#brandon dull

[brandondull]

Offset portrait shot by Brandon Dull

[epicmilly]

was drawing shallan and friends today!!!

closeups

[cherryheairt]

Hidden Truths

Cregan x Wife!reader

pt. 1

named reader (aye-leese) no description, from house Glover.

summary - Cregan comes home from war with a scandalous surprise, much to the horror of his wife. Though, it is not all that she expected when she heard of her husband's infidelity.

Inspired by Ned and Catelyn Stark (obviously lol)

It had been four moons since Cregan Stark returned from King's Landing, ending the war and placing Aegon iii on the Iron Throne. Four moons since he presented his bastard for all to see, declaring to his wife that they would raise the boy as a legitimized Stark.

Aelys Glover, now Stark, had never thought her husband would betray her in such a brutal way. To bed another woman down in the South, in a time of war, to father a bastard. To give the bastard his Stark name.

She hadn't even had her first babe yet, due to the young couple deciding to spend their first few years of marriage having each other all to themselves. Had it all been a lie from Cregan? A masterful deceit to make his mistress' son his heir? Perhaps he had regretted their marriage and chosen to disregard any of her future children, thinking her genetics undesirable. Whatever dull excuse he had, it would never be enough to balm her heart.

People whispered about which mother's son might be Cregan's heir apparent.

It was not yet decided, and would not be until years ahead when Aelys showed if she could bear him more sons or not. Until she did, Brandon Stark would be Cregan's unofficially heir as his eldest son.

Aelys had refused to share a bed with Cregan since the night he returned. She would not perform her marital duties anymore, not until she was either dead or he forced her, which she knew he at least had the honor to not. Aelys would give him no children of her own, spitefully intending to leave the Stark line to a bastard who would forever be known to the world as such.

She would make it clear that her husband's stupidity would end the Stark's honorable history streak. The babe would be legit, yes, but never trueborn. It was said that bastards were born nasty and cruel, and Aelys had not believed such rumors until she met the babe herself. Her spite grew in spite of her previous kind and understanding nature, driven to hate the babe without knowing him.

Even with the same House name as his father, the boy was nothing like him. He seemed to carry his mother's traits, instead, whoever she was. Dark black hair and even darker eyes to match, though the Northern pale skin Cregan carried had stayed through the genetic battle.

At least Cregan did not bring her home, too. If he had, Aelys would have thrown herself from The Wall in shame and disgrace. She would not be the other woman in her own marriage.

His words when he returned burned at her heart, even now the dust had not settled nor had the fire quelled.

"It was a one-time tryst, I swear this to you. A night of vulnerability, when it got rough in King's Landing." He said, voice strained and undereyes dark with the heavy weight of guilt and responsibility. She'd never felt such an intense urge to hit a man before.

His bastard sister, Sara Snow, a woman whom Aelys had grown to see as her own sister and close confidante, returned from King's Landing a month after her brother.

She looked even worse than her elder brother, who still could barely hold Aelys' eyes when she wordlessly passed him in the halls. She looked gaunt and exhausted, though she claimed that the journey back was tiring. Sighing, Aelys could only welcome her back into the Great Keep to catch up over all that she had missed. Apparently, Sara had stayed in the Riverlands for most of the moons Cregan had hosted in the Crownlands. She was housed by the Blackwoods, becoming fast friends with Alysanne Blackwood and Davos Blackwood, the fierce aunt and nephew who fought together against the Greens.

No useful information about the whore that Cregan had bedded that night, Aelys bitterly thought for a moment. Then, a wave of guilt and regret hit her. It was not Sara's fault for her brother's mistakes. She was truly glad to have the conpany back, seeing as Winterfell had felt cold and emptier now that Cregan was back than it ever had before. She had been avoiding his for these four moons, leaving only a few rooms accessible for her privacy and peace of mind.

She never entered the nursery room's entire hallway. Even when needing something past it, she chose to go the longest possible route to avoid it. She didn't wish to think about the boy more than she already did. She saw him during dinners, being presented to Cregan by his wet nurse before being put down to sleep for the night. Those mere glimpses were plenty to feed her anxious mind.

Today, the adjacent hall towards the Keep's hotsprings was closed. "A few cobblestone in the wall have cracked, m'Lady. You mustn't enter for one might accidentally fall on you." A young servant boy had informed her, thoroughly apologetic as she sighed and headed him. The nursery's hall was the only one that also held the door outside, lest she chose to go all the way around the outside of the keep in this blizzard.

The thought was tempting but childish. Steeling her courage up, Aelys had fixed herself to stride past the door. She could not help the subconscious glance inside, seeing the glimpse of curly black hair laying alone in his crib, but wide awake and almost flailing around in a fuss.

Looking around, Aelys was surprised to see not one attendant or wet nurse. From her experience with babes, they were rarely left alone unless they were sleeping. Even then, some mothers and nurses liked to hover to ensure its safety while unconscious. Aelys stepped into the dim room, finding that Brandon's attention immediately focused on her. He whined out, reaching out grabbing hands toward her. Grimacing, she reached into the crib to lift him up, holding him at a safe distance from her face.

Up close, she could reluctantly admit that the babe was cute. He was well-doted on in the Keep by all the maids and even visiting Lords. Though his parentage was questionable and whispered about, none actually had the courage to ask why the boy had been legitimized so quickly. Aelys guessed it had been the circumstances. Aegon, the new King, was young and suseptible to influence, so legitimizing a bastard like Brandon was done without question.

"What are you fussing on about, you spoiled thing?" She asked, though her tone was soft and gentle. Brandon smiled a gummy smile, face lifting as he reached out again for her. This time, she allowed him to rest on her shoulder as she supported him, gently rocking back and forth as she stood. The faster he was asleep, the faster she could leave without feeling like a monster.

She already had that feeling nagging at her mind too much. Hating a babe took a lot of energy. She knew it was wrongfully placed, but Brandon's very nature and sire had wronged her more. The physical reminder that his father had not loved her.

Soft snores filled the room as she hummed lowly, the vibrations and comforting sound putting the fussy tot to sleep quicker than she had anticipated. Gently placing him back in the cot, she hands gripped the wooden edges harshly, a sharp contrast to her previous touch. Was she betraying herself for not demanding that the babe be taken away? Warded with another great House until she finally had a son? No. Cregan would never allow it, even as Lady of the House she held no true power over the Warden.

Turning, Aelys was met with her husband in the doorway. Silent as a stalking wolf, he leaned against the doorway and looked upon his son and wife with pools of affection. There was a slight gloss to them as she looked closer that she opted to ignore. "Cregan." She greeted curtly, moving to slide past him and speak no more of her presence in the nursery.

"He has a way of melting one's heart, does he not?" He asked, tilting his chin to look down at her. A branch, left out and hanging by Cregan's strong arms. Too bad that she did not need it.

"He disgusts me." She said instead, shouldering past him and continuing back to her rooms. She changed her mind in the few minutes that she spent with the bastard Stark boy. She could stay here no longer, could not bear for her own husband to bring this embodied lie to live in the very home that she did. Wouldn't raise any children to be in their older brother's shadow.

Ignoring the hushed plea from Cregan, Aelys went straight to the Maester's tower. Maester Parek had been a helpful and understanding ear for Aelys to rant to when dealing with arisen problems, whether with her moon blood, achy bones from the cold, or questioning if any ravens had come from mysterious women. None had, as far as she had been told. That is, if Parek had been entirely truthful to his Lady.

Hurriedly knocking on the man's door, it was soon opened after a grunt of physical labor had been heard from the other side. The Maester had always complained about his bad knees and how they were made worse in the winters.

"Lady Stark?" He asked, shocked to see her at midday. It was a rarity, as she usually made her visits in the morning after she broke her fast.

"Maester." She greeted, shifting on her feet. "I need to send a letter, urgently."

"May I ask to whom?" He inquired, earning a solemn nod from the young Lady.

"I'm sorry, Parek. It is private."

"Of course, my Lady. The room is yours." He bowed and left the chambers to occupy himself while she busied herself as well. She immediately made for the small attached room in the tower, made into a raven nest hundreds of years ago. A few perched black birds squaked or raised her heads at the unfamiliar sight curiously, but they were well-trained and did not spook.

Bending over the crickity desk, she quickly drafted a messily-writen yet vague letter.

Father,

Some troubles have come up in Winterfell, and Cregan Stark has advised me to return to House Glover's protection while he deals with matters here. I will be returning swiftly, though the snow will hinder the horse a few days.

See you soon,

your dearest Aelys.

As soon as she finished, she hastily melted the powder blue wax and sealed the direwolf sigil onto the rolled paper. Tying the scroll to a raven's foot, Aelys sent it off. The bird would reach House Glover's Maester quickly, and in the meantime she would ready herself for departure.

As she was shoving clothes and pelts into various bags, the very ones that carried her belongings to Winterfell over two years ago, Aelys could not stop the hot, angry tears that fell to her cheeks. Wiping away at her face with scruffy sleeve fur, gifted to her by Cregan himself, Aelys felt the frustration and loneliness sting at her soul. The loneliness was a choice on her part, most would say. That she was dramatic and most Lords sired bastards. She should be grateful he did not bring the mother back, too, and house her in his home next to his Lady Wife. All whispers she heard from her ladies-in-waiting, whom she immediately dismissed from service upon hearing such impudent things.

She would not be subjected to the humiliation. She wanted love, and she once had it. Oh, she had it. Cregan treated her like a goddess walking amongst humans for the moons they spent together before his leave to King's Landing. If she could not have Cregan's loyalty or love, she would at least find a man who she did not have high expectations for. An older Lord, perhaps, one who just wanted a young and pretty woman to give him final heirs during his last years of life. Aelys would know her role, then, and would live contently knowing she did not love foolishly while expecting faithfulness in return.

First, this marriage had to be annuled. In Lord Glover's home, she could easily ask for such a thing. The marriage had been commsumated, but there were no witnesses and no babes to confirm this to outsiders. Aelys would simply have to claim that she and Lord Stark never once bedded before he left to find another woman, and then she'd be an unmarried Lady once more. A Glover, not a Stark.

She realized she'd been quite fastidious in her packing. Unlike her carriage ride to Winterfell, her luggage could not be carried easily on one horse. She picked only one of her bags, with the thickest dresses and warmest pelts she had, rushing out of the room while clipping a cloak over her shoulders. Dark blue in color, Aelys almost cursed at the thought that almost all of her wardrobe and fine things had been gifts from Cregan. Her pelts, gloves, and even the horse that she would take home.

Cobalt, she had named the steed, noticing how his pure black coat almost gleamed blue in certain lights. Cregan had a wide and cherishing smile on his face as he walked the young stallion out of the stables a few days after their wedding. They often took walks on trails in the Wolfswood together on horseback, just their muffled conversations filling the still air. She remembered every moment with her husband fondly before he tarnished everything. Now, she knew all of it to be a facade, just like any other Lord in Westeros might have done. At least other men had the decency to be nasty plain to your face, unlike the Stark.

Aelys sneaked into the armory to pick up a few extra things, knowing no one would occupy the room when the whether was so unfortunate.

Striding towards the stables with squinted eyes, Aelys shivered at the temperature change. Luckily, the journey would be quick, with only a few days to walk on horseback. Cobalt was a resilient horse built for such harsh weather, and she was a Northern woman through and through.

She attached the bag and waterskin to Cobalt's saddle after she tacked him up. His long and unruly made quivered in the breeze as the light blizzard raged on as it had been for two days now. It did not deter her. She attached her bow and quiver to the other side to keep weight even, knowing she'd have to hunt for herself during the journey.

Steadying herself on the saddle, Aelys glanced once more at Winterfell's Great Keep, where Cregan was surely in his study or councilroom. She squeezed Colbalt's side lightly to urge the percheron onwards, giving herself no room for second guessing her choices.

At the wall's gate, the two snow-covered men regarded her with weary looks. "My Lady, there is a blizzard—" Ron Frasel told her, ginger brow upturned in question.

"I have eyes, Ron. I will return soon, I have buisness in Winter Town." She said tiredly, not wanting to be interrupted by the men at such an important time. It would not be long before a maid reported her missing.

Ernest, the guard's most frequent partner, inquired gently. "Will you require any assistance, Lady Stark? I'm sure Lord Stark would feel more at ease knowing you are escorted."

"He is fine with me going on my own, it is a short ride." She said curtly, anxious for Cregan to find out about her plan.

Ernest nodded and gestured for the iron gate to be lifted. "Safe travels, my Lady." Before bowing his head politely.

As Aelys walked through the opened gate, she urged Cobalt to a faster trot to create quick distance between her and Winterfell before she set up camp.

Ron shared an uneasy look with Ernest as the woman passed. "Lord Stark has never allowed her out without a guard before." He whispered.

His friend nodded, eyes glancing between her fading figure in the snow and the Keep. "Perhaps we should go see Lord Stark himself, just to be safe."

Ron shivered. "If he finds out we let his wife go into the blizzard without him knowin', who knows what'd happen to us."

"Quickly, then." They were both skidding off towards the Keep with no time to waste.

[angeliteria]

𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓.

pairings — fem reader and eddie munson.

summary — you and eddie are childhood best friends, and you've always trusted him. your love for him was innocent — his love for you was the complete opposite.

warning tags — adult language and semi-graphic violence. dark!eddie munson. unhealthy obsessive and possessive behavior. eddie like worships reader, reader lowkey is into it. term “y/n” is used once (had to be sorry). the smut for the nasties; unprotected activities, f!ngering, oral (reader receiving), choking, degradation, overstim, eddie getting mean with his d!ck. there is aftercare <3

Eddie Munson was your best friend. You and him grew up together, homing in the same trailer park, and guardians being friends.

You were glad to have him in your life. He was always there, willing to tend to any of your needs, and would do anything for you.

You found it sweet.

But Eddie would kill for you. He knew you took all his gestures into an innocent, sweet manner, and he was okay with that — but he was in love with you.

A love that wasn't so gentle and safe. He was obsessed, and was repulsed to the idea of anyone else taking you from him.

No one knew you in all the ways he did.

There wasn't a right match for you, except for him. He patiently waited for you to understand that he was suitable for you, but as time went on, and you got with more guys, it became thinned out.

Eddie would give you a bit more time to accept the truth that he was the man you needed.

"Hey, Eds?" You asked, noticing he was zoned out. The chatter of Hawkins cafeteria couldn't even pull him away from his thoughts. Your sweet voice was the only thing that could.

"What's up?" Eddie asked, picking at the raisins in his lunch pale. "You okay?"

"Do you think there's something wrong with me?" You asked, a mere frowning playing on your lips.

"No, why?" Eddie was confused, his attention falling entirely on you. "Did someone say something to you?"

"No— well, I don't know," you mumbled, rubbing your temple. "You know how I have been talking to Brandon Smith for a while now?"

Eddie nodded, tuned in and listened carefully. "Yeah, one of Jason's other lap dogs."

You sighed, rolling your eyes. "Well, I thought things were good between us. We just went on a third date last Friday, and then, I found out he's taking Annie to the Winter Formal."

"What?" Eddie muttered.

"Yeah! It doesn't make sense to me either," you continued, pursing your lips. "I mean, we never clarified we were exclusive, but I thought we were getting somewhere."

Eddie's blood boiled, and fumed. His hands rolled up, tightening into fists, and had skilled at not showing you his visible anger. "There's nothing wrong with you," Eddie reassured, giving you a gentle smile. "Brandon is a cracked up fuck, anyway. No good for you."

"Yeah, maybe you're right," you chuckled lightly, and Eddie hummed, patting your shoulder. "It's just shitty. He seemed really genuine."

"You'll find someone good," he said, handing you his bag of trail mix. "You're a sweet girl, and for Brandon to do that is a douchebag move. You don't need that, okay?"

You flashed a soft smile at Eddie, nodding and began to eat the trail mix.

Eddie's friends came to sit at the table, but were the only ones to notice his dull, blank expression. They had a poor feeling it had to do with you, yet chose not to question, and simply eat their lunches.

You were too distracted in your conversation with Dustin to notice what was going on, and what ran through Eddie's head.

Brandon Smith was the only person in the locker room after his last period at Gym had ended. He was putting on his shirt, his hair damped and messy as he just gotten out of the shower.

A pair of footsteps creeped up the locker room, near him, and he raised a brow. Not particularly scared, but worried, he peeked behind the lockers, and didn't see a single person.

He shook it off, assuming it was a student who forgot their bag.

"Hey, Brandon!" Eddie exclaimed as he popped up on the opposite side of him, smiling. Brandon shrieked, earning a chuckle out of Munson. "Did I scare you?"

"What the fuck, freak?" Brandon snapped, zipping up his Gym bag. "What the fuck are you doing in here?"

"Here to chat," Eddie answered. "That's all."

"Chat?" Brandon nearly barked a laugh, rolling his eyes. "What makes you think I would want to talk?"

"Oh, but you're fine with chatting with me when you're fuckin' fiending!" Eddie said, clear and loud enough for any remaining people in the locker room to hear.

Brandon glared at him. "That's a different scenario."

"Not really," Eddie muttered, stuffing his hands into his own pockets, his hand grasping onto the switchblade that sat within the right one.

Brandon sighed, realizing he wouldn't be able to leave until Eddie got his words across. "Okay, what do you want?" He asked, leaning against the lockers, Eddie only standing a few inches away in front of him. "I got places to be."

"Tell me what happened with Y/N," Eddie said, monotone and blunt in a blink.

"What? Why?" Brandon wondered. "You're wanting to talk about her?"

Eddie hummed. "Answer the question."

"Well, man," Brandon sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. "She gave it up too easily, and got too many damn problems. She's a trailer park whore, and I didn't need that."

Eddie's head spun, and the light around him was slowly sinking into nothingness. "Gave it up?"

"Ya'know, her body, her pussy," Brandon clarified, finding it humorous. "She has no self respect, and that's pathetic."

Another word didn't come out of his mouth as Eddie grabbed him, and tossed him to the ground. Eddie's vision was a blur and his mind was clogged, but could understand the punches he was throwing into Brandon's face.

The rings on Eddie's fingers doubled the aggression and assault.

He swore he cracked his cheekbone, and caused a concussion, but didn't care. He didn't care if he killed him in this very locker room, because all that mattered is that he would stay away from you for good. That he would never talk about you in a derogatory way ever again.

Eddie needed to make sure of that – he had to.

"Fuck you!" He screamed as his fist collided into Brandon's left eye, and could hear him gasping, crying, and wanting to fight back, but Eddie's weight held him down. "Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!"

Eddie breathed heavily, one of his punches breaking Brandon's nose, an audible snap coming into his ears. He got up, hovering over the sobbing, vulnerable male.

He wanted to laugh — one of Hawkin's best basketball players, who was intimidating yet charming, and broader and stronger than Eddie, was now curled up in a ball, bleeding out of his face.

Eddie struck his ribcage with a hard kick, and Brandon groaned, pleading for mercy. "Fucking pussy," he mocked, tossing another strike of his foot to his side. "You deserve this. You deserve worse than this."

"I—I'm sorry!" Brandon sobbed, gasping heavier, trying to engulf oxygen into his bruising lungs. "Please."

Eddie crotched down, gripping a chunk of his hair, brought his head up and forced eye contact. "You're not sorry. You just make sure to never speak to her, or I will kill you next time." He released Brandon's hair from his grasp, his head thudding on the tile floors.

Eddie's every step had a bounce to it as he walked out of the locker room.

You were laying on your stomach on your bed, flipping through magazines as music faintly played in your bedroom. You carelessly eyed new styles, humming to yourself.

A knock planted softly at your door, and you peeked up, seeing your aunt. She smiled small, a cigarette dangling between her lips. "Chrissy Cunningham is on the phone," she exhaled a blow, "asking for you."

