented now was questionable, one that evoked alarm from bystanders, settlers who had followed the beacon to their new home, expecting to find the general of the Minutemen, but not like this.

“Ghoul!” someone shouted; you heard the shuffling of leather, the clink of metal.

“No!” you yelled, protecting your lover with the entirety of your body, encapsulating his slight frame. You shielded his vitals with your bare back, hunkering down to speak to these newcomers over the peak of your shoulder.

“He’s not feral!” you growled, hating that you had to defend him, knowing how John must feel at this moment as he gazed up at you with surprised, wide eyes. You cared not that a horde of people had seen you naked; you only cared for Hancock, determined to preserve him and all his parts.

In reality, the ghoul was seconds from tears, knowing—without a doubt—that you had meant what you said. You were guarding his wretched life with your own without question, willing to die to keep him from harm, just as he gladly would have sacrificed himself to see you live another day.

A day, he thought, that might have been better off without him, but now he was glad to be alive (in some form or another), swallowing hard against the knot in his throat, eyes never once leaving your impassioned face.

“We’re together; we came here together, and we will leave here together, do I make myself clear?”

A person stepped forward, separating themselves from the crowd. “Yes, General,” they said, having fortunately, or rather unfortunately, recognized you.

With a sigh of relief, those gathered departed. John practically smothered you, so forceful was his hug that it nearly choked the air from your lungs.

Hancock didn’t know what he’d done to get someone like you, and he was afraid to ask. If there were any powers at be—something, or someone—watching over him, he supposed he’d owe them one, but for now he was more than happy to count his blessings. And the sad thing was, everything, all of it, could be a dream—or one long, hallucinatory chem-trip. If this turned out to be nothing but a fucked up Jet flashback, he’d just as soon never wake up.

“I’ll follow you to the end of the Wastes,” Hancock blurted, voice strained and rasping, fingers; arms; chest tightening as he spoke against soft tufts of hair. “You and me together, the world ain’t got a prayer.”

Despite what had just transpired, you cradled him against the bow of your neck, oblivious to the inner workings of his mind, only wishing to absorb him, for him to live in the space between your ribs that stored your heart. All you wanted was to keep him safe for all time, knowing that he deserved the world, though the ghoul would most certainly outlive you.

It was a melancholy thought, if ever one existed, but you did not allow your mind to dwell. “Sweet man,” you murmured, “it doesn’t stand a chance in hell.”

—-

Fallout Masterlist

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