"Did she say why?" You wondered.

"No, but she sounds shaken up," your aunt continued, and you nodded, getting up from your bed, strolling to the kitchen where the landline hanged out at.

You picked up the phone, bringing it up to your ear. "Hey, Chris. What's up?"

"Brandon is in the hospital," Chrissy said, and your heart sank. She was sniffling, overly worried and in panic. "It's so bad."

You paused. "W—What happened? Why is he in the hospital?"

"Jason and the guys found him in the locker room," Chrissy's voice began to shutter. "He was beaten, really bad. Nose broken, ribcages fractured, nearly blind in his left eye — it's so gory."

"What? W—Who... What? This doesn't make sense," you said, unease and confused. "Did he say who?"

"No, he won't make a confession," Chrissy answered, sighing heavily. "Either way, he can barely talk, or make any sort of comprehension. He has a severe concussion."

You went quiet for a moment, trying to gather up pieces in your head, making a puzzle in your head.

Brandon did have enemies, but it was mostly outcasts, and the smartest kids in school — the opposite clique of him, and Jason's friends. But, those enemies were not capable of any harm, nor would attempt any. If they did, they'd get it worse.

Nothing had happened to him until today when you told—

"Chrissy, I have to go," you muttered, hanging up the line. You ran into your bedroom, grabbing your shoes, and slipping them. Your hands were shaking, your heart thumping and pounding in your eardrums, bile burning your throat.

It was just a thought, a consideration, and you knew Eddie would never hurt anyone.

He was too kind, and gentle.

You stalked out of your trailer, finding your aunt watering the front lawn with a new cigarette in her mouth. "You going to Eds?" She asked, and you hummed. "Okay, be safe."

You continued your stalking to Eddie's uncle's trailer, stomping up onto the porch, and pounded your fist against the door. "Edward Munson!" You shouted, banging persistently on the door. "I know you're in there, I can smell fresh pot!"

After a few more harsher hits, the door opened up, revealing a contented, shirtless Eddie, and had a joint in his mouth. "Well, if it isn't my favorite person," he joked, and crossed his arms over his chest as he leaned against the door frame.

Red, bruising spots were visible on his knuckles. He wasn't even trying to make them discreet.

You brushed past him as you welcomed yourself into his trailer, and he closed the door behind the both of you, his eyes falling into yours.

You stood in the middle of his living room, making a safe distance between the two of you. "Are you responsible for Brandon?" You questioned, and Eddie chuckled, flashing a toothy smile. "I don't have time for your shit, Eddie!"

"Oh, excuse me, sweetheart," Eddie snickered, burning his joint out onto the ashtray that sat on the living's room coffee table. "I knew you'd figure it out."

You scoffed. "So, you did?"

"I may have swung a punch or two at him," Eddie said, grabbing a cheap beer from the fridge. "Nothing too bad."

"He is in the hospital, Eds! He has a severe concussion, fractured bones!" You shouted, irritated at Eddie's amusement. "What the fuck did you do?"

"He called you a trailer park whore," he stated, walking to his bedroom as you trailed behind him. "Saying how you spread your legs easily for him, and that you were just bad for his bullshit reputation."

"He said that?" You asked, Eddie sitting on the edge of his bed, and you stood in front of him.

"He laughed at you. He was practically mocking you," he emphasized, scoffing harshly. "I took care of it. I handled it for you."

"But you didn't need to, Eddie!" You panicked, shaking your head in utter disbelief. "If he comes clean, you'll be arrested. You'll go to jail."

"I really don't care," Eddie said, grinning. "You think this is my first time doing this shit for you?"

You fell silent, suddenly lost in what he was saying.

He got up from his bed, only needing to take a few, close inches towards you. He looked down at you as you stared up at him. "Aidan Walter, Michael Dallas, Kyle Thorne, Richard Fields, Brandon Smith — they all had the same thing to say about you. They degraded you proudly, and you think you deserve that?'

Your mouth opened, but your words croaked in your throat. Nothing came out, shock falling over you. "I... I don't know."

"Every time you came crying to me about a guy who did you wrong, I handled it. This isn't my first time, and they know they can't turn me in," Eddie explained, and you raised a brow. "They're drug addicts. They know if I sneak a word to their coach to drug test them, they're fucked."

"But they could turn you in for being a drug dealer," you retorted, and a faux pout dangled on Eddie's lips. "They have privilege, you don't."

He settled his beer down on his cluttered dresser, turning his attention away from you. "If that's the case, why haven't the others said anything?" Eddie questioned. "You haven't asked me why I did it — that's surprising."

"You did it because you want revenge? Because you were trying to be a good friend?"

"Revenge, yes. I'd beat those fuckers with no hesistation," Eddie agreed, shrugging lazily as he went back to sitting on his bed. "But, I did it because you don't deserve to be talked about like that. I did it because I would do absolutely anything for you — I'd fucking rip apart this filthy world for you."

You took a step back, a brutal realization striking you.

"Are you in love with me?" You asked, so simply, but with so much fear behind your words.

He hummed. "There's my smart girl."

You were oblivious — gullible — to Eddie's generosity, and kindness. A more crucial role behind every word, every action, every thought that came out of him. You didn't know how to comprehend anything, your mind fogged, and mute.

You should've been feeling sick to your stomach, nausea and terror was meant to consume and claim you entirely. A person who had received the news that their best friend beat — and nearly murdered — men who have hurt you, would run away, and shut them out forever.

You didn't do that. You were paralyzed in your spot, only hesitate to make eye contact with Eddie, and could feel his eyes boring into you.

What he did was unsettling and wrong, but your heart couldn't help to ache to what he did.

"You hate me now?" Eddie asked, and you inhaled sharply, peeking at him. You shifted over towards him, bringing him into an embrace, his head resting on your stomach as your hands rested on the back of his head.

"No, no," you mumbled, looking down at him. "But you could end up in jail because of this, Eddie. You have to understand that."

Eddie inhaled your perfume, his mind ransacking with complexed thoughts. He was glad you appreciated his devoted duty, but hated that you were worried about his well being.

He only cared that you would be safe.

"I'll be okay, doll," he muttered, practically smashing his face into your stomach.

You fiddled with his hair, not knowing what was to happen next. He was in love, and obsessed with you — that's not easy news to take in.

You let him out of your embrace, crouching down and stared up at him. "I can protect myself, and... I'm sorry you had to hear those things from Brandon."

Eddie took your face into his hands, his thumbs softly caressing your cheeks, and you could feel yourself melting into his touch.

A delicate touch that held so much violence behind it.

He could do immense damage to another human, but never to you. You were the peace in his chaotic world. You were serene, in contrast to his mayhem. You knew there was always a darkness that consumed him, but you granted such light to it, that he'd forget he even held it in him.

Eddie wanted to hold you close, skin absorbing into one another's, and have you forever. He wanted to tear you apart, but then mend you back together.

The silence that fell into the air was tight, and suffocating.

This man had been your best friend for years, and there was never any unbearable tension until now. In this very moment, where his eyes drowned into yours, and his lips quivered for the taste of yours.

"Can I kiss you?" Eddie cut the silence, his face cautiously inching into yours. "Please?"

A simple kiss, that could change the course of everything. But you wanted it — you wanted Eddie to kiss you. You had never craved such a risk until now.

You nodded. "You can kiss me, Eds."

He didn't let another second pass as his lips smothered yours, and his hands shifted to your waist, drawing you onto his lap. You propped yourself comfortably onto him, his hands snaking around your body, needing you close and secured.

You could taste pot on his lips, your cherry gloss mixing into it. His hands slipped under the sides of your shirt, yet went nowhere near your bra. His thumbs and hands grazed your soft, loving skin, and thought he must've been dreaming — he had yearned for this. For years.

Your own hands brushed his toned body, trickling down to the waistband of his sweats. You let your fingers curl around them, but wait there.

Eddie moved his face back, his taste disappearing from yours, and he grinned at your swollen lips. "Look at you," he mocked, admiring the desperation on your face. "You have no idea how long I've waited for you, sweetheart."

Your heartstrings tugged at his words, and the tips of your index and middle finger carefully touched his lips, eyes focused on this movement. "Do you really love me?" You softly asked. "Why do you love me?"

"You're the purity to this corrupted world," Eddie began, and you blinked up at him, and his gaze locked with yours immediately. "Your beauty is uncompared, and unbearable – it makes me a madman. Look what I've done for you; you have me in your power, and you don't even know it."

Eddie Munson is in love with me, you thought to yourself. He is in love with me, and I've been so blind to it.

The only man who'd ever wanted you for you. The only man who you didn't need to give your body to, to feel self-worth and loved. You could see in his eyes he meant what he said — that he swore his life on it. And if he were to ever hurt you, he would want death.

He would rather die, than to live with the knowledge that he dimmed your lightness, and damaged you.

"Please kiss me," you pleaded, wanting his love to soak and burn into your skin. "Kiss me, do what you want to me. But Eddie, do not leave me."

Eddie frowned. "I'd die without you."

You nodded, and your lips fell back onto his, bodies pressing against one another. His hands pulled you over and down onto his bed, your body trapped underneath his. "Are you sure you want this?" He asked hastily in between a kiss. "Do you?"

"Yes, I do," you breathed. "I want this."

Eddie kissed your cheek, leaning back, and shifted himself down in between your legs. You propped yourself up on your elbows, watching him take off your shoes, and then make his way to the waistband of your sweatpants.

He hooked his fingers under the hem of your bottoms and panties, looking up at you with another look of reassurance.

"I trust you," you said, and he pulled off both pieces of clothing, disposing them to a pile of his clothes on the ground.

Eddie parted your legs, laying himself on his stomach, and you could feel his hot breath blowing against your cunt. You relaxed your body, and Eddie's mouth attached itself to your area, earning a soft moan out of you.

You perked your head up, seeing the sight of him gladly eating you out. He wrapped his arms around your thighs, his strong hold locking them in place, and practically buried himself in between them. He moaned to the sweet taste of you, the vibrations buzzing against your sensitive hood.

His tongue ran up and down your slits, his lips plumped and stuck on your cunt. Your head fell back as your noises and breath grew louder, your mouth falling open the second he pushed two fingers into you, working them at a gentle, yet rapid pace.

Eddie was probably the only guy who knew how to properly eat you out, and you didn't have to fake an orgasm with.

"Fuck, fuck," you breathed. "Just like that, baby. Holy fuck."

His fingers were slamming into you, and his mouth separated from your cunt, his lips plumped and covered with your wetness. "Come here, sweet girl," he said as he hovered back over you. "Taste how good you are."

He placed his lips back onto yours, his fingers still violently pumping into you. Uncontrollable, lewd noises elicited out of you, being able to make out his grin pressing against your lips as he brought himself back from your mouth.

"So good for me, sweetheart," he praised,and adjusted himself back onto his stomach, hoisting your thighs over his shoulders. He hooked his mouth onto your cunt, devouring you once more, and you could feel a sweet scorch in the pit of your stomach.

It was too embarrassing and easy for you to cum this earlier than usual. You tried to ignore the hot sensation, focusing on the rhythm Eddie's tongue and mouth made on your cunt, and fucking good it felt.

Eddie had himself deep into your cunt, grateful to even pleasure you this well. All he wanted was to make you feel good.

The fire in your stomach ran to your thighs, and it became torturous to shut out. "Gonna cum," you warned, your voice shuddering. "Keep going, Eds. You're doing so good."

Eddie abided, never letting himself get a second of air as your thighs trembled on his shoulders. "Oh fuck!" You gasped, riding your orgasm out onto his fingers, and he let them fall out of you shortly after. His tongue lapped up your climax, his mouth sucking gently on your cunt.

Your chest heaved, and a fulfilled Eddie detached his mouth from your area, his mouth glistening with your juices. You peeked at him, chuckling and grinning at the sight of him.

"I'm not done with you yet," he said, his hand gripping your forearm, and you suddenly adjusted back on his lap. You whimpered as he used other hand to hold your jaw, having a firm grasp on it, and forcing you to pay attention to him.

"What now?" You asked.

Eddie placed his coated fingers on your bottom lip. "Suck."

You obliged, taking his fingers into your mouth. Eddie looked at you in pure awe, a cocky grin playing on his lips, and kissed the side of your head. Few seconds later, his fingers slide out of your mouth with a pop, and the knuckles of his hand caress your cheek so lovingly.

There was a flip in Eddie's eyes, and body language. He craved more of you, more of your body and desperation. He wanted your tears, screams, and sweat. He needed to see you plead under him, until you all you could think of was him senselessly fucking you.

For this, it was a danger. You were encouraging his obsession, and you couldn't tell if that was okay. It was flattering he hurt people for you, all because he wanted to defend you at every cost — like it was his soul purpose on Earth.

You weren't exactly opposed to his devotion to you, only in fright of how bad it could get.

It wasn't like you hadn't had your own moments when it came to Eddie and other girls. There were a few who had eyes on him, and always dumbly flirted with him — even in front of your bare eyes. You would always think you were being crazy for being jealous, especially when you got angry when Eddie would jokingly tease back at those girls.

You didn't want to share the attention he gave to you.

This was a bad idea. The worst idea to ever exist. But it didn't matter anymore — you and him were the perfect match. Maybe your need for him was always there, but you were too busy with others to notice it.

Those other guys didn't compare to Eddie Munson — none of them. And they would never commit their life to you.

Eddie had finally freed your jaw from his hand, but withheld staring at one another. "I know that look in your eye," he said, inhaling sharply. "You've finally come to your senses. I've been waiting for you to make that realization."

"How long?" You wondered.

"Forever," he answered, and planted his hands under your shirt, letting them carelessly rest there. "Even if you didn't, I still would've handled every guy who fucked you over. I would do it until it caught up to me."

You sighed. "It just might. Brandon will blab."

"Then promise to bail me?" He asked, and you snickered, rolling your eyes.

"My aunt is going to have a rage if you get arrested," you joked, and his grin turned into a small smile. "Let's not worry about that right now, please. I just want you, I want this."

Eddie titled his head to the side, his smile fading. "Be more clear, sweet girl."

You turned coy, your body tensing as his hands gave your torso a squeeze. You decided not to speak, your lips laying on his, and he let your body rut against him. "You're going to drive me more insane," he mumbled, and you hummed. "Come on, doll. Ride me."

You didn't hesitate for a moment, breaking the kiss, and you drew off your top and bra, letting them drop to Eddie's floor.

"Fuck," Eddie breathed, taking a second to memorize your body, and how he just knew it was made for him. "Fuck, you're perfect, doll."

You smiled, and looked over to Eddie's nightstand, finding condoms to lay there. "I'm not your first fuck?" You asked, a hint of bitter in your tone as you snagged an individual wrapper.

"I deserved to have my own fun, don't you think?" Eddie retorted, dragging off his sweats and boxers, dropping them on the floor. He merely sat closer to the middle of his bed, seizing the condom from your hold, and you glared at him. "Don't be so jealous, doll. You're my only girl, promise."

"Were they a good fuck?" You asked, and Eddie snorted while rolling the condom onto his dick.

"And I thought I was too possessive," he mocked, and braced his hands onto your hips, his nails digging into your skin. You were about to protest until Eddie's cock shoved into you, and you gasped at the sudden contact. "Maybe I'll fuck you out."

Your breath hitched in your throat as you and Eddie worked together, your hips rolling and his cock hastily thrusting into you. "Fffucckk, oh my god," you babbled, squeezing your eyes shut, and overwhelmed at Eddie's size.

"You take me so well," Eddie praised, another faux frown on his lips, and grabbed your face. "Look at me when I'm fucking you."

You obeyed as best as you could, cursing and moaning breathlessly. It felt like he was splitting you open, claiming your body entirely, and making you memorize the scynorichize of his cock pounding into your soaking cunt.

"I'm going to fucking damage you," he assured, his hand squeezing your cheeks, and felt as if his nails were drilling into them. "Tear you right apart."

"Yeah?" You taunted, able to pass a giggle through your shuddering breathing. "You're going to hurt me? You're too soft for me to do that, Eds."

He stopped all movements for a moment, and his hand made a switch, sending a hit across your left cheek. It turned your head and neck entirely, feeling his handprint drowning into your skin.

You only laughed. "Slapping me? Some of the guys did the same thing," you said, looking back at Eddie, and wanted to punish him with your words. "I think it was Brandon who would pull my hair and call me his filthy slut."

Eddie snapped. He took your form back under him, your body flattened into his mattress as he hovered over you, his hand furiously grasping your throat. "And you took it like a slut too. Didn't you, silly girl?"

You smiled. "Maybe," you breathed out, able to feel his nails clawing into the sides of your neck. "Maybe I fucking loved every second of it."

"Oh, I'm sure," Eddie muttered, his cock stuffing your cunt again. "But I'm going to make sure you can only think of me forever."

He kept his hand on your throat, and pushed his cock rough into you as you swore he was nearly reaching into your stomach. Your eyes watered, breath hallowed and weak with your pleads for him coming out hoarse and rough, putting one of your hands on his wrist.

"No, you don't get to touch me," Eddie said, pushing off your hand with his free one. "You don't deserve to touch me, silly girl."

You huffed. "Why not?"

"Cause you let all those idiots touch you," Eddie taunted, mocking despair on his face. "And I should just leave you hot and bothered after what you said, but I didn't – so be grateful."

Your lungs engulfed immense amounts of oxygen when Eddie's pulled his hand back, moaning out his name like it was a prayer. He grinned, staying hovered over you, and let his cock sinking deeper and harder into you, watching you fall apart slowly to it.

Sweaty, hot skin smacked throughout Eddie's bedroom, being sure that the whole neighborhood could hear you whining and crying for more of him.

"You sound so pretty for me, doll," he moaned, grinning. He positioned himself back, in a near-sitting style as he tossed your legs over his shoulders and snaked his arms around your waist, continuing to push himself into you.

"Oh shit— ffucckk, Eddie, Eddie," you moaned mindlessly. You were locked in his hold, your body squirming and twitching. Your fingers gripped at his bedsheets, your mind being rotten with the focus of his dick, and how good it felt pounding into you, basically stuffing your cunt.

"Don't you dare fucking cum," Eddie forewarned, chuckling breathily. "Just be a good girl, and take my dick, babydoll. Just take me."

You nodded, knowing there was another climax making its build in your stomach, but refused to pay any mind to it. "You fuck me so good, Eds," you whimpered, eyes rolling back. "Need more of you, please."

"You have me, sweetheart," Eddie promised, pressing his hand on your stomach for additional torture. "But don't try to sweet talk me just so you can cum."

"Just once, please," you cried, resting your hand on top of his hand. "Please, I'll be so good for you."

"Are you not being good for me right now, hm?" He wondered, the ball of his palm sinking further into your belly. "What a pathetic girl you are, trying to get whatever you want."

You hissed and groaned. "Please, please. I c—can't."

"Is my poor girl going to cry?" He taunted, holding back a laugh. "If you cum right now, then you'll have to keep doing so until I think you're done."

"Y—yeah, please!" You agreed mindlessly, chewing harshly onto your lower lip.

He hummed, and tapped the side of your thigh as a sign. Your body nearly melted into his mattress, your orgasm pushing out of you, and you could see a flash of stars in your vision. "Oh fucking hell!" You screamed, your body twitching seconds later.

Eddie pushed your legs off of his shoulders, letting himself fall out of you, and was already rotating you around onto your stomach. "We're not done, sweet girl," he said, planting a gentle kiss to your cheek before his arms were looped around your limp form, bringing your ass close to him.

You were barely to collect any thoughts, groaning the moment Eddie was back in you. He worked at a slow, steady peace in you as he used his strength to hold you up and close, stifling a chuckle in his throat.

"You said you were going to be good for me," Eddie reminded, his fingers clawing and curling into your hair, forcing the majority of your body to be picked up and brought against his. "Is this all you can really take, hm? Made me think you were better than this."

You grinned, sweat beading on your forehead and body. Your face was close enough to his as you glanced up at him, trying to correct your breathing. "You made me think you were gonna fuck me better than the others," you said lazily. "But it's about the same."

"Yeah?" Eddie rolled his hips forward, snapping a single sharp and deep thrust into you, and all at once, he began to violently pound into you. He made sure to keep you close to him as yours and his moaned mixed, and echoed throughout his bedroom.

Your eyes fell to the back of your head, grasping onto Eddie's arms and could feel your body growing more frail within every thrust that pushed into you. You were entirely trapped in his hold – not that you were complaining, it felt nice.

"That's my good girl," he praised, passing a kiss to the side of your head. "You take my cock so well."

You hummed, nodding, and could only hear him breathily chuckle to your obedience. He let his right hand creep up between the valley of your breasts, and it wrapped itself around your throat, using it as an extra leverage to hammer himself deeper into you.

"You seem to be liking my cock a lot," Eddie teased as your noises shuddered, and tears pricked at the corner of your eyes from the overwhelming exhilaration and pleasure. "Just wanted to be fucked and treated like a whore. All you had to do was ask, sweetness."

"Ffucckk you— ahh!" You cried the second the head of his cock started to continuously strike at your orgasm. "Oh shit, ffuucckk! Right there!"

Eddie orgasm was rising, keeping you locked and tight on him as he allowed himself to be audible, letting you know how good you were making him feel. "Fuck, sweetheart, I'm gonna cum," he panted, giving you another sweet kiss to your cheek. "Cum with me, yeah? I want my girl to cum with me."

Your next climax had surfaced into the depths of your belly as you could feel Eddie's arms and body begin to tremble. "W—Wait!" You breathed, swallowing thickly. "I want you to cum in me."

"What?" Eddie chuckled, stopping himself entirely. "Repeat that for me."

"Oh, you heard me, Munson," you said, and he grinned. "And yes, I'm sure."

Eddie granted you that exact wish, letting himself out of you for a mere second and tossed his condom carelessly on his bedroom floor before taking his cock back into you. He looped his arms back around your form, tugging you back towards him as he perfectly fucked himself into you, and you bounced back onto his cock.

It didn't take long for both highs to come back to the surface, your head falling back and landing on his shoulder, and he smirked, brushing strands of hair out of your face. "Be a good whore, and cum," his breath was ragged and uneven, feeling it skim past your cheek. "Don't wanna disappoint me, hm?"

"N—no," you rasped, exhaustion slowly falling onto you but gathered enough energy to keep you going.

"Cum with me, honey," Eddie said, a hint of shudder playing in his words. You nodded, your high immediately crashing out of your body as your body jerked and nearly fell out of Eddie's grasp, but he had enough strength to hold you in his embrace.

He wasn't far behind you, his orgasm hitting its final peak, and rushing out of him, into you. He pushed softer and slower thrusts into you as he rode out his orgasm. Eventually, all his motions came to a stop, and his arms unhooked from your body, watching you collapse onto his mattress, and he fell out of you.

You took your time to recover your proper breathing pattern and energy, laying flat on your stomach, and you could feel sweat stick and drip around your body.

Eddie rested next to you, not caring that you were both drenched in sweat desire, and brought you next to him, letting you rest in his arms. Your head was on top of his chest, listening to his heartbeat as he was also trying to catch his breath.

"So that was," you tried to speak, your throat scratchy and hoarse. "Oh fuck."

He stifled a laugh, smiling in pure pride. "We need to clean up, doll."

"I would so gladly get up," you began, sighing warily, "only if you didn't fuck me numb and raw."

"Don't complain," Eddie said, getting himself up, and easily dragged you up off the bed, over his shoulder. "We are getting cleaned up, and then find something to do after."

"Like what?" You wondered, being placed on top of his bathroom sink as he started up a warm bath. "You're not worried Brandon might say something?"

Eddie shrugged. "Not really, no."

"Why not?" You asked. "He has all the privileges and status, you don't."

"Are we really discussing this again?" Eddie asked, moving back over to you while the water ran. "I'm going to be fine. Just let me take care of you, doll."

Your gaze softened as you could see pure admiration and care in his eyes for you. You nodded, chewing onto your lower lip. He pinched your chin, giving your nose a sweet peck, and walked back to the bath to stop the water.

Eddie helped you into the bath, setting you down into it, and the water soaked your body. You moaned to the feeling of it and relaxed into it.

"Feel good?" Eddie smiled, sitting in front of you, and you hummed in response.

You brought your legs up to your chest, hugging them, and rested your cheek on it, looking at Eddie with a small smile playing on your lips.

He noticed. "Yes, sweetheart?"

"Nothin'. Just love you, Eds," you said. You had told each other 'I love you' on many occasions, but this time, it had a different meaning behind it. "Always have, always will."

"I love you too, sweet girl," Eddie responded, bringing himself closer to you, and kissed your forehead before pressing his against yours. "Always have, always will."

[knightsickness]

barristan voice daario is a handsome nasty guy who doesnt appreciate or deserve dany and just wants to use her but quentyn is like mud hes so humble and sensible and dull and not that good looking but could be really good for ashara i mean dany you know he could be a really good husband for her if she’d just given him a chance. i hate brandon stark

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

A Curse [Chapter 8: Silver Lake]

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, a tiny bit of sexual content (18+ readers only), age-gap situationship, Aemond Alert™️, fake dating but both Jace and Mason don’t know, a fun lil side quest to Minnesota!

Word count: 6.8k

💜 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 🏝️

You are hiding in your Honda outside Aegon’s office because you don’t want to see him. You slump way down in the driver’s seat when pedestrians walk by and eye you suspiciously: a teen mom pushing a stroller, an old man with a wiry grizzled mutt, a guy trudging home in a stained and unbuttoned chef coat. Still stalling, you flip down the sun visor and check your makeup in the small rectangular mirror. You randomly remember reading somewhere—a Reddit post, a TikTok video, an Instagram story—that it’s stupid to coordinate your eyeshadow with your outfit, but you’ve been doing this since high school and today is the very first time you can remember feeling self-conscious about it. You wear dull, earthy shades to match your brown floral sundress, the same color the leaves will turn when autumn arrives in Minnesota: Volatile by Anastasia Beverly Hills, Undone by Urban Decay.

You glance at your phone. It’s 11:04 a.m. on Wednesday, July 23rd, and you are officially late. With great reluctance, you drag yourself out of the car and clop up the concrete steps in your wedges. As if to remind you of past transgressions, your formerly-sprained left ankle gives a twinge of complaint.

Inside the rundown half-duplex, Brandon is not at the reception desk. He’s not here at all. From Aegon’s office you can hear that he is talking to someone, a familiar voice that you can’t immediately place, hushed but heavy, gravity in each word like a black hole. Then you realize who it belongs to. You hover just outside the doorway, listening.

“You can’t avoid me forever,” Aemond is saying.

There is spirited clicking, what you assume are Aegon’s thumbs on his transluscent orange Nintendo 64 controller. “Sure I can. I’m doing it right now.”

“Aegon…is everything okay?”

“Yup.”

“Are you…are you afraid you might—?”

“Nope.”

Aemond is exasperated. “Well did you ever take a test?”

“No, you know I didn’t.”

“But, I mean…are you experiencing…do you have some reason to suspect that…? Because you’re still pretty young, but with anticipation...”

“Shh,” Aegon cuts him off, spotting you in the threshold. His Nike Killshots are up on the desk, the Nintendo 64 controller in his hands; he’s wearing a seafoam green button-up shirt and khaki cargo shorts. He looks very retired. “Hey, sunshine.”

“Hi,” you say meekly, stepping into the room. You’ve been caught eavesdropping.

Aemond glares at you. He’s overdressed for Los Angeles: black suit, emerald green tie, shoes that shine like dark mirrors. “Go away.”

“Don’t snap at her,” Aegon flings back. “She’s the one with an appointment.”

“And you’re always so concerned with protocol!” Aemond shouts, and Aegon at last relents and pauses his game—Mario, his ubiquitous red cap adored with two white wings, is flying through clouds high above the castle—and sets the controller down on his desk, cluttered with gum wrappers and loose papers and framed photographs. There’s something else too, a homemade bento box situation with steamed broccoli, slices of tamagoyaki, and onigiri that look like miniature pandas.

Aegon peers wearily up at his brother. “I’m fine, Aemond. Really.”

“Don’t act like you had some sudden realization that Los Angeles is shallow and ridiculous, you’ve been bitching about that your whole life. That’s why you’re working all the way out here in this dump.”

Aegon stretches his arms lazily, pulling one across his chest and then the other. “I’ve been in the game for a long time. Now I’m ready to pack it up.”

“What are you going to do all day in Houston? Swing in a hammock while Becca hand-feeds you barbeque and cornbread?”

“Sure. Maybe.” Then he grins. “She makes fantastic cornbread. Warm and fluffy and slathered with honey butter, I believe you’ve had some.”

“You didn’t tell any of us you were leaving,” Aemond says, and there is more than just annoyance and suspicion in his scarred face. There is hurt. There is betrayal.

“I figured you’d freak out.”

“You were correct.”

“And your concern is both noted and appreciated, but it’s unnecessary.”

Aemond—hovering in his dark suit like a storm cloud—stares at Aegon, hands on his waist, furious, helpless. He notices the blue china bowl full of fresh Honeycrisp apples on the edge of Aegon’s desk. “And you don’t eat fruit!”

“Yeah I do. Guacamole is a fruit. Strawberry ice cream is a fruit.”

Aemond snatches an apple and hurls it at Aegon, who laughs and bats it away with one hand. Then Aemond moves like a gale of wind to where you stand by the door, and he towers over you, and he radiates dizzying heat like midsummer asphalt. “How’s he been?” he demands.

And you are so startled and bewildered by the question that you blurt out the first thing that pops into your mind. “Perfect.”

New creases appear in Aemond’s brow. He turns back to glance at Aegon, who shrugs like he’s just as perplexed by it. Then Aemond huffs an aggrieved sigh and leaves the office, the lobby, the building. You hear the front door slam as he yanks it shut behind him.

“What was he talking about?” you ask Aegon.

He is nonchalant. “Nothing. Industry stuff.”

“Aemond said something about a test…?”

Aegon sets an elbow on his desk and rests his chin in his palm; and as he gazes up at you with those overcast blue eyes, a little pathetic, a little wise, you have a terrifying thought that seems to come out of nowhere: Am I in love with him? “Aemond is worried that I’m leaving because I’m in some kind of trouble,” Aegon says. “Professional trouble. But I’m not. I’m leaving because I hate this place and everybody in it.” And then, when you wince: “Not you. I didn’t mean you.”

“But I’m not enough of a reason for you to stay.”

“Nobody would be, sunshine.”

From out in the lobby comes the noise of the front door opening, and then Brandon sails into Aegon’s office with a tray of three drinks from Starbucks.

“Hi, Brando,” Aegon says, sounding tired.

“Hey, superstar! I saw your brother outside. He looks as stressed as usual.” Brandon gives Aegon his drink, a Frappuccino with whipped cream and chocolate syrup swirled on top, and then passes you a venti-sized iced latte. You take a sip, cold and sweet and with several generous pumps of vanilla syrup, not sugar-free. “Did I get that right?”

“It’s wonderful,” you assure Brandon, smiling. He smiles back and leaves carrying his own selection from Starbucks, a grande-sized Pink Drink. He closes Aegon’s office door as he departs.

“So,” Aegon says, examining a list he’s made on a yellow legal pad. “The Maroon 5 music video is coming out in early August. They’re doing a little premiere thing at a place in Downtown, some fans who won tickets will be there. You’ll walk the red carpet, I’ll be hanging around as usual. It sounds like your Grey’s Anatomy episode will air in November, so that’s on the horizon too. And you got a callback for the vampire movie.”

You slurp your vanilla latte and stare at the mint green wall. “They’re not going to pick me.”

Aegon tosses the legal pad onto his desk; it lands with a thump. “Why would you say that?”

You shrug morosely, still not looking at him. “I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

“What the hell’s wrong with you? You’re here because you’re trying to be an actress. And it’s working.”

You shake your head, tears brimming in your eyes. “I’ve had two jobs in the five months since I moved to Los Angeles. You lied to get me the first one, and I basically had a mental breakdown at the second and you had to save me. And I’m very grateful for everything you’ve done for me, Aegon, I really am. But everyone else told me I was insane to do this and I think they were right.”

“I’m your agent,” Aegon says. “I’m supposed to get you jobs. But I didn’t make you talented. You did that yourself.”

“I’m not like these people. I don’t look like them, I don’t think like them.”

“And that’s okay,” Aegon insists vehemently. “You can still be an actress.”

“I can’t handle it.” Now you’re sobbing, dabbing your eyes with a Starbucks napkin that Brandon handed you with your latte. It comes away tattooed with dark smudges from your eyeshadow. “I can’t get told that I need a new body or a new face all the time and keep pretending it doesn’t bother me. I can’t assume everyone has the worst intentions. I can’t be naked around strangers and not care. I can’t…I can’t…” I can’t stop wanting him. You stare down at the napkin, humiliated. “I can’t do horrible things like sleep with an almost-married guy and still believe I’m a decent person. And this isn’t fun anymore, and I don’t feel like it’s working, and when people tell me I’m just wasting time and money by being out here I can’t think of reasons why they’re wrong.”

Aegon gets up and comes to you, leans against the edge of the desk where the china bowl of apples rests, lifts your chin and forces you to look at him. “You’re really, really good at this. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“You were good,” you whimper, remembering all the hours you’ve spent watching his films and his shows and his interviews, all the times you’ve fallen asleep to the deep melody of his voice. “And you hated Hollywood so much you gave up on acting and ran to Elysian Park. And now you’re running all the way to freaking Houston, Texas.” And I’m never going to see him again.

“Just because it didn’t last for me doesn’t mean it won’t for you.”

“I don’t belong here—”

“You want this for the right reasons,” Aegon says with such force you don’t dare to interrupt him. “Not for attention, not to get rich, not so people you’ve never met will want to fuck you. And I can’t even begin to tell you how rare that is. You’re going to see this through. You’re not giving up yet. I won’t let you. Because the world is better with you in it the way you are now—bright, brilliant, hopeful, and yeah, naïve sometimes, sure, but real—than as the bitter, soulless person you’ll become if you walk away because someone else told you to. And I believe in you, and I’m fighting like hell for you, and I—” He stops abruptly, and whatever he was going to say next is lost like a sandcastle to the waves, because when he begins again it is a different line of thought entirely. “Your callback is next Tuesday on the 29th. You’re going to it.”

You sniffle into your napkin, but you’d be lying if you claimed you weren’t at least somewhat inspired. “Okay.”

Aegon plucks an apple out of the bowl, goes back to his chair, flops down in it and watches you as he takes a bite, juice glistening on his lips. “I’ll get you the script once they send it over. It sounds like it’s just a conversation with your on-screen mother. They want to make sure you can do the boring scenes too. Should be pretty easy, I’m optimistic. They’re trying to decide between you and one other actress.”

“Okay,” you say again, rallying. I can do this? I can do this. Maybe.

“You liked the guy, right? The vampire?”

“Santi? Yeah, he was great. Friendly and professional.”

“Awesome,” Aegon says, gnawing on his Honeycrisp apple, a tad preoccupied.

A potential conflict occurs to you. “You said the Maroon 5 music video comes out at the beginning of August?”

Another bite. “Yup.”

“What day?”

“Um…” Aegon checks the legal pad. “Friday the 8th. Why?”

“Because I have to fly to Minnesota. But I’ll be back on August 5th, so it’s fine.”

Aegon raises an eyebrow. “Missing your ex-boyfriend?”

You laugh, wiping away the last of the dampness from your eyes with the napkin and then shoving it in your purse. “No, definitely not. I’ve been summoned for bridesmaid dress shopping. My sister is getting married.”

He chomps on his apple. “Not looking forward to it?”

You hesitate, taking an evasive sip of your vanilla latte. “I always like seeing my family. I miss them. But they don’t take the California thing seriously and I’m going to have to spend like ten hours listening to them trying to convince me to become an entertainment lawyer, and I really don’t have the heart for that right now.”

Aegon admires the bitemarks that riddle his apple. “Do you think your family would take it more seriously if I talked to them?”

You are mystified. “How would you do that?”

“By flying home with you.”

You gape at him, stunned. “You can’t go to Minnesota.”

Aegon smirks. “I’m not on a leash. It’s just a few days, right?”

“Well…yeah. I’m leaving Friday the 1st. My mom wanted a full week, I negotiated it down from there.”

“Would they care that I’m a Targaryen?”

You recall how your dad had recognized the name, how your mom gasps over celebrity tabloids at the grocery store. “Probably.”

“Then send Brando your flight information and he can buy me a seat on your plane, or at least on one that’ll land at the airport in Minneapolis around the same time. And I’ll reimburse him in cash.”

“So Becca won’t know where you’re going?”

“Exactly,” Aegon says like there’s no emotion attached to it, just pure logistics.

You finish your latte as you mull this over. It’s wrong for him to lie to his fiancée. It’s wrong for him to abandon her to fly across the country with me. But soon they’ll be married, and she’ll have him forever, every night, every day, every vacation, every holiday, and I won’t even have scraps like the one lunch a week you’d grab with a casual friend. I’ll have nothing but Becca’s agonizingly idyllic posts on Instagram, glimpses into their sun-drenched filtered forever. “We can’t hook up or anything like we did at the gala. Even if it wasn’t…successful.”

“Agreed.” And then Aegon tilts his head to the side. “I hope you don’t think you were at fault.”

You shrug. Of course you do.

Aegon sighs, then gives you a small, crooked smile. “Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. Don’t overthink it.”

“I’ll try not to.”

He stands up. “Let’s go grab something to eat. In-N-Out Burger?”

You look at the homemade bento box on his desk, and you don’t need three guesses to figure out who must have assembled it with such practiced, painstaking care. “Isn’t that your lunch?”

“I’m craving something worse for me.” He offers you what’s left of his Honeycrisp apple, one lone island of gleaming cream-colored flesh marred around the edges with notches left by his teeth. You consider the apple, then take a bite: chewing slowly, licking saccharine juice from your lips. Aegon holds out a hand, asking for one of yours. When you acquiesce, he places your palm on the front of his shorts so you can feel that he’s hard. “Just so you know you weren’t the problem,” he says cavalierly. Then he puts on his sunglasses and leads you outside into the daylight.

Aegon has gotten his white Sebring convertible repaired: no more dent in the front passenger’s side, no more broken headlight. He drives with the top down and the wind in his hair, and the air is hot and golden, and you can’t stop looking over at him.

I can’t want him. He’s getting married, he’s leaving, he’s a mirage, he’s a time bomb.

Aegon’s iPhone is plugged into the aux. One song ends and another begins, Keith Urban’s You’ll Think Of Me. You immediately recognize it because your dad is a Keith Urban fan; he once dragged you to a concert in Saint Paul when you were in high school. Both Clara and Tripp flatly refused. Aegon frowns and skips it. Next up is You Oughta Know by Alanis Morissette.

You ask: “Why do you have a song on your playlist that you don’t want to listen to?”

“I have to be in the right mood for it,” Aegon says. You watch him curiously, and after a moment he adds: “It was my dad’s favorite song.”

“Oh.” His dad who died of a long illness when Aegon was a teenager. His dad who is a ghost that still—I feel, I know—haunts the Targaryen family like a generational curse. “Aegon, what did your dad die of?”

A pause. “Cancer.”

“That’s awful,” you say gently, but in the back of your mind you remember: I searched ‘Viserys Targaryen cancer’ on Google, and nothing came up. Not one article, not one photograph, not a single post on Instagram or Facebook or Twitter. Is that possible? “What kind?”

Another pause. “It metastasized all over.”

“But where did it start?”

“That’s a rude question,” Aegon snaps, and you are immediately repentant. He’s right, it is.

“I’m so sorry. Never mind.”

Aegon pulls into an In-N-Out Burger’s parking lot, orders two cheeseburger combos with Cherry Cokes and Animal-Style fries, pays with cash like he always does.

~~~~~~~~~~

In your bedroom closet, the sunflowers that Aegon once bought for you in the Flower District hang upside down as they dry, becoming perpetual, becoming eternal like a bloodline or a star. On the calendar affixed to the refrigerator with magnets shaped like pineapples, you write reminders for yourself in red ink: a callback on July 29th, an eastbound flight out of LAX on August 1st, a music video premiere on the 8th. This is more of a habit than a necessity. You have a good memory for dates.

You assume that Jace will be thrilled when you tell him you’ll be home in Minnesota for a few days—no one will be here to ask him to turn the television volume down or not to pound on his Yamaha keyboard at 2 a.m.—but instead he seems sad, like you’re a cat he’s gotten used to having around. Jace’s mood improves drastically when Baela informs him that she’ll be stateside for a visit soon. He doesn’t say it, but you know: he misses her like hell.

Brandon finds Aegon a ticket for your flight, and when Aegon boards he pays a teenager with a hoodie and earbuds a hundred dollars in cash to switch seats with him so he can sit next to you. You aren’t sure why, as Aegon doesn’t talk much; he slides on his sunglasses and naps for most of the three and a half hour voyage. As he dozes, his right leg bumps against yours and rests there, benign pressure, corporeal warmth here at a frigid altitude where nothing should survive. You try not to move so Aegon won’t wake up and reposition himself. And although you alternate between staring out the window at clouds and imagining yourself as the heroine in the murder mystery novel you’re reading, your thoughts are very much contaminated by him, poisoned, drugged, irradiated, enlightened.

I’m in love with him, you think calmly at 35,000 feet. It’s wrong and I wish I wasn’t. But I just am.

The plane hits turbulence during the descent, and Aegon jolts awake. “You’re okay,” you soothe, and he gives you a drowsy, grateful smile, his sandy blonde hair falling in his eyes. There’s a family travelling with a toddler in the row in front of you, and the little boy in a blue t-shirt with a shark on it keeps peeking back between the seats and giggling as you entertain him: a tongue darting out like a frog’s, hands over your head like a moose’s antlers. Aegon watches this, fascinated, wistful, and you think to yourself: That is not the face of a man who doesn’t want children.

Your brother Tripp picks you and Aegon up from the airport in his Land Cruiser. He spends most of the ride asking Aegon about various celebrities lawyers he’s met, Robert Shapiro and Shawn Holley and Harvey Levin. At their ornate three-story home in Apple Valley, Minnesota, your parents are dressed like they’re going to a job interview, because being a Targaryen in Hollywood is like being a Kennedy in Washington D.C. and even the very least of them has a certain glitter that people are always hoping will rub off. Aegon thanks them for their hospitality and offers to sleep on a couch. Your parents laugh and show him the guest bedroom.

While he’s in there unpacking his suitcase, you hear Aegon through the closed door chatting on his iPhone. His voice is cheerful and warm and harmless, the same way it often is with you. You are abruptly struck—as if with a blade or fist—by the reminder that none of this is real. A mirage. A time bomb.

“Hey, babe. Yeah, I just made it to Chicago. Oh my God, it’s incredible, my hotel room has a view of the river. That’s the same one they dye green every Saint Patrick’s Day. Uh huh. I will. How are the dogs…?”

You grab your own phone out of your purse and text Mason: Hey, I’m home. Take me to Target?

He replies after a few minutes: I’m kind of talking to this girl at work…

No, it’s literally just Target, you type. Mason agrees. Thirty minutes later you’re jogging down the driveway to climb into his Chevy Silverado as Aegon glares out of the living room window. Clara is busy pinning wedding inspiration photos on Pinterest, Dad and Tripp are watching CNN, Mom is in the kitchen with Angela the housekeeper preparing dinner. They’re making prime rib.

You purposefully take your time at Target, leisurely perusing the makeup aisles and buying an iced vanilla latte from Starbucks. Mason tells you about how his job is going. You tell him about California. When you run out of things to say, you ring up your items at the self-checkout. Then you hide the shopping bag in the bushes outside your parents’ house so Aegon won’t see it and know where you’ve been.

~~~~~~~~~~

“It’s a middle child thing,” Mom says as she nurses her third glass of red wine, her eyes sparkling, her Ann Taylor skirt suit formal but her mannerisms unusually relaxed. She likes Aegon, perhaps too much; she seems to be flirting with him. Your dad, meanwhile, dissects his bleeding slab of prime rib to excise every globule of fat. Clara is scrolling through her phone and picking at her glazed carrots. Tripp is blithely wolfing down mashed potatoes.

Aegon smiles politely, but he doesn’t know what your mom means. “Middle child…?”

“Clara was the oldest, and Tripp was always so clever and so confident, such a natural leader, and so…you know…she was always scrapping for attention.” Mom gives you a fond pat on the back of your hand. Across the table, Aegon’s brow furrows as he eats a homemade yeast roll plastered with butter. You shoot him a dull, resigned glance. This is how it goes. “That’s the only way I can explain her penchant for acting. No one else in the family is like that. We’re…we’re professionals, you know? We’re serious people.”

Tripp snorts. “Mom, you were a waitress.”

“Only until your father was done with medical school, dear!” Then she turns her attention back to Aegon. “And obviously I don’t mean to say that your family members aren’t professionals, Aegon, no no no, but surely you’d agree that there is a world of difference between being an accomplished producer or agent or screenwriter, and doing this…” She waves her glass around, searching for the right word. Red wine sloshes thickly like blood.

“Dabbling?” Dad suggests.

“Yes!” Mom says. “This dabbling that she’s doing out there in Los Angeles. It’s filling some void for…for…oh, I don’t know, praise or identity or something. But eventually she’ll get it out of her system and she’ll come home and grow up. And we’re all looking forward to having her here again, aren’t we?”

Your dad and Tripp grunt in agreement. Clara continues scrolling.

“I actually think she’s pursuing acting for the right reasons,” Aegon says, cordial yet firm. “And that’s pretty rare, in my experience. I mean, I’ve seen her act, she’s a natural. She’s really good. And I can’t picture her doing anything else for a living.”

Your dad forks a tiny, perfectly square morsel of prime rib into his mouth. “Aegon, you are clearly taking your job as her advocate very seriously, and we’re appreciative of that. But even you have to admit, the odds are just…it’s unrealistic, isn’t it? The competition is so fierce. Our little Guthrie Theater in Minneapolis is nothing compared to Hollywood.”

“Guthrie?” Aegon says, intrigued. “Like Woody Guthrie?”

“No, everyone makes that mistake,” you explain. “A completely different Guthrie.” But didn’t I tell him that already? On the day we first met?

“And you did very well there,” Dad says to you. “But the industry out west is cutthroat, I mean you can’t just be competent, you have to be exceptional.”

“I know, Dad,” you reply softly. You keep trying to eat your prime rib, but you suddenly have no appetite. You push the pieces around on your plate, leaving trails of blood and grease.

“She’s found work,” Aegon says, like he’s pointing out something obvious. “It’s not like she hasn’t made any progress. She was in a Grey’s Anatomy episode. She was in a music video for Maroon 5.”

“Oh, I love Maroon 5,” your mom sighs dreamily. She’s barely eaten anything, which isn’t helping with the wine situation.

“But those projects…they haven’t been released yet, have they?” Dad asks.

“Not yet,” Aegon concedes reluctantly. “But they will be soon. We have dates.”

Your mom hums sympathetically. “It all just seems so uncertain, doesn’t it? Maybe she’ll be on tv…maybe she won’t…things can always get shelved at the last minute. Distribution rights can be litigated. Actors can be recast.”

“She’s up for a big part,” Aegon says, like he can’t understand why none of this is penetrating, like he’s trying to convince someone of the color of the sky or the fact that the planet is round. “She has a fifty-fifty shot of being the lead in a movie.”

“A real movie?!” Tripp exclaims. “Damn, that’s lit! What kind of movie? Marvel? James Bond?”

“It’s an independent film,” you say.

His enthusiasm fades. “Ohhh. So like a student film.”

Dad is nodding, vindicated. “Hm. A student film. Hm.”

Tripp begins: “One of my law school friends made student films back in undergrad—”

“It’s not a student film,” you say. “It’s just not funded by a major studio. But it’s still an actual movie.”

“That’s great, honey,” Mom tells you. “Clara, did you figure out what kind of cake you’re going to have at the wedding?”

“This could be her breakthrough,” Aegon says. “Like Winter’s Bone was for Jennifer Lawrence. Little Miss Sunshine was an indie film, and Juno, and Moonlight, and Good Will Hunting, and The Blair Witch Project, this is legit, okay? And if she gets the role, she’s going to be fully committed. Production, press tour, everything. She’ll need your support throughout all of it.”

“You’d need to stay out there in California longer?” Dad asks, looking concerned. You aren’t sure if he’s more worried about his family or his wallet.

“If she’s getting roles, she should stay forever,” Aegon says. “That’s where she wants to be.”

There is an uncomfortable silence that falls over the dining room table. Your parents are frowning, you are shrinking, Tripp and Clara are exchanging a look, some kind of telepathic concurrence on the subject of how ridiculous you are.

Finally, your mom titters woozily. “We’ll just have to see what happens, won’t we? We can cross that bridge when we get there.”

“I knew Kinsley should have been my maid of honor,” Clara mutters, and your parents rush to reassure her that you’ll make time for wedding-related obligations, just like you are now by flying home for dress shopping. Clara resumes scrolling. Tripp scoops himself more mashed potatoes. Beneath the table, one of the Akitas growls at you until you buy its forbearance with a dropped hunk of prime rib.

In the lull between dinner and dessert—Mom and Angela have made an authentic Watergate salad, allegedly invented in Minnesota in the 1970s—you take Aegon out back to show him the patio, the rolling hills, the paddocks of horses grazing as dusk begins to turn the sky the color of gore or flames or love. You are each clasping a glass of wine in your hands; your mom insisted on pouring them. She is in good hostess mode, her own tipsiness notwithstanding.

“And I thought my family was a tough crowd,” Aegon says, gazing at the horses distractedly. “Well, what the fuck am I going to do now? I can’t retire and leave you alone with these people.”

“Guess you aren’t allowed to run away to Texas after all,” you say, smiling weakly. You’re glad he’s here. You hadn’t been able to imagine it before, but now you see it too clearly: trips home with him, holidays with him, a life with him you aren’t entitled too. “Thank you for those things you said.”

“They weren’t favors. They were the truth.”

You look at him, awed, heartbroken, trying to disguise both. “You’re the only person who has ever believed in me.”

“And I don’t even believe in you that much,” Aegon teases, grinning, and he makes you laugh, even here, even now. “If I really am the only one who believes in you, that just means everybody else is stupid. Super stupid. Incurably stupid. Try to remember to mention me in your Oscar acceptance speech.” Then his hand shakes violently and he drops his wine glass, and it shatters on the stones of the patio, and he is mortified. “Oh fuck, I’m so sorry, I’ll clean it up—”

“It’s okay. I’ll help you.” You run inside and return a moment later with a broom and dustpan from the kitchen closet. Aegon takes the broom and you hold the dustpan as he sweeps. “Are you okay?”

“Huh? Yeah, of course, why wouldn’t I be?”

“You hand,” you say. “I thought it was a…I don’t know, like a spasm or something.”

“I saw a bug in my glass. I panicked.”

The dustpan is filling up with jagged nuggets of glass that remind you of something, and then you remember: the broken glass on the floor of his office the night you were together there, the first time, the only time. “So guess what,” you say.

“What?”

“When Mason picked me up, we went to Target. Just Target. And I bought a bunch of makeup and we didn’t even hug.”

Aegon looks down at you from where he’s sweeping. “Seriously?”

“I swear to God.”

He is pacified, you think; and yet he doesn’t understand. “Why?”

“I’m a one-dude kind of girl, unfortunately.”

He smiles, puts the broom aside now that the mess is dealt with, and sits down with you on the stone patio stained with red wine. You both gaze westward to where the sun is setting, and when you rest your head on Aegon’s shoulder, he lets you do it. Then you feel his arm circle around your waist, gentle safe insubstantial weight. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. About his marriage? About his retirement? About what he’s done to me?

“Aegon, why can’t you break up with Becca? Why can’t we give this a real shot?” It’s a question that sounds more like a plea, soft and clandestine.

“You’re very young, and you’re idealistic, and you’re happy. And I wouldn’t be good for you.”

“You leaving Los Angeles won’t be good for me.”

“I told you. I’ll make sure you’re taken care of.”

And he has nothing more to offer, and you can’t bear to ask again, so what’s left say?

Late at night, you try to fall asleep knowing that Aegon is just down the hall in the guest room, and you can’t banish the visions in your skull of you padding across the hardwood floor and climbing into his bed, knowing that he would not reject you, knowing that he would take anything you were willing to give like a vampire drains a victim of blood.

I can’t do it. He’s not mine.

To strengthen your resolve, you open Instagram and go to Becca’s account, once private, now a window she has opened to show you exactly what you can’t have. You scroll through hundreds of photos of her beautiful beachfront house in Malibu that she shares with Aegon, of her beautiful cooking and baking, of the beautiful scenery she has captured in snapshots, of her beautiful face and body. Then, for the first time, you click on the link in her bio to her blog: rebeccawilsonwrites.wordpress.com. Most of her entries are recipes or DIY hacks or accounts of her life with Aegon, and her love for him bleeds from the screen. She writes about their anniversaries, their holidays, their vacations, their rituals that all couples have like religions in miniature. She knows his favorite foods and colors. She is forever stumbling upon trinkets that remind her of him and are gingerly ferried home. She calls him her best friend, the world’s greatest dog dad, the love of her life.

You read from this almanac of their relationship until your tears blur the text and you don’t want to walk down the hallway, don’t want to touch Aegon, don’t want to see him, wish you could go back in time and never set foot in his unassuming little office in Elysian Park, a place named for paradise and yet so hellish, sinful, cursed.

You spy a tab at the top of the blog labeled Poems, and you are puzzled. You had no idea Becca was an actual writer. You browse through a dozen poems, mostly about nature, none particularly gripping or revealing. Then you stumble upon one that catches on you like a fang through flesh. Six Weeks, it is titled. And immediately you are dragged back to Venice Beach where Aegon confessed that about a year ago Becca got pregnant, and then she told him about it—this very wanted child, at least from her perspective—and very soon afterwards she wasn’t pregnant anymore. And if that baby had been carried to term, it could have been born around the start of this summer, if your math isn’t wrong. The poem reads:

Summer

was supposed to be our

savior, the tree limbs arced with fruit

and brimming, pumping xylem-flush

through pinstripe veins the width

of a spider’s leg—and the space between

plates weeping—as the world bellied out

and we recalled the taste of indiscretion

on our spines. The Earth revolved

to frost, and our passion

smothered in brown-upholstered, sterile

heat creeping through the office

vents, the paper sheets, the biting

gleam, my own cells pumping anesthetic

and fate, where every cloud has a scarlet

lining and there is nothing

in the trees but

air.

You put your phone down on your nightstand, curl up beneath the blankets, believe wholeheartedly that you do not deserve to have your name written in the stars.

~~~~~~~~~~

Silver Lake has been a haven for counterculturalists since the early-1900s: communists, bohemians, artists, musicians, civil rights activists, Asian and Hispanic immigrants, people who are gay or trans or otherwise incongruous with mainstream American society. It’s Wednesday, August 6th, and you are here—just northwest of Downtown, Chinatown, and Elysian Park, just east of Hollywood—with Baela and Jace. Baela is briefly home from Paris, and she has a million stories to share; everything she sees and does seems to spawn a new one, ever-multiplying like the heads of a hydra. She buys a coffee and gushes about café au lait. She points out all the words that have come from French, roughly one-third of the English language. She laments the lack of public transportation. She decries fast food.

You are clearly in need of cheering up, and so Baela insists you come along to a shabby little club with a storied history. There are photographs covering the walls, portraits of musicians who have performed here over the past century and writers who have read their works aloud. There is a Red Hot Chili Peppers tribute band playing live. You wish you’d known this in advance so you could refuse to attend. Their music reminds you of Aegon. Your dress is a glittery indigo, and your eyes are painted with shimmering bruise-like shadow to match: Huda Beauty and Anastasia Beverly Hills, Big Dreams and Dark Matter.

It’s crowded and loud, low ceilings and floors wet with spilled drinks. As you wait in line with Baela and Jace by the bar—people are pushing their way to the front to place their orders—you study the photographs on the wall. Right beside where you stand is a massive black and white picture of Woody Guthrie playing an acoustic guitar. According to the plaque below it, he once performed here back in 1941.

“Hey, it’s Woody Guthrie!” you say. “Everyone thinks the theater I worked at back home in Minnesota was named after him.”

Baela nods, a bit forlornly. “Yeah. It’s a shame what happened to Woody.”

“Why? What happened?”

“He died of Huntington’s disease,” Baela says, and then finally sees an opening and surges up to the bartender. She orders beers for herself and Jace and a lemon drop for you. She knows you like them.

“What’s Huntington’s disease?” you ask when she returns.

“Oh, it’s horrible. You lose control of your body and go insane and then you die.”

Viserys? you think, the dread dawning red and primal. “Is it genetic?”

“What?” Baela shouts over the music.

“Huntington’s. Do you inherit it from a parent?”

“I think so,” she says. “Arlo Guthrie didn’t get it. But Woody had two daughters who died pretty young. Around forty.”

Viserys? Aegon? “I’ll be right back,” you tell Baela.

“Don’t you want your lemon drop?!” she calls after you, but you’re already gone.

You sprint into the bathroom, packed with women and drag queens checking their hair and makeup in the mirrors, and barricade yourself in a stall. The light is neon, blue and cold. You yank your phone out of your purse and start Googling. Through the walls, you can feel the quaking reverberation of the bass guitar. You can hear the Red Hot Chili Peppers tribute band starting a new song.

“I got a bad disease,

Up from my brain is where I bleed,

Insanity, it seems,

Has got me by my soul to squeeze…”

Yes, according to Wikipedia, Huntington’s is genetic. A parent with the disease has a fifty-fifty chance of passing it on to each of their offspring. It is incurable. It is invariably fatal.

“Well all the love from me,

With all the dying trees I scream,

The angels in my dreams, yeah,

Have turned to demons of greed, that’s mean…”

You type Viserys Targaryen Huntington’s disease into the Google search bar and wait for the results to load. When the glowing screen starts trembling, you realize your hands are shaking.

“Where I go, I just don’t know,

I got to, got to, gotta take it slow,

When I find my peace of mind,

I’m gonna give you some of my good time…”

And you find a photo you’ve never seen before, not in all your prior Google searches, not in your five months here in Los Angeles. It’s from the early-2000s. It was taken at a fundraiser for the Huntington’s Disease Society of America. In a wheelchair is a twisted greying man identified by the caption as Famed Hollywood producer Viserys Targaryen. His wheelchair is being pushed by a much-younger Alicent, and he is surrounded by faces you recognize, although they were only children then: tiny beaming Daeron, shy Helaena, Aemond, solemn and stoic and already scarred…and Aegon, lurking in the corner of the frame, hands in the pockets of his black suit, gazing hostilely at the photographer from beneath a shock of unruly blonde hair.

Viserys didn’t die of cancer, you realize with horror so visceral it rips the air from your lungs. He died of Huntington’s disease. And that means Aegon could have it too.

[novaursa]

Hellooo I would like to request a fic 💕

Targaryen!reader x Stark character (idk which one out of Benjen, Ned or Brandon)

Based before the northern rebellion. Reader is essentially the Realms Delight and is the apple of her father’s eye lol she gets away with everything mostly.

The setting would be a royal hunt, maybe dedicated to someone’s nameday (reader or aerys either work).

Reader meets the Stark family (like for the first time officially) and both are entranced by one another.

Dangerous Gaze

Requests are closed!

- Summary: You meet Brandon Stark for the first time, and the dragon falls for the wolf.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Brandon Stark

- Note: These events happen before Robert's Rebellion.

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Next part: the hunt

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

You have always found royal hunts dull—an endless parade of sycophants eager to flatter your father, the king, while the smell of damp earth and animal musk clings to your clothes. But today, you sense something different in the air, something electric. Perhaps it’s the arrival of the Stark family from the North, specifically their eldest son, Brandon.

Father had decided to organize this hunt to celebrate his nameday, and while the horns of his courtiers sounded joyously through the forest, you could tell his mood was as changeable as the wind. You, however, are looking forward to it for one reason—Brandon Stark.

You’ve heard of him, of course, the wild wolf of Winterfell, a man said to be as fierce as the North itself. But hearing rumors is one thing; seeing him in person is another. And when Lord Rickard Stark introduces his son to your family for the first time, you feel the world tilt just a little.

Brandon stands tall, with wind-tossed brown hair and the sharp eyes of a predator. When he bows, it’s as if the very trees of the Kingswood are bending with him. His gaze, however, is fixed entirely on you.

Your father’s booming voice cuts through the air. "Lord Rickard, and his…pups," Aerys greets, a smirk tugging at his lips as he looks them over. "The North sends its best, I see." His gaze lingers a bit too long on Brandon, and you notice a twitch in his eye.

But you’re too distracted by Brandon's piercing stare to care. His grey eyes lock with yours, and it feels as if he’s stripping away all the pomp and circumstance that surrounds you, leaving just you—the woman, not the princess.

“Your Grace,” Brandon says in a low voice that seems to echo in your ears. His eyes flicker briefly to your father, but they keep returning to you as though he can’t help himself. "It’s an honor to meet you all."

Aerys’ face tightens, the playful humor vanishing from his expression like a wisp of smoke. His fingers twitch slightly, the faintest sign of irritation. "An honor, yes…" His voice drips with something you recognize all too well���danger, veiled in civility.

You smile sweetly, stepping forward to greet the Starks. “And what brings the wolf so far south? Surely not just to hunt game.”

Brandon’s smile widens, his confidence palpable. “I could ask you the same, princess. Though I suspect the real hunt has only just begun.” His tone is playful, teasing, and you feel warmth rise in your cheeks.

Aerys doesn’t miss the exchange, nor the way Brandon’s gaze seems to devour you whole. His voice grows sharp, though still masked with a veneer of civility. “Careful, Lord Stark. The woods here can be treacherous, full of snares and traps. Not everything is as it seems.”

Brandon doesn’t flinch, though you notice the way his jaw tightens. “I’ve faced worse than the Kingswood, Your Grace.”

Aerys’ laughter is cold, echoing through the clearing like a death knell. “Oh, I do not doubt it. But sometimes, even a wolf finds itself caught in a trap it cannot escape. Perhaps by a rope…perhaps by something else.” His gaze flicks over Brandon with unmistakable malice.

You feel your stomach churn at the implication. Your father’s madness has been growing for years, but this—this is something darker. He’s hinting at a future only he seems to see, one where Brandon is caught in his own webs of power and madness.

But Brandon merely inclines his head, undeterred. “I’ll keep that in mind, Your Grace.”

Aerys seems unsatisfied by Brandon’s calm demeanor and turns his attention back to you, his expression softening. “And you, my jewel,” he says, his voice dripping with possessiveness. “Be careful where you cast your gaze. Some wolves have sharp teeth.”

You suppress an eye-roll, though the temptation is strong. “Father, I’m hardly defenseless.”

“I’m sure,” Aerys replies, though his tone suggests he’s far from convinced.

As the hunt progresses, Brandon stays close, much to your delight and your father’s displeasure. You exchange glances, something unspoken between you simmering beneath the surface. And though Aerys’ dark warnings hang in the air, you can’t help but feel drawn to the Northern wolf.

Whatever your father’s madness sees in Brandon’s fate, you’re not afraid. After all, you’ve always enjoyed a bit of danger.

[nihilnovisubsole]

Hello I see you worked on avowed I'm playing it right now. I just wanna say. To Whoever decided I should be allowed to SPOILERS confess Feelings to Kai despite there being no traditional companion romance system. END SPOILERS Kisses you on the mouth. i love him so much. He's such a loveable, charming character and Brandon Keener's voice work has me giggling and kicking my feet while I play.

i believe it was carrie patel who made the decision to write that for kai. we knew brandon could pull it off admirably. i'll pass your message along!

i don't want to speak for anyone or stomp on any NDAs, but i don't think the perception that obsidian hates romance is true. for all i know, it was true at some point, but i've picked people's brains about it, and i've heard a whole spectrum of thoughts beyond "ew girl cooties lmao." some aren't opposed to it, but have no desire to do it themselves. some are interested in trying, but nervous about their inexperience. others think the whole narrative team should be bought in to writing romanceable characters to make it worth the effort. we even have a handful of advocates who love writing it and think we should rise to the challenge in a bioware-and-BG3 world. frankly, it comes down far less to "does obsidian dig romance" and far more to the dull math of production costs. do we have the time and resources? that sort of thing.

how do i feel about it? i mean, of course i'm a sicko, so i think it'd be great fun to write romanceable characters someday. i'd probably want to consider the characters carefully, though. if i'm going to shoot a shot like that, i have to bring my A game!!

[evans23]

RICKMAS 2024 - DAY 7 - QUIET WISHING [A2]

Pairing : Colonel Brandon x OC

Summary : The Colonel is ready to move on and to taste the delight of happiness, but your secret weighs too heavily on your shoulders.

Tag(s)/Warning(s) : Sadness. Depression. Mention of Abortion.

DECEMBER MOON : Part I

Also read on AO3 - Wattpad

Colonel Brandon's heart was beating to a new rhythm. The rhythm of happiness at having found someone who seemed genuinely interested in him and not in his fortune, his title or his domain. You made him smile. Better yet, you made him happy.

He still remembered your father's face when he had asked him for permission to court you. The poor man had not believed it, you whose sharp mind had scared away more than one man, here was one of the richest and most respected men in the county interested in you and did not seem put off by your intelligence which sometimes bordered on insolence. But he also feared that Brandon wanted to take advantage of you.

"My daughter... She is not like the ladies you usually frequent in the salons, Colonel," your father had told him.

"Exactly, I don't want a lady who just smiles and sits idle while spending my money," Christopher had replied in his deep voice.

"She... [Y/N] is already 28 years old and has never been... courted or proposed to... that should... worry you," your father had suggested.

Christopher had found your father's concern cute. He had recognized in him a man worried about your well-being. He had reassured him of his intentions and your father who could not miss your annoyed and pleading look had said yes.

But at already 38 years old, Christopher did not want to spend months and months playing the game of convenience. He wanted to marry you quickly.

And you too, for your part, did not want to wait any longer to leave your father's home for the safety of a husband. But the happiness you had of being courted and loved by a man like him was tainted by the fear you had that he might one day know.

"[Y/N], is everything okay ?" Brandon asked you, looking genuinely worried.

You jumped slightly before smiling at him, your mind returning to the inside of the carriage that was gently shaking you on the bumpy road.

"Yes, very well, I... it's just that this is the first time I'm going to go to the Jennings and Mrs. Jennings... she's invited me often but I didn't feel like I belonged there..."

That wasn't really all that was bothering you but you didn't want to tell him the truth. If Christopher didn't believe you, he didn't show it, too busy admiring you in the wool coat he'd given you before you left, a coat that fit you and would keep you warm all winter.

The Jennings welcomed you warmly. He already knew that Christopher was courting you and although Mrs. Jennings' insinuations had made you uncomfortable at times, the day had been pleasant. But you didn't feel entirely at home in this world. You didn't know all the rules of etiquette and you were always a little slouched, a position reinforced by your feelings of inadequacy.

"You'll learn," Christopher said kindly when you confided your doubts, "I'll help you and if you wish, I can have a governess come and see you every day. But [Y/N], I'm not asking you for anything, you know that, right ?"

You nodded gently, grateful for what he was willing to do for you, to help you integrate into his world.

That night, lying in your bed with Henry by your side, covered with several blankets to counter the cold wind that was seeping in through the gaps in the windows, a dull anxiety invaded you. What you were doing was wrong. You were going to make this honest and sincere man suffer who didn't deserve it, a man who wouldn't even look at you anymore if he knew the truth, if he knew who you really were.

12 years ago

You were sixteen years old and you were considered one of the most beautiful girls in your village. Your long brown hair that you rarely bothered to style like a real lady, your soft and delicate face, your big green eyes, your natural kindness and your intelligence made you a rather singular person. You had few friends and the boys didn't really look at you, intimidated that you could hold a real conversation.

But you didn't care, you were still so innocent about things of love. You had a simple life with your father, a man who gave you more freedom than any other girl in your village could have dreamed of having.

No one looked at you except him. A lord's son, no less than that who had noticed you one day at the spring festival that was organized every year thanks to the kindness of his father. This year the old lord had not been able to come and it was him who had come. Tall, elegant, dark-haired with a nonchalant attitude, he had immediately caught your eye. He didn't look like anyone you knew. Nobody. And you didn't look like any of the ladies he rubbed shoulders with either. Why he had noticed you among all the others, you don't know and you would never understand, but it had been the case.

He had spoken to you to talk about the weather. He was charming, disarming too. He wasn't flattering and his sincerity had made you waver, giving rise to a mixture of excitement and nervousness.

That evening, when you returned home, you couldn't forget the smile that lit up his face, but you knew that you couldn't expect anything from this meeting. You were just grateful that he had been kind enough to speak to you, to treat you as an equal.

Except that you had seen her again. Once. Twice. Three times. And he had ended up admitting to you that if he came back to the village so often, it was to see you. Each time, he had a little gift for you: a drug, a silver brooch, a handkerchief embroidered with his initials, gifts that you kept preciously in a wooden box hidden under your bed. Not to mention the dozens and dozens of letters that you exchanged, hiding them in the gap of a stone wall on the edge of the village that secretly kept your correspondence while the other went to get the letter addressed to him. The drawer of your dresser was filled with the languorous words that he wrote to you every week.

"We could leave," he had told you one day.

"Where would we go ?"

"Anywhere. We'll get married in Scotland and then... We could go to America. Or this new land that he calls Australia. They say that there everything is big and everything is wild. We would be free to be what we want."

He kept telling you that your difference in status, in rank, was of no importance and he insisted a little more each time that you leave. And soon, he had infected you with his dreams of escape, of distant landscapes and of a future where conventions, social statuses would not exist.

Back to the present

"[Y/N], will you come with me to the Christmas party that the Jennings are organizing the night before ?"

Christopher was standing in your living room, his hands nervously playing with his hat while your father prepared tea in the next room, Henry at his side hoping to see him drop a biscuit.

"I... I'm not sure I have my place at such an evening," you answered, your cheeks blushing slightly.

You knew that the Jennings would receive prestigious guests, accustomed to the codes of this kind of evening.

"I will stay by your side the whole time," Christopher promised.

You looked up as your father came back into the room, nodding vigorously behind Christopher to urge you to say yes.

"Very well," you murmured.

The Colonel smiled, a shy smile on his lips, the same one that always made you melt.

"If you agree, Mr. [Y/S], I could take [Y/N] into town to buy her a dress for this evening."

"There's no need..." you began but your father almost immediately interrupted you to give his consent.

As you walked side by side, you could feel the eyes of the evil tongues who whispered about the fact that you didn't have a chaperone. Christopher didn't care. After all, you were practically his fiancé and at your ages, there were many other things to worry about. Besides, he was a man of honour, he would never have touched you before making you his wife.

But those whispers tightened your throat, taking you back years.

11 years ago

After a year of dreaming and hoping, you had abruptly learned the truth from a maid at the manor where the man you loved lived. He was engaged. Engaged to a woman of his rank.

"Is it true then ?" you had asked him when you had seen each other in your secret place, far from the eyes of the village.

"[Y/N], I... I am from an important family. I must honour my name."

"You promised me! You told me that our difference in status meant nothing, that we would run away."

"I shouldn't have let you believe that, it was a mistake."

"William," you whispered, tears welling up in your eyes.

"[Y/N], it was a dream. A beautiful dream, but you have to wake up now."

And he continued like this, in a cold voice, pretending that everything you had experienced, shared didn't count, was nothing.

"I'm leaving the region at the end of the month. I'm going to Wales. The wedding will take place there and we will settle in one of my father's properties. I'm sorry [Y/N], but you are intelligent, you must have suspected that all this was only ephemeral."

He stroked a lock of your hair, then he turned away and left without a backward glance, leaving you alone with your sorrow, your broken heart, your body in pain.

You fell to your knees, crying silently. You stayed there for a long time, hours. It was almost dark when you finally returned home. You felt empty, betrayed, in another world, so much so that you hadn't even heard your father's remonstrances.

The next day, you burned everything: the letters, the gifts, you wanted to erase him entirely from your existence. But it was too late. He had already left an indelible mark on you.

Back to the present

A lump in your throat, you listened to Christopher talk to you about the future. Children he hoped to have with you.

You had to tell him. He had to know what you had done 16 years ago. You couldn't let him believe that you were a young virgin saved for her husband. You had to tell him everything. But once again, you were too cowardly to do it, promising yourself once again that tomorrow, tomorrow you would talk to him.

But you didn't, the days passed, you kept your secret, your regrets, your remorse and your guilt with you. But on this December 23rd, Christopher did something you didn't expect.

He came to your house without you expecting it. Your father was busy at the Hawthorne's. He was preparing the tables and the decorations for their Christmas reception. However, you didn't hesitate to let Colonel Brandon come home. You knew you had nothing to fear with him, and besides, your four-legged companion would protect you if necessary.

Christopher stood in front of you, a little nervous. He felt a certain resistance in you, but he hoped that what he was going to ask you would break down your last defences and that you would teach him to understand your silences and your sometimes shifty glances.

"[Y/N], I wanted to ask you something," he began, pacing back and forth.

You were sitting by the fireplace, your heart pounding.

"I love you. With a deep and sincere love."

Your breath caught in your throat as he stopped in front of you, his hands crossed behind his back.

"I don't want to wait any longer. I don't want to waste any more time. I know I want you in my life. You touched my heart when I thought it was no longer possible."

"Colonel Brandon," you said, emotion choking your voice somewhat.

Christopher looked at you surprised. You only called him that in public, never in private, not since he asked you to use his Christian name.

"I..."

You couldn't continue. Sensing your hesitation, he took your hands in his, so strong, so powerful.

"I know I'm not perfect. I'm not the most handsome man in the kingdom, and my past has been filled with pain and regret. But I'm grateful to God for making me endure all of this. Thanks to it, I learned to recognize a true soul."

"Christopher," you began but he stopped you by raising his hand.

"I would like us to go to the Jennings' party tomorrow night as your fiancé and for you to allow me to tell my best friend that you have agreed to become my wife."

You turned pale. As if he could sense the tension emanating from your entire being, Henry came to rest his head against your leg. You absently took him on your lap, your eyes wide.

You looked up to see the hope in Christopher's, and you felt sick. You put Henry back on the ground and stood up abruptly to walk away.

"[Y/N]," Christopher said softly.

He didn't understand. What were you doing ? You weren't like Marianne, you couldn't be. He had thought he saw in you what he had been looking for for so long, and here you were about to break his heart, like all the others.

"I can't," you whispered.

His words were like a slap in the air. Brandon took a step back, hurt.

"Why ?" he asked firmly, "was I just a game to you ?"

"No ! Never ! I... Christopher... I..."

Tears welled up in your eyes and you bit your bottom lip until it bled.

"[Y/N], explain yourself. I want to know," he commanded.

"I'm not what you think I am. You deserve a much better woman than me who is worthy of walking by your side."

"[Y/N], I don't expect you to be perfect. But I want you to be honest."

"Honest... I wish I was, but I'm afraid you'll never look at me again."

"[Y/N], what do you mean ?"

Christopher felt worry rising in him. What could you possibly be hiding ?

"I... you'll probably despise me after this, but please, don't tell anyone, ever. I'm telling you because I owe it to you. What I did was wrong. I shouldn't have given you false hope, but please, Colonel Brandon... Christopher... keep my secret, I beg you."

You were crying for real now. Christopher helped you sit up and handed you a glass of water.

"Despising you ? Never. What could you have done that was so bad ?"

His tone was soft, his gaze worried. You hesitated for a split second, then spilled the beans.

"There... many years ago, when I was only 16 years old, I let myself be seduced by a young lord. He... he was insidiously sweet and he made me a thousand and one promises. He promised me a bright future, dreams that I would never have dared to imagine, but...

11 years ago

"My dear, you haven't stopped throwing up for three days. We should really call the doctor," your father had told you tenderly.

"It's not necessary, Dad. We don't have much money and I'll get better soon, there's an epidemic in the village. I probably caught it when I went to sell our apples to Mr. DeGardener."

Your father had nodded, even if he remained worried about you. But you knew you were lying. You weren't sick. It was worse than that.

Two months ago, William had taken you to his house in secret. A magnificent home like you had never seen before. His parents were away, traveling to Scotland with three-quarters of the servants. He had let you in discreetly, under the noses of the few servants still present.

He had taken you to his room, kissed you on the cheek, forehead, nose, mouth. Up until then, nothing more than what you had already done. He then went down your neck and one of his fingers had gently lowered the collar of your dress to place a kiss on the top of your breasts. Out of breath, you had let him do it.

He slid his other hand along your leg, raising your dress up your thigh to place his hand under your drawers, and there again, you had not pushed him away. You knew what was going to happen, you were not as naive as you seemed... well, at least you liked to think so.

Several times, he had asked you if you were sure, if you wanted him to stop. When he had unbuttoned your dress, when he had slid it down your body, when he had removed your wool socks, your undershirt and one last time, before his hands slid your drawers down your legs

And after you had whispered "yes" to him one last time, he had laid you down on his bed and had taken your purity, your innocence, your entire body.

You obviously couldn't tell your father this, but there was one person you could confide in. You knew she wouldn't judge you and she would never tell him again.

You had waited until the next morning, for your father to leave for work to leave him a note and you had left for your grandmother's house. She lived in a modest house a little outside the village, nestled at the end of a path lined with old twisted trees that filtered the autumn light, making their foliage almost unreal.

With bruised feet and a fragile mind, you had timidly knocked on the door, your shoulders weighed down by an emotional fatigue that devoured you more than anything else. Your grandmother had come to open the door. When she saw you, her face had lit up with a toothless smile. Her white hair was tied up in a strict bun and her face, marked by the years, was marked by a little more worry when she saw you with red eyes and a defeated expression.

"Grandma, I didn't know where to go," you had said, bursting into tears.

She had immediately pulled you into her arms. You still remembered her scent of lavender and wood and for the first time since William had abandoned you, you felt safe.

She had led you to the fire and while she made tea, you had unpacked everything. Absolutely everything, while your grandmother had sat in her old, worn armchair, a blanket around her shoulders, listening to you without saying a word.

"My dear," your grandmother had finally said at the end of your story.

"I loved him, Grandma. And I believed him when he said he would marry me," you had said in a hoarse, almost inaudible voice.

"I know, my dear. But you are not the first young girl to be taken in by the sweet promises of a young man in search of pleasure."

"He left me like I was nothing. Like we had nothing in common and all his promises were nothing but wind," you said, crying even harder.

"You're no less precious, [Y/N]. No one needs to know what happened, it's yours," your grandmother had said wisely.

"Except... Oh, Grandma ! I'm expecting his child !"

Your tears had redoubled, almost choking you as your throat was so tight.

"There is no forgiveness for girls like me. I'm lost and when the whole village finds out, my father's name will be sullied."

The old woman had immediately stood up to hug you.

"No one needs to know. You made a mistake, that's true, but that doesn't define you. Neither you nor your worth. It's what you do from now on that matters," she had said firmly.

"What am I going to do, Grandma ?"

The old woman thought silently for a moment, her fingers clenched on the armrest of the chair you were sitting in.

"I... I'm going to go see your father..."

"NO !" you cried.

She silenced you with a look, the same kind of look she used to make you understand, when you were a child, that you were getting a little too insolent.

"I'm going to tell him that I'm not doing very well and that I want to go on a pilgrimage to talk to God. He'll tell me that I'm too old and I'll tell him that's why I want you to come with me, to watch over me."

"Where shall we go, Grandma ?"

"I know a place where we can help you."

"Grandma, you're not judging me, are you ?" you asked, consumed by guilt.

She took your hand in hers and squeezed it with all her strength.

"My poor little darling. You carry a weight that is far too heavy for a young girl, but you are not the first young woman to let a man abuse you. Listen to me carefully, this secret will be ours and you must never, ever let it define you or dictate the rest of your life, understood ?"

You didn't answer and she squeezed your hands a little tighter.

"Understood ?" she asked again with more force.

"Yes," you breathed.

"Good. I'm going to take you to a small, remote convent run by sisters who are rather... let's say more caring than others. They'll give you a choice. Either stay there until you're delivered and they'll then take care of your child, entrust him to a good family who can't have one or..."

You saw her hesitate and you raised a questioning look.

"Or what, grandmother ?"

"Or some of them know... they know how to make angels."

Your breath hitched. You knew what she meant.

"It will be your decision, [Y/N], but know that no matter what you decide, you will do what you believe is right and I, I will always love you just as much."

She hugged you again, whispering to you that anyone who dared to judge you would know nothing of the weight of the human heart. And a week later, you found yourself in this convent, surrounded by sisters who were not as caring as promised, who had made disparaging remarks to you under the disapproving gaze of your grandmother, but despite the sermons, one of them had created an angel and you had returned home as you had left, at least in appearance. But the specter of your guilt, you knew, would never leave you.

Back to the present

"It was supposed to be the best solution, an end, but it was only a beginning. I woke up after days of fever, weakened, my body bruised and my heart... my heart completely empty," you said without even trying to hold back your tears.

Christopher looked at you, his features serious but his eyes not devoid of compassion. He had listened to you from start to finish without interrupting you.

"That day, I lost my faith and my dignity. You see, Christopher, I am not what you think. I am not pure. I am just a slut who... who made an angel out of the child she was expecting. I am not worthy of you, of your love."

A heavy silence fell, broken only by your sobs. Christopher crossed the distance between you and took one of your hands in his. You tried to pull it away, but he stopped you.

"Please, Colonel, don't tell anyone. My father never knew, nor did anyone in our village. This secret belonged only to my grandmother and me. Today, my grandmother is no longer of this world, I am the only one carrying this secret. Please, please, keep it to yourself, I only revealed it to you so that you understand why we can't be together," you said in one go.

"[Y/N], look at me" he asked with authority.

You timidly looked up, afraid to see anger in his eyes, but you only saw love.

"I don't despise you. All I see is a young woman who, far too young, had to go through hell. But you came out stronger. And today, you don't have to carry that burden alone anymore," he said in a soft voice.

You shook your head violently, ready to protest, but he stopped you.

"You have survived much pain, much suffering that few could have borne," he continued with unwavering compassion, "and you are still here, standing before me, strong, fighting. It takes a strength that I can only admire, not despise."

"But I am not pure. I am broken," you whispered.

"And me too, life has broken me many times. But I got back up every time, like you. Life is like that. We all carry our burdens, but they shape us. You are not broken [Y/N], you are like a reed. The wind wanted to break you in two, but you only bent for a moment before getting back up."

His words resfelt like a balm on your bruised heart and for the first time in a long time, you saw hope and the possibility of finally letting those old wounds heal.

"I don't deserve you," you said weakly.

He squeezed your hand a little tighter as if to anchor you to reality.

"You deserve all the love in the world. And I love you. I love you as you are, for who you are. No matter who you were, what you've done. And if you're ready to accept me with my own demons, then I promise to love you, to protect you and together we will build a future far from the ghosts that haunt us. A future where there will be only hope, happiness and you can always lean on me."

You probed him as if to make sure he wasn't playing you, but you saw only sincerity and love on his features.

"[Y/N], do you agree to be my wife ?" Christopher asked softly.

"Yes," you said between sobs.

He held you close, resting his chin on the top of your head. When the front door opened, he quickly stepped back.

"[Y/N], what's going on here ?" your father asked, looking at Christopher suspiciously.

"Dad..."

"I asked [Y/N] to be my wife and she agreed," Christopher answered for you.

Your father's face might have made you laugh if you weren't still reeling from the confession you had just made.

"Well, that's a surprise," he finally said, sitting down heavily on an armchair.

The Colonel took his leave, not without kissing your forehead tenderly, almost possessively before taking his leave.

The next day, he picked you up for the evening at the Jennings, a ring between his fingers.

"It belonged to my mother," he told you as he slipped it onto your finger. "And now, it's yours. And you're mine," he said as he kissed your temple.

And you left for the Jennings, you wrapped in the wool coat that Christopher had given you, he had the biggest smile you'd ever seen on his face. And in that dark night where the cold bit your cheeks, you let yourself go against him when in the carriage, he wrapped his arms around you to warm you. But it wasn't so much his arms that warmed you as the promise of a future that you had never dared to hope for before. And silently, you thanked the heavens for having heard your quiet wishing.

[dragonfly0808]

How the Squad Found Out About that One Time Riven and Flora Kissed

First part of the chapter takes place during s4, second part is back in s2 ch28, right after the end of the chapter.

I’d originally planned to have Flo and Riv kiss in that chapter but decided against it last minute cause I just wasn’t sure how to make it clear that, while there could’ve been something there, and they both feel that, there are no actual romantic feelings between the two.

The possibility of them? Yes. the reality of them? No.

I feel like Riven and Flora have the most distinct platonic soulmate relationship, mainly because they’re the main ones I really could see falling for each other if things had been different and if they hadn’t meet Musa and Helia and I wanted to get that across in a poetic way but not a tragic way ya know? They didn’t lose anything for not falling for each other in this universe and they are still a huge part of each other’s lives if that makes sense?

Whatever, I’ll stop rambling, hope u enjoy this little drabble! I will be posting it on AO3 probably later on

***

It’d been a slow week, no activity from the Wizards and Roxy’s classes progressing nicely.

The squad had decided to have a quiet game night, with some alcohol coming into the mixture at some point.

At the moment, they were playing Truth or Dare.

In all honesty, there was very little they didn’t know about each other, but even after so long, there were still a few things that could surprise them from time to time.

Stella considered her turn, the bottle on the ground dictating that she’d gotten Riven.

The coward had chosen truth.

There were few things she could ask him that could result in anything majorly interesting.

Unless… Stella glanced towards Flora, who was leaning against Helia, his arm wrapped around her shoulders.

Anyone who had eyes could tell Flora and Riven had adored each other since their first year. That was obvious. At this point it was also obvious that, while they didn’t see each other as siblings, they didn’t see each other in any kind of romantic light either.

…but she would be lying if she said that she wasn’t curious about whether or not they ever had, even for a fleeting moment. Especially since she did remember one particular evening during their second year in which they’d both seemed… almost bashful with each other.

Should she?

Stella slowly leaned back against Brandon’s chest, meeting Riven’s challenging look, “Okay, I know what I want to ask.”

Riven spread his hands, “Go on then buttercup.”

“Have you ever… kissed someone in this room-” she ignored the snorts, continuing, “who wasn’t Musa?”

Riven froze for a split second, clearly flabbergasted before casting a single quick glance towards Flora, who had sunk into Helia’s arms, covering her face as she flushed.

“Listen-”

“I FUCKING KNEW IT!” Stella shouted, slamming a hand against the ground.

Musa broke down into giggles as she turned to Riven, “What?”

“No- it- it was before we were dating obviously. It was dumb we just…”

“We were fucking up a lot with you two so we got a little drunk and we kissed to seal our depressing marriage pact.” Flora explained.

Helia chuckled under his breath before turning to Riven with mock anger, “You got a marriage pact with my girl? What happened to the bro code?”

“We were drunk, depressed and hating on love. She was obsessed with you, I was obsessed with Musa but we were fully convinced we’d just fucked everything up for good- cut us some slack man!”

They all burst out laughing, clinging to each other as they Flora somehow sunk further into the floor and Riven hid his face in Musa’s neck.

***

Flora was thinking, unable to focus on the book in her hand. She could feel the alcohol at the base of her skull, a dull thump, barely there but just present enough to make her think.

She’d freaked out on Helia.

Riven loved her. He was her person.

Did that mean something? Or did she just want a connection that her baggage didn’t impede?

She turned to him, watching him as he tinkered on one of his projects, trying to think objectively.

He noticed after a moment, meeting her gaze, “Something wrong?”

“No, I was just… thinking.”

“About?”

He’d freaked out on Musa.

Flora loved him. She was his person.

But how did she love him? Was her mind playing tricks on her?

“Have you ever thought… that maybe… you and I should try?”

One of his eyebrows slowly rose up as he set down his tools and fully turned to face her, crossing his arms and leaning back, “I won’t lie… the thought did cross my mind once or twice… before I really started catching feelings for Musa. You?”

“Same. Before I fell for Helia… I don’t know, maybe I thought about it in passing.” But she would’ve never acted on it even back then because she knew Musa had a crush.

“It’s weird isn’t it… if not just sad. That we’ve had so little love in our lives that now we’re doubting what we have.” Riven muttered under his breath, letting his head fall back as he sighed.

“Yeah… should we… do something about it?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know.”

Riven raised his head, inspecting her before going to join her on the small couch, sitting besides her.

“Should we kiss?” He asked, it sounded like he was asking himself just as much as he was asking her.

Flora considered, “I mean… could be like… sealing the marriage pact?” She took a deep breath, shaking off her nerves, this was her person, worst case scenario, it might be a bit gross, “Okay. I’m in if you’re in.”

Riven nodded along, “Okay.”

He leaned down to meet her halfway. It was a hesitant, yet gentle kiss, soft and slow as they both tried to figure out how they felt about it.

Seconds passed and they pulled apart, both leaning against the couch, staring at the wall before them.

“I mean… it didn’t feel… wrong.” She started hesitantly.

“But it didn’t feel right either.”

“Exactly.”

They glanced at each other before laughing light-heartily. Blushing out of embarrassment and awkwardness.

“If things were different… maybe then.” He said after a long minute.

She shrugged, bumping her shoulder against his, “Maybe in another life.”

He snorted, “Yeah, maybe in another life.”

[honeyscovet]

A short fic idea. Like Niko keeping tabs on Bran even before the initiation, like it's just Niko's thought and his stalking tendency. At first he would try to get info to use against Landon,Like he would not the whole schedule of Bran, get his pics , his social media. About the social service work.

Literally everything, and while stalking he slowly becomes obsessive and possessive , which leads him to eliminate anyone and everyone who comes within Brandon's vicinity. He would also leave some notes or something.

Not a full fledged relationship just Niko being a stalker

Thank you so much for the ask! This is EXACTLY what I wanted to write for some time now so thanks, Anon!

I love my obsessive, stalker Niko so much!

Enjoy! <3

It all starts as a game.

A challenge. A fuck you to Landon King, because Nikolai is so over that bastard’s bullshit. He’s sick of the arrogance, the smirks, the way Landon walks around like he owns every damn space he steps into. And Niko? He’s ready to knock him down a few pegs. Or better yet, leave him bleeding on the ground after he’s done with him.

But to really take him down, Niko needs leverage. Something that cuts deep.

His first thought? Glyndon King. The King Princess. But he immediately scraps that idea—he’s already seen Little Anni sniffing around her, and he’s not about to touch that mess.

Then there’s Brandon King. The golden boy twin. The one who’s nothing like Landon, always staying just outside the chaos, watching with quiet disapproval. Always the responsible one, the reasonable one.

Niko nearly dismisses him too. Everyone knows the King twins don’t exactly get along—what kind of power would Brandon really hold over Landon?

But then the decision makes itself.

It happens during a particularly brutal fight at the underground club, where Niko has Landon pinned to the ground, knuckles stained red, enjoying every single hit he lands.

Then—

“STOP!”

The world shifts.

The noise of the crowd vanishes, the heat of the fight dulls, and when Niko looks up, all he sees are those eyes.

Clear, sharp cerulean blue.

Brandon King, standing there, staring right at him.

And for the first time in Niko’s life, he forgets what he’s doing. Forgets where he is. Forgets everything but Brandon fucking King.

And just like that, the game changes.

Because now, Niko knows exactly what his leverage is.

Will add more to this when this gets posted on ao3! <3

[rotgirll]

⋆˙ 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐬

𝗽𝗿𝗲 𝗮𝗽𝗼𝗰𝗮𝗹𝘆𝗽𝘀𝗲- 𝗿𝗶𝗰𝗸 𝗴𝗿𝗶𝗺𝗲𝘀 𝘅 𝗳!𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿

♱ 18+ 𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘰 𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘱𝘭𝘰𝘵, 𝘮𝘥𝘯𝘪

you knew it was wrong, the looming cloud of consequences hung heavy over your head. the thought of your father's fury fed into the anxiety that had coursed through your veins hours ago, but now, as you stood on the edge of recklessness, it was adrenaline that rushed through your veins.

the room pulsed with the thump of the music. the haze of the alcohol began to make you feel giddy, the room spinning slightly and your vision becoming blurry. despite the warning bells going off in your head, you found yourself shoved forward by reckless abandon, fuelled by the thrill of the moment. 

your hands anxiously tugged at the hem of your short skirt, a futile attempt at regaining some of your modesty back. you'd lost sight of your friends a little while ago, swept away by the fascination of the free alcohol and the company of the guy who had been eyeing you all night.

but now, as you moved through the crowd of people, his persistent presence was beginning to feel suffocating. he trailed behind you like a lost puppy, his gaze following your every move with an unwavering intensity. it was starting to wear on your nerves, the constant feeling of being watched, of being followed against your will.

with a frustrated sigh, you spun harshly on your heels, the motion sharp and decisive. the abrupt movement seemed to catch the stranger off guard, his eyes widening in surprise as you faced him head-on.

"look, brayden or brandon, whatever your name is," you called out, your voice laced with frustration, "just... stop following me around like you're a lost puppy or something."

your words hung in the air, and a significant tension swirled around you as you spun back on your heels and walked away, not bothering to wait for his response. the dim lights of the party flickered overhead, and the commotion of the drunk mob gradually subsided as you made your way through the dimly lit halls of the home, your destination fixed on the bathroom.

finally, after pushing open every single unlocked door, and trudging your way around the upstairs of whoever's home this was, you found it. a hefty sigh of relief escaped your lips as the familiar white, sterile room lit up before your eyes.

you quickly locked the door behind you and reached for the tap, the cool water soothing against your parched lips as you gathered it in your hands and took a refreshing sip. meeting your tired gaze in the mirror, a grimace tugged at your lips. god, you looked rough. after five hours of partying, dancing and drinking, it wasn't exactly a shock. but still, seeing the evidence of the nights activities was enough to make a pang of regret pierce through you. it made you wish that you'd never snuck out in the first place.

after spending a few minutes composing yourself in the bathroom, you unlocked the door and stepped back into the house. but something felt off. the dull throb of the party seemed to of died down, and there was an eerie absence of people around.

with a sense of unease, you descended the stairs, finding only a handful of people scattered around the living room, behaving as if nothing unusual had happened. you approached one of them, intending to ask what was going on, but your question died on your lips as you turned the corner.

to your surprise, there stood officer rick grimes, his commanding presence filling the room, casting a sense of discomfort over the small gathering of people.

as you caught sight of him, your breath hitched in your throat, your lips parched, and a familiar nervousness bloomed in your stomach. time seemed to stand still as he turned to the new face in the room, and as his eyebrows raised in surprise, a sense of dread settled in the pit of your stomach. you offered him a sheepish smile, attempting to shrink yourself down in hopes of slipping past him unscathed.

"um... I was just.. leaving" you squeaked out, manoeuvring your way around the imposing figure. 

your heart raced as you padded past him, every nerve on edge, praying he wouldn't stop you. with each step, you felt his gaze bore into your back, his presence casting a heavy shadow over your escape.

as you finally reached the door, relief flooded through you. with a quick glance over your shoulder, you slipped out into the night. your sore feet hit the plush grass, and you almost thought you could cheer in delight at not being caught by the officer, but as you looked behind you, maybe you celebrated a little too early.

there he stood, in the shadows of the outside light, the door shutting behind him with a soft click. his gaze pierced into yours, a single eyebrow arched in silent inquiry. your heart sank as he advanced towards you, his stride oozing authority and confidence. 

"uh.. hi, rick" you spoke, trying to muster a false sense of confidence.

his shoulder lightly brushed against yours as he strode past, his fingers gesturing for you to follow.

"come with me" he commanded, his voice carrying a hint of annoyance.

you stammered, regaining your composure and hurriedly following after him, attempting to keep up with his brisk stride. your words tumbled out faster than you could think, a jumble of apologies spilt from your lips as you followed him through the grass and onto the concrete path

he led you to his patrol car, as expected. upon reaching the door, he pivoted, leaning against it with his arms folded across his chest. nodding towards the house you had just come from, he raised an eyebrow.

"care to tell me what you're doing here at this time of night, sweetheart?" he questioned, his head cocking slightly.

your cheeks flushed at the endearment, and you found yourself gazing down at your heels, suddenly more engrossed in their details. though you had known rick for a long time, given your father's role as police chief, you never anticipated finding yourself in this situation with him.

you shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, searching for the right words to explain your predicament without giving too much away. the tension hung thick in the air, and you could feel his scrutiny bearing down on you.

"I, uh.. it was just a little party" you offered, sheepishly. 

"a little party, huh?" he replied, sarcasm dripping from his words.

"look," you began, aiming to get straight to the point, "please, just don't mention this to my dad"

rick rolled his eyes, sighing as he surveyed the area before opening the car door and sliding into the driver's seat with ease. once settled, he turned his attention back to you.

"get in. I'll give you a ride home" he said, reluctance evident in his tone.

with an awkward smile, you circled your way around the car to the passenger's side. the cold air nipped at your bare skin, prompting you to wrap your arms around yourself for warmth. the interior of the car wasn't much warmer, and as you settled into the worn leather seats, you couldn't help but feel embarrassed by the scant amount of fabric you were wearing in front of the man.

the roar of the engine filled your ears as the tyres spun on the gravel, moving the car away from the house and down the street.

"you cold?" he asked, glancing at you from the corner of his eye, noting the way your arms were pulled tight around your body.

"a little" you hummed in response, your gaze drifting to the veins that stood out on his hands as he adjusted the air conditioning.

the scenery whizzed past in a blur, the city lights merging into streaks of colour as the car navigated through the streets. anxious thoughts churned in your mind, your fingers fidgeting nervously as you chewed on your lip, a knot of fear tightening in your stomach.

"wait" you blurted out suddenly, the urgency unmistakable in your voice, "don't take me home"

his gaze flickered to you, his expression unreadable. "why not?" he inquired, a hint of amusement flickered in his eyes.

"if my dad finds out I was out this late, i'll be in serious trouble" you explained, the desperation evident in your tone. "can't you just drop me off at a friend's house or something?"

you watched him carefully, hoping for a glimmer of sympathy in his eyes. instead, he chuckled lightly, the sound sending tingles through your body.

"sorry, princess," he said, his tone teasing "can't do that"

you drew in a shaky breath, the gravity of the situation settling heavily upon you. the realisation sinking in that escaping this situation wouldn't be as easy as you hoped.

"please" you begged, your voice barely above a whisper "don't take me home.. I'll do anything"

his ears perked up at your words, a flicker of interest crossing his features as he gave you another side glance, raising an eyebrow in curiosity.

"anything?" he echoed, amusement lacing his tone once again.

"anything..just, please" you confirmed, your voice tinged with desperation. although, you were too fixated on getting out of trouble to notice the faint flicker of uncertainty looming In your brain.

he fell silent for a few minutes, his focus seemingly absorbed by the task of navigating the car through the unfamiliar streets. suddenly, the car veered sharply into a lane you had never seen before. it seemed deserted at this hour, and whether that was a blessing or a curse, you were about to find out.

glancing at him, you noticed the dim glow of the street lamps highlighting the muscles in his forearms as he gripped the wheel. in the stillness of the night, you couldn't help but realise just how attractive he was. was he much older than you? yes. was he also under your father's command? yes. but were any of those thoughts present in your mind as you admired the older man? absolutely not.

the car jolted to a rocky stop, the abruptness of it causing your body to lurch forward slightly. his hands worked quickly to pull the key out of the ignition, the metal clink echoing in the confined space. seizing the moment, you glanced around, only to be met with the vast expanse of darkness outside. a frown creased your brows as you turned back to face the man, only to realise he was already watching you.

before any words could escape your lips, he pushed his seat back, creating a considerable gap between him and the steering wheel. he adjusted his hips slightly, the movement sending a flutter of butterflies to your stomach. you tore your gaze away from his crotch, desperately trying to appear composed. but as you looked up, you found yourself locking eyes with him.

his focus was entirely on your face, maybe even on your lips. your breath caught in your throat as your eyes met his, the intensity of the moment thickening the air between you. you swallowed hard, feeling the tension crackling between you like lightning.

his movement caught you off guard as he leaned in closer to your face, the proximity sending a jolt of anticipation through you. he only seemed to get closer, his presence enveloping you entirely. he was so close- you could smell the intoxicating scent of his cologne, feel the warmth of his breath against your skin, and see the glow of his eyes in the dim overhead light of the car.

but, before you could utter a single question, his lips parted, his voice breaking the silence. "you said you'd do anything, right?"

you were too caught up in the moment to respond with words, opting instead for a nod as you watched his lips move with his words. apparently, that wasn't sufficient, because his cold hand suddenly cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing just below your lips in a tantalising caress.

"are you sure?" he asked, his voice low and almost like a rumble. he was closer now, so close you could feel the heat of his breath over your lips, causing your eyes to flutter closed.

"yeah" you confirmed, the words leaving your lips in a soft, airy whisper.

that was all he seemed to need. the tension and desperation finally reached a breaking point as he pressed his lips to yours. they were surprisingly soft, a stark contrast to the intensity of the moment, catching you off guard as you tried to match the pace he set. his hand, once gentle in its caress, now trailed down the back of your neck, tangling in your hair and pulling you impossibly closer to his face.

a small whimper escaped your mouth as he deepened the kiss, the heat of the moment overwhelming you. before you knew it, you were practically making out, tongues and teeth clashing in a fervent dance, the heat between you fogging up the windows of the car. god, you knew this was so wrong. but in that moment, it just felt so undeniably right.

while you were lost in the moment, his other hand snaked around your waist, pulling you even closer to him. he briefly pulled away, eliciting a whine from your lips as you instinctively chased after his. but he had other thoughts in his mind.

"why'd you sto-" you began, only to be cut off when he suddenly pulled you over the middle console and right over his lap, purposely placing you over the bulge that began to grow in his pants. he leaned back slightly, taking in the sight from this new angle. your hair was tousled from his fingers running through it, and your chest rose swiftly as you tried to catch your breath, your slightly swollen lips painted a picture of desire and longing. he knew it was wrong, but how could he resist when your doe eyes looked up at him so sweetly?

a curse fell from his mouth, his lips instanly chased yours again. the kiss was more fervent this time, the lust between you two only beginning to rise. his hand returned to tangle in your hair again, only to suddenly snake down the back of your neck and onto your waist, pulling you even closer in a possessive embrace.

your hips unconsciously ground down onto his, the movement emitting a groan from both of you as he rested his lips over yours.

"are you sure you want this?" he asked, breathlessly, his fingers toying with the hem on your skirt, inching dangerously close to your inner thigh.

that was an answer you didn't even have to think about. "yes" your words were confident, for the first time that night, and they only seemed to spur him into action.

his hands moved so quickly, you could barely even blink. they travelled up to your shirt, deftly grasping the bottom of it and pulling it over your head. your arms hit the roof of the car, bent into an awkward position as he slipped your skimpy top off of your body. 

he whistled appreciatively as he got a good look at your perky tits, shaking his head with a small smile spread across his face. "god" he muttered, the words barely audible.

your nipples pebbled with the cool air, his hand reached up to toy with your sensitive buds like it was a second nature. the touch made your back arch, only rocking you over his bulge once again. that was his breaking point.

the energy in the car shifted, it suddenly became hot and heavy as he feverishly attempted to rip the rest of your outfit off of you. your little skirt came next, he didn't feel the need to take it off; the position would have made it awkward anyway. instead, he just hiked it up your stomach, flipping the thin material up, giving him a good look at your little lace panties.

"who'd you wear these for, huh?" rick teased, his voice low and husky, sending shivers down your spine. his fingers lingered, hooking through the fabric teasingly before letting it snap back against your skin. you couldn't help but squirm under his touch, lust coursing through your veins as you met his gaze of desire.

"nobody.." you began, your words trailing off when he swiped a finger over the most sensitive part of you, leaving a whimper to come out your mouth instead. his hands seized the lacy fabric again, this time pulling on it with force, eliciting a loud ripping sound that echoed through the car. the suddenness of the action caught you off guard, your skimpy little lace panties were now threads in his hands.

your brows creased in annoyance, but before you could protest, his middle finger pressed onto your clit. your hips bucked automatically, and an erotic moan slipped from your mouth. you hadn't realised how sensitive you'd gotten, but he certainly had. 

a low chuckle tumbled out his mouth, his pupils clouded with lust as his finger rubbed slow circles over your throbbing clit. "you're so fucking wet, princess" he almost growled, watching every little jerk of your body as he touched your sensitive nub.

his pace was agonisingly slow, leaving you craving more. you pushed your hips down, practically grinding onto his fingers, casing the pleasure. "more, please" it fell from your lips like a chant, the thoughts in your mind going foggy.

"more?" he questioned with the same cocky chuckle, but alas, he obliged anyway. his fingers stopped their attack on your clit, leaving a dull ache in their wake. but, before you could get bratty from the lack of pleasure, he slipped one finger inside your dripping cunt. 

a sharp whimper unfettered from your mouth at the sensation, your pussy sucking up his fingers feverishly. he inserted another finger, it practically slid inside with how wet you were. as his fingers began to pump in and out, the lewd sound of your wetness filled the small space, making all the blood rush down to his cock.

your hands scrambled for a grip onto anything as he curled his digits inside you, the pleasure overwhelming as they managed to hit that spot again and again and again. your fingers found grip on his bicep, squeezing harshly as the sweet release chased after you. 

"p-please" you begged, choking on your words. you had no idea what you were even begging for at this point, your mind too hazy to even think. 

"you close, baby?" he breathed, right into your ear. you hadn't even realised he had gotten so near. all you could do was nod your head, the coil tightening inside of you. you were so goddamn close, your legs shook as they struggled to hold you up, and your hand closed impossibly tighter around his arm.

the telltale signs were there, he knew how close you were. your walls went taut around his fingers, your body was twitchy and you couldn't even form a coherent sentence. he decided to give in, longing to see your face as you reached that climax.

"cum for me then, sweetheart.. come on" he encouraged, his voice dropping an octave lower.

the encouragement was all you needed, the coil inside you seemed to snap, and you felt like you turned to jelly as you came around his fingers, your face scrunching up in pleasure. "fuck!" you shouted, sure that your moans could be heard by people for miles.

your body collapsed against his, a soft hiss fell from your mouth as he slipped his fingers out, his hand now wrapping around your body possessively. your lips blindly searched for his again, the kiss lazy and sloppy. his hand gripped onto the flesh of your ass, electing a gasp from you as your mouth fell open, allowing him to ease his tongue into your mouth. the muscles fort a silent battle for dominance, him winning obviously, as your hips began erratically grinding against his.

in the haze of the make-out session, you began to notice the fact that he remained fully dressed, while you were left exposed, laid out on display for him. so, you ran your hand down his body, over his sculpted chest and down to his belt. your fingers brushed over the cool metal of the buckle, instinctively pulling at it, hoping he'd catch on.

and he did. with a knowing smirk, he caught your hand, stopping your fumbling attempts at his belt. his eyes locked onto yours, a silent understanding passing between you. without a word, he regained control, swiftly unbuckling his belt and removing it, tossing it aside carelessly. 

you pushed your body up, allowing him to slide his jeans down to his ankles, his legs parting even wider as he was left in just his boxers. the unmistakable bulge in them drew your attention. your bottom lip settled between your teeth as you began to palm your hand over it. he threw his head back in pleasure, a low groan slipping from his mouth while the muscles In his jaw tensed.

"fuck.." he muttered, his voice thick from lust "I need you, now"

"then have me" you responded, coly, as he pushed himself back up to meet your lips. your hands clawed at the waistband of his boxers, trying to paw them off. he noticed your frantic movements, shaking his head at your impatience.

but alas, he gave in to you again, his patience was running thin. his hands joined your scramble to remove his boxers, finally pulling them down to set his hard cock free. it sprung up against his stomach, the tip red and angry. he'd gotten so hard from seeing you all worked up that it was almost painful.

a mischievous look fell over your face, your hands twisting around his throbbing erection, pulling another groan from his throat, this time It was louder with his growing impatience.

his large hands hooked under your thighs, lifting you up. your noise of surprise was silenced as he lined himself up and slipped inside of you. multiple obscenities flew out of both of your mouths as he pushed you down onto his cock.

the stretch was euphoric, your nails created dull crescents in his shoulder as he sunk you down lower and lower. you felt so full, your head tipped back and your eyes scrunched closed. your legs began to shake as he finally sunk you all the way down on his cock, and the moan that escaped his mouth was almost enough to make you cum on the spot.

"feel so good, angel" he groaned as his hand gripped at the nape of your neck, planting more kisses on your lips to distract you from the slight pain as he began to move. his hips bucked up ever so lightly, until the pain turned to pleasure.

his pace picked up when your quiet whimpers turned into fully fledged moans. despite your state, you tried to move your hips to match his rhythm, increasing the pleasure even more. shock waves ran through your body at every little bounce.

"s-so good" you whimpered, echoing his words.

rick chuckled, his head tipped back in amusement, curses slipping from his mouth "fuck princess, I'm so fucking deep" he bought his hand to your stomach, pressing down ever so slightly, causing your back to arch in ecstasy. 

the once clear windows were now fogged up from the sheer heat radiating off your bodies, the car creaking at the speed of his thrusts. if anybody happened to pass by at that moment, they would undoubtedly know exactly what you two were up to.

but that thought wasn't even present in your mind, the only thought you had in that moment was how close you were getting, and rick could tell it too.

"so...close" you stammered, your walls pulsating around him wildly. 

"yeah?" he panted "close already? so needy" the chuckle that left his mouth was teasing, your whimpers and moans music to his ears. the sound of skin slapping together was deafening, probably echoing on for miles.

"what do you say then, baby? you wanna come so bad?" his hand travelled to your clit "say please"

you gasped as his fingers began to rub small circles over your swollen bud, the motion tipping you just over the edge. "oh g-god, please...please, please" the words fell from your mouth like a chant, trying ever so hard to gaze into his eyes.

he groaned, feeling his release chasing him too. "fuck... come on then, princess.. cum for me"

his praise tipped you over the edge, finally reaching your peak. your body shook and your vision went white for a moment. you could barely feel the hand that he slapped over your mouth to keep you from screaming.

your gummy walls pulsating over his cock were enough for him to fall over the edge, his stomach tightening and a string of groans and curses slipping out of his mouth as he came inside of you. his hot, white cum painting your insides.

your eyes opened again, and your hips bucked involuntarily as his cock twitched inside of you. your vision was slowly coming back, thoughts started to regenerate in your head. you could feel the juices dripping down your thighs as you stared into his eyes. god, your dad would be livid if he found out.

shit, you didn't use a condom.

[koisuko]

Imagine:

You and Ghost are a happily married couple…sort of.

Tw: mentions of murder, potential gore, gn reader, toxic relationship, dead dove?, mentions of infidelity, mostly ooc, the names are from a random generator!!

Newly weds, happy and sappy and all that bullshit. Bullshit is all it was to Ghost. You and Ghost were compatible, sure, but sometimes you two become so close it’s borderline obsession. Ghost loves you, as much as you love him, and that terrifies him. To escape this unfortunate feeling, as Ghost puts it, he seeks out others to use and dispose. Something, anything to dull the fear he unwittingly feels deep down. Feelings he barely understands, feelings he’d rather drink himself to death numbing than speak about. Anyone with a brain could see how toxic the duo was, and would likely go to the edge of the earth to convince you two to separate. The both of you were too consumed by one another to leave, and too possessive to even think about letting each other see someone else.

Simon knew you felt the same way. He knew in the way you desperately tried hiding love marks imprinted on your skin. The way you stayed out late some nights under the guise of an “overtime” shift. How you seemed too tired to be intimate. How you shared yourself with someone other than him. His blood nearly boiled at the thought. You were his, and he would do anything to keep it that way. All the little giveaways you both did, unknowingly mirroring each other’s behavior like clones.

Anything was an understatement, evident in the huffs of exertion and long dragging sounds against wet soil. Under the cover of the darkened forest, Simon heaved the black trash bag behind him. Each step caking his boots in mud, masking the evidence of his actions that stained the leather surface. Anyone would likely turn a blind eye, if it weren't for the red liquid trickling down from a torn hole in the plastic. Behind him, trailed along a cloud of guilt and regret, and the stench of death. That gloomy overcast likely to dissipate with the body under the dirt, out of sight, out of mind.

It wasn’t until he noticed a distant figure, somewhat hunched, and headed towards the very spot he had chosen. The silhouette was unsteady and seemed to struggle with the heavy object trailing behind them. Ghost wasted no time in taking cover, slinking into the shadows without a sound. He watched, and waited, patiently, for the prime moment to strike. No witnesses, no regrets. It wasn’t until the person became more clear, and a familiar, “shit,” followed the thud of what appeared to be a body bag. None other than his significant other, carrying a bag just like him, to the same spot picked by him.

“Christ, what the fuck are you doing here?” His gruff voice caused you to jump, whipping around to meet his weathered skull mask face to face. “Me? What are you doing here?” Your attempt to appear confident in your confrontation was sabotaged by the heavy pants leaving your lips. Ghost gave you a scrutinizing squint, leaning to the side slightly to look over your shoulder at the bag on the ground. A normal black trash bag with blood, clumps of hair, and other questionable substances adhering dirt to the plastic. His nose scrunched at the awful odor, much worse than the bag he carried, and much more gruesome looking. “Who is that?” Despite the obvious evidence, and human shape inside the bag, you pulled an act of obliviousness to his question. “What? Who’s who?” Unamused, and slightly irritated, he grabbed his own bag and tossed it at your feet, “Brandon Dorsey, sound familiar?” Your eyes locked with the bag in front of you, remembering the night you slept with him solely to ‘get even’ with Simon. You scoffed, making a feeble attempt to drag yours towards him, “Olivia Marterson, ring any bells?” A smirk played on your lips at his lack of emotion given the circumstance, not a care in the world for the dead beneath him.

Ghost examined the body bag you dropped at his feet, its densely saturated exterior leaving little to the imagination on what was inside. Unlike yours, his bag was more neatly cased with very few stains marring the outside, aside from the blood dripping heavily from the corner — the plastic likely nicked by a tool in the bed of his truck, and a mess he’d unfortunately have to clean later. His bag was much smaller in size than yours, strangely so, and no shape at all to indicate the contents. “Something wrong?” You asked, hoping that maybe your actions somehow irked him, or made him second guess cheating on you. Instead, those deep brown eyes gave nothing away, trailing back up to meet yours, “sloppy work, you should be more careful.” Simon spoke in a deadpan voice, but something about his statement almost felt concerned.

Eventually, the two of you managed to dig a hole in the dirt big enough for both bags to fit side by side. Simon had to help you carry yours over, while you trailed behind him with a look of both defeat and slight irritation. “Thanks,” you’d grumble out, appreciative of him despite your anger. You heaved and grunted, kicking your boot into the back of the shovel and tossing dirt on the bags. By this time, your skin was glossed with sweat, and heart thumping against your ribcage. Finally, the evidence was hidden six feet under, and the smell gone with it. The shovel you used was now anchored into the ground and used as a rest for your exhaustion. “That’s the best hole I’ve ever dug up,” you chimed triumphantly, having puffed out your chest with pride. You glanced over at Ghost beside you, his figure stiff and brooding. “By the way,” you started, “how did you get your bag so small? Mine refused to fold any type of way once the rigor mortis set in.” He turned to walk away, not before answering your question, “butchered, fits better in my truck that way.”

[oneshotnewbie]

So when exactly are you going to be posting stories again…?

Authors note: This idea came to me at work—don’t ask me how, because even I’m not sure. All I knew was that I had to write it down to clear some space in my mind. If you like this, don't hope for a sequel because it was really just a short scene that played out in my head.

Oh, and for next time… When you want something from someone, you should ask a little more friendly. But you're welcome.

Trigger warning for sickness / leukemia

ᕚ---ᕘ

The blood made a shocking first impression, that much was certain. It clung to Olivia Benson's chin, trailed in smeared lines down her neck, and had turned the once pristine white blouse into a chaotic pattern of red and dark brown. The blotchy drops and streaks spread everywhere her head had touched - including her hands, which still bore witness to her frantic attempts to wipe the mess away. But each attempt had been futile, leaving only more traces and smearing the blood in irregular patterns.

Olivia had found no time to address the damage, neither with an improvised first aid attempt like a dissolved Aspirin nor with a quick change of clothes. The urgency of the situation left her no choice; she had to act immediately. So, without another glance in the mirror, she had gotten into her car and taken the roads to Midtown Manhattan. The sharp, metallic smell of blood mixed with the adrenaline pulsing through her veins, reminding her of the urgency of the mission that had brought her there. Every breath seemed to remind her further of the marks that what had happened had left on her body and in her memory.

Right now, Olivia felt as if time was slipping through her fingers. Every second that passed reinforced the feeling that she would never have room for everyday things again. How could she, while her daughter was leaving her life far too young behind, seemingly on the fast track to death? Reality threatened to crush her, and yet she had to find a way out.

"There has to be a way?" she heard her own voice whisper, as if the words weren't really hers. They came out like severed, brittle pieces - rough, unpolished and somehow out of place. Her throat felt dry, and every attempt to speak seemed like pushing shards of glass across sandpaper. The harshness of the situation was reflected in the hardness of the wooden chair she was sitting on. Leaning forward, like a hostage in a scenario where every moment pointed to the inevitable - the SWAT team breaking in or the end without a rescuer.

The man on the other side of the desk looked at her, his bulky body in the sterile uniform of the office. He seemed out of place in his formal outfit, like a bouncer forced into a tuxedo - a strange mix of comic and intimidating presence. "I don't know how," he replied in a rough voice, his eyes cold and unmoving. The pencil he was drumming rhythmically on a file in front of him almost disappeared in his huge hands, like a thin toothpick between two enormous boulders.

Since her usual contact had retired, Brandon Lurch was now her contact at the adoption agency. He was so different from the woman she had dealt with before - angular and aloof, as if he was deliberately building a wall between himself and her. The offices of the Senate Department of Youth and Family were cold and gray, the fluorescent lighting seemed to suck all life out of the rooms.

Up until now they had rarely spoken to each other. Olivia knew little about the man, except that his colleagues called him "Brandy." It was unclear whether this nickname came from his first name or from the dusty brandy bottle behind him on the windowsill, which, unopened, seemed to make a silent promise in this dreary room. Perhaps it was just a decoration, a relic of days gone by, or an unconscious indication that he, like so many in this system, was looking for comfort in dark bottles.

As Olivia tried to process the answer, she felt the tension in her back grow into a dull pain. Her hands gripped the back of the chair so tightly that her knuckles turned white. Every fiber of her body screamed to fight, to force a solution - but the hopelessness loomed like an impenetrable wall of fog. She looked at the massive man, searching for a sign of empathy or understanding in his eyes, but found only the constant, monotonous severity of someone who has been forced to convey hard truths far too often.

"According to the law, adopted children have a right to know who their birth parents are," Olivia explained in a firm voice. She leaned forward and put her hands on the table that separated her from the burly man. Her gaze was determined, and the sharpness in her voice left no doubt that this was not the first time she had had such a confrontation.

"On their eighteenth birthday," Lurch confirmed shortly before leaning forward and taking a deep breath, as if to smash the impending discussion. "Y/n is only fourteen, though," he continued, his deep voice remaining calm, but his eyes flashed with a hint of foreboding as to how the course of this conversation would end. "In addition," he paused briefly, "this is not just a closed adoption where the age limit must be strictly adhered to. It is a secret one. A legally protected procedure.

Olivia pursed her lips, but before she could stop herself, it burst out of her: “I am aware of that.” She clenched her hands into fists, felt the gnarled edges of the table under her fingertips and the unpleasant heat rising inside her. Her words echoed in the room before the meaning of what she had just said hit her like a punch in the stomach. Damn. Graduated from police academy with top marks, captain of the Special Victims Unit - but she apparently hadn't paid attention during the impulse control lesson.

Lurch raised an eyebrow, his expression changing to a mixture of amusement and superiority. “Well,” he began, his voice taking on a condescending undertone, “if you were actually there, then you certainly know that I can't give you any information about Y/n's biological parents. Anonymity was a non-negotiable condition of the adoption.”

Olivia felt her patience being tested more and more. Instinctively, she reached for her badge, a habit that usually calmed her in stressful situations. But today she remembered that she hadn't worn it for two weeks. Her absence from work was painfully noticeable, but old habits don't dissolve as easily as a job or a routine. “There has to be an exception!” she urged, her voice sounding rougher, more desperate.

But Lurch shook his head, and his eyes remained cold. “No. If I tell you names now, I'll be endangering the mother's life.”

Olivia frowned, looking for a starting point that she could use to break through the wall of rules and secrecy. "How could that endanger her life?" she asked, her voice now barely more than a whisper, a hint of disbelief and suppressed anger.

Lurch sighed and seemed to carefully consider his next words. "I'm not allowed to answer that question," he said in a tone that sounded final and irrefutable. "Otherwise you would know..."

"...who gave birth to y/n," Olivia added sarcastically, rolling her eyes. She knew she wouldn't get anywhere this way. It felt like she was talking to a wall. Taking a deep breath and controlling her inner tension, she changed her approach.

"Do you see the blood on me?" Her voice was now quieter, more insistent. She stretched out her hands in front of her, as if she wanted to make the invisible burden of her words and the weight of her worry tangible to the officer. "My daughter is sick! She has leukemia.” She paused to give Lurch time to understand the seriousness of the situation. But his face remained expressionless, professional.

“That is not usually a death sentence,” Olivia continued, her voice trembling. “The odds are good these days, modern medicine is on our side. Most children survive and have a good prospect - but for that she needs a suitable bone marrow donation.” She fought back the tears, forced herself not to lose her composure.

“And maybe there is a chance to find the right donors, with her biological parents.” Her  voice almost broke, but she pulled herself together again, stared Lurch straight in the eyes,  hoping for a sign of compassion, a spark of humanity. “Do you understand? Without this  information, you could take the only chance away from her.“

"The chemotherapy isn't helping her," Olivia began, struggling to keep her composure. Her voice was shaky and filled with despair. "Instead of helping her, it's just making her have nosebleeds all the time. I'm coming straight from home, where I'm looking after her, because there's nothing more they can do for her in the hospital. Unless we find a suitable stem cell donor very, very quickly." She tried to emphasize the urgency in her words, but her voice sounded hollow, as if worrying about her daughter had drained her of strength.

Brandon Lurch looked at her in silence, his stoic face showing no emotion, and Olivia wondered for a moment if he had even heard her correctly. Finally, he nodded almost imperceptibly before raising his eyebrows and asking in a calm tone: "Have you had your blood typed yet?"

For a moment, Olivia thought she had misheard. The question was so unexpected, so absurd in its apparent ignorance, that Olivia felt as if someone had slapped her in the face. Her eyes widened and her lips parted slightly as anger ignited like a flame inside her. She felt the impulse to stand up and throw the chair she was sitting on across the room. "Of course," she snapped, her voice razor sharp. "What do you think?"

That was the very first thing she had done. Not just herself, but everyone she cared about had immediately gotten tested—her family, her friends, her colleagues. No one had been spared. Mouth swabs, blood samples, endless registration forms. They had all signed up for the bone marrow donor registry in the desperate hope of finding a match.

There was nothing she wouldn't do for you. From the moment she first held you as a baby in her arms, she had realized that a love of this intensity was almost painful. You were so small, so vulnerable. Your face was still slightly wrinkled from childbirth, your tiny cheeks puffed out as if you were about to launch into a tirade.

"I will live for you and I will die for you too." Those were the first words she had whispered in your ear as she felt your soft head resting on her shoulder. And for Olivia, those words were not empty phrases, but a promise. An oath that came from deep within her heart. Everyone who knew her knew that she was willing to do anything to keep that promise. Her selflessness was more than a trait - it was a part of her that manifested itself in every fiber of her being. She had proven that time and time again in her life, whether in her duty as a police officer or as a mother.

She would have been willing to donate her entire spinal cord if it meant even the slightest chance. But this time, unlike all the crime victims she had helped in her career, words and her mere presence were not enough. Her love alone was powerless. The reality of medical limitations was ruthless, an enemy that could not be overcome by courage or sacrifice. No one in the world's donor files had yet been a match.

The realization that her limitless devotion alone would not be enough cut like a knife into her heart. This time it was not enough, and that was the worst part - the inadequacy in the face of such need. She was a police officer, she had dedicated a life to protecting the most vulnerable, but here she faced a challenge that she could not fight with courage, willpower, or the gun at her hip.

"Please, Mr. Lurch," Olivia tried desperately to reach the officer, whose demeanor seemed unwavering and almost indifferent. "It's a matter of life and death. I have to find her biological parents."

Lurch slowly raised his head, and his gaze was cold and analytical. "Because you believe that the parents are suitable as stem cell donors?" he asked, without a trace of compassion.

"Yes!" Olivia nodded, her voice trembling with tension. She tried to let the seriousness of her situation speak in her eyes, in her whole demeanor.

Lurch leaned back in his chair and put his fingertips together. "You believe in it?" he repeated, his emphasis on the verb, and his smile was strange, indecipherable. A trace of mockery, perhaps, or just an expression of superiority? Olivia couldn't say for sure, but she felt that he wasn't taking her words seriously, that he was ridiculing the trust she was trying to convey.

A bitter lump formed in her throat and she briefly struggled with herself about whether to continue the discussion. She suspected that she was already fighting a losing battle. The decision about her request to see the files had long been made and nothing she would say now could change Lurch's mind. Nevertheless, she gathered her last strength for one last, pleading request. "Y/n will die if I don't find her biological parents! I just need the names." Her voice was brittle and desperation cut like a knife through the cold silence of the office.

"I'm sorry," the officer replied. The words sounded routine and almost mechanical, as if he were reading them from a guide for difficult conversations. And yet, Olivia could hear that he wasn't really sorry, not really. "As far as I know, it's unlikely that biological parents are suitable as stem cell donors anyway." His voice was calm, almost didactic, as if he were presenting her with an unpleasant but indisputable fact.

Olivia knew he was right - the probability was low, and she was aware of it. But it was the last straw she could grasp to save you. "But there is a chance," she said, her teeth clenched tightly together as her jaw muscles worked beneath the taut skin. "There's a reason why stem cell therapy first looks through the patient's family. That's exactly what I want to do, but I don't know her family." Her voice became more urgent, almost pleading. But Lurch didn't budge.

"Well, I understand that," he said, and a hint of sarcastic regret lingered in his voice. "But I can't do anything for you, Ms. Benson." He paused dramatically to add weight to his words, and then added with a short, barely audible sigh, "Bring me a family court order ordering me to reveal the identity of Y/n's biological parents. Otherwise, my hands are tied."

Only one thought flashed through Olivia's mind: bastard. She felt her hands shaking and the pressure behind her eyes growing. She had to get out of here before she lost control of her tears. She rushed out of the office and slammed the door behind her, the sound echoing down the long hallway. The cold outside, which hit her like a sharp cut, was hardly more bearable than Lurch's frosty goodbye.

Just a few seconds later, on the way to her car, she was overcome with regret. She had lost her temper. As she reached her car, Olivia tried to take a deep breath, but her chest felt tight, as if an invisible band was squeezing it. Damn it, she cursed inwardly. She had accomplished nothing except hardening the fronts and closing the few doors that might have been open to her.

[yameoto]

Listen I’m a FEMINIST but the way I’d be Alison Miller’s blue collar wife - so down bad it’s actually a threat to feminism.

Like someone looking AFTER her, after a long ass shift, making sure she’s fed, giving her head before she finally passes out from exhaustion - sending her off with lunch even though she keeps up before the damn sun half the time, pinching her cheek and telling her to be good like she isn’t about to spend her day doing hard ass manual labor.

Fighting half those shitty teens that go to school with Brandon for looking at her funny just because she’s yours, and she works too damn hard to be spoke to that way I just WANT HER

no like this gets so serious

wanna be the one to hold her pretty tired face in my palms and wipe the grime off her cheeks. making sure she comes home to a warm hot meal n fresh blankets and a clean house like some rural suburban housewife. she’s been dreaming, practically begging for a little stability for so damn long, because she’s been so fucking lonely. even before dad got arrested, her mother fucked off—and of course ali was the one fixing meals for mini brandon n her as dad went out and got fucked-up or whoknowswhat. packed his lunches and band-aided his scrapes from the scuffles he got in at school. microwaved hot pockets n sloppily washed the dishes when the pile-up began to start wobbling while dad did god knows that. certainly not caring for his kids (in the traditional sense, anyway). the miller house was and is a trainwreck. and when she picked up that job in the factory plant to take care of brandon.. not like she can clean up after herself with all the nights she’s spent, drunk off her ass, phone in one hand and three fingers in her cunt in the other. (even then, it was you. always you.) she’s been taking care of brandon for so long she doesn’t have enough time to take care of herself—and when she does, she’s absolutely shit at it.

(first time you came over, she stuffed her hands in her jacket and glanced away as she steered you away from the thick of it, suddenly self-conscious. like it had only just occurred to her that most people don’t live in a hovel. “s’not like i have the time..” and you just want to pinch her flushed cheeks and ducked head. coo at how adorable she looks.)

poor darling, been working n working her ass off her whole life. so having someone to come home to other than a 50/50 empty house or broken windows or a cuffed brother is more than a relief. god, how she loves you. needs you. thought you were an angel sent down from heaven when you first broke that dull, suffocating fucking cycle of monotony. waking up; working; sleeping. when you stayed over the first night and she’d blinked awake, blearily, her head on your chest n your arm lazily slung across her neck she thinks: god, she could do this forever. especially when you’d woken up, brewed a fresh pot of coffee and started on breakfast. she almost asked you to move in, right then and there.

she’s almost embarrassed to admit it, but fuck, does the picket fence life sound so appealing. she’s a simple woman with simple needs. one, being to hold you close. two, having three adequate meals a day (and you have the enforce no.2). fuck. she loves you so much. thinks she doesn’t deserve you. feels so bad that she’s so tired and sluggish after the end of a workday. obsessed with clinging onto your back and nuzzling into your nape and just staying there. weight of the world no longer on her shoulders. just her and her wife.

[deliciousangelfestival]

Lovers Say Goodbye | 5 - B.Barnes

Character: soft!dark Bucky x ex-girlfriend!Reader

Summary: Bucky finds solace and love in an unexpected place, only to have his world shattered by a shocking revelation about the person he cared about.

Chap 1, Chap 2, Chap 3, Chap 4, Chap 5, -

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Please let me know what your thoughts are. I'd love to read all your comments. Thank you once again.

Main Masterlist || support: Ko-fi

The car's interior felt like a tomb. The air hung heavy and frigid, starkly contrasting the heat throbbing in your side. The three agents, faces in pale masks under the harsh overhead light, tried desperately to maintain an air of composure. Beads of sweat trickled down their temples, betraying the growing unease that gnawed at them.

"I took my job seriously," you said, leaning back in the plush seat, a predatory glint in your otherwise dull eyes.

"Chopping the body into smaller pieces wasn't just about convenience," you continued, a cruel amusement twisting your lips. "It minimized the amount of soil needed. A smaller hole meant less suspicion."

You spoke as if describing a recipe, a terrifying calm replacing the pain that should have been etched on your face.

Your words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. The young agent in the passenger seat swallowed audibly, his Adam's apple bobbing like a frantic fish. The driver's knuckles tightened around the steering wheel, his grip white-knuckled against the worn leather.

"And using the remains… well, let's just say the human body has surprising properties," you continued, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

"Compost of that nature makes for phenomenal fertilizer. That's why the roses in my shop always bloomed so spectacularly.

A collective shiver wracked the agents. The image you painted, of your idyllic flower shop fueled by a dark secret, was enough to curdle their blood. The line between professional and psychopath had blurred beyond recognition.

The quiet, unassuming agent they'd been tasked with escorting was a monster in disguise, and they were trapped in a moving steel cage with her.

They heard Agent ODIN is scary, but not this psycho.

"Most of the bodies I handled belonged to double agents," you mused, your gaze flickering to each agent in turn, a challenge in your eyes.

"Director Brandon always got his hands dirty through me, the silent cleaner. Now, after two years of his ungrateful service, he wants to dispose of me?"

The question hung in the air, a dark accusation that sent a fresh wave of terror through the agents. They were no longer just transporting an injured colleague; they were transporting a ticking time bomb, a weapon potentially more dangerous than any they'd ever encountered.

You leaned back deeper into the plush seat, a satisfied smirk playing on your lips. With a calculated movement, you crossed your arms, the gesture chillingly casual in the face of the horrifying confession you'd just delivered.

"So," your voice dropped to a low purr, "let me get this straight. You were sent to babysit me, not protect me." Your gaze flickered from one agent to the other, each flinching under your unnerving scrutiny.

The young agent in the passenger seat finally snapped. Fear had morphed into a desperate defiance. With a trembling hand, he whipped out his gun, pointing it straight at you.

"Don't move!" he barked, his voice cracking with a mix of terror and bravado. "We only follow orders."

You, however, remained undeterred. You'd anticipated this reaction, the hollowness of their previous assurances echoing in your mind. A heavy sigh escaped your lips, a theatrical display of disappointment.

"Three of you against one," you mused, your voice laced with a hint of regret. "Such a shame. Didn't you learn basic protocol? Always restrain high-risk assets, especially after they casually confess to serial disposal."

The young agent's face contorted in confusion, the trigger finger hovering uselessly above the gun. In that split second, you capitalized on his bewildered state.

With a lightning-fast flick of your wrist, you whipped out a small syringe from your pocket, the needle glinting ominously under the car's harsh light. It was a practiced movement, born from years of operating in the shadows.

"Because," you explained with a chilling smile, "right before you so rudely interrupted, I injected you both with a little… persuasion."

A wave of panic washed over the two side agents. Their skin flushed an unnatural red, a prickling sensation spreading across their bodies. Their breaths became shallow, gasps escaping their lips. The fear in their eyes was a stark contrast to the bravado they'd displayed moments ago.

You didn't waste another glance on their agonizing contortions. Instead, you turned your icy gaze to the driver, his grip now slack on the steering wheel. The fear was a tangible thing hanging heavy in the air.

"Let me out of the car," you commanded, your voice laced with a deadly calm. "And perhaps I'll consider letting you take your friends to the hospital."

The driver, paralyzed by a mix of fear and the poison's effects, could only nod dumbly. You offered him a small, humorless smile, a chilling promise of freedom hanging in the stagnant air.

A cold dread snaked its way down the driver's spine. The chilling words of their orders echoed in his head: "Make her gone, or I will wipe you and your family from this earth." He cast a terrified glance at you, your calm demeanor a terrifying counterpoint to the chaos within him.

"I'm sorry, Agent L/N," he choked out, his voice thick with a mix of fear and morbid defiance. "Let's die together."

Before you could react, the engine roared to life. The car lurched forward, accelerating at a terrifying speed. You swore under your breath, the truth sinking in like a lead weight. They weren't going to the safe house; they were eliminating you.

Panic surged through you for a fleeting moment, a stark contrast to the carefully crafted facade you'd presented. You lunged for the door handle, ripping it open just as the driver steered the car towards the looming darkness at the edge of the cliff.

With a sickening lurch, the car plunged off the cliff face. You managed to throw yourself out of the car at the last possible second, rolling across the hard ground as the vehicle exploded into a fireball below, a final, fiery testament to their desperate attempt.

Shoving yourself upright, you winced at the renewed ache in your side, the adrenaline slowly ebbing away. You gazed at the smoldering wreckage below, a dark humor twisting your lips.

"Tsk," you clicked your tongue, a sardonic sound that echoed in the stillness of the night. "Is this how they repay loyalty?"

You surveyed your surroundings, a cool night breeze whipping at your hair. You were alone, stranded on a deserted road with a body – well, at least the agents thought it was a body – to your name. A laugh escaped your lips, a dark sound that echoed in the stillness.

"Going back might be a slight problem," you mused, resting your hands on your hips.

The truth is, you never came here. The story you told the agents before was a lie. You just wanted to scare them. And you didn't inject the other two agents with poison. It's just a thin pick that you always bring if you get locked up.

You never intended for them to believe you were a deranged murderer, just someone they couldn't control.

But the satisfaction of manipulation was short-lived. Now, you were stranded in the middle of nowhere, with a very real problem: how to get back to civilization without blowing your cover.

You scratched your head in mock frustration, the throbbing pain in your side a dull counterpoint to the burning adrenaline. "Do I have to walk all the way down?" you muttered, gazing at the long stretch of deserted road leading back to civilization.

As if summoned by your thoughts, a low rumble echoed in the distance, growing louder by the second. A pair of headlights cut through the darkness, momentarily blinding you as they drew closer. A sleek black sports car screeched to a halt beside you, the engine purring like a caged beast.

The driver's side window rolled down, revealing a face you both expected and didn't. Bucky Barnes, his expression a chilling mix of amusement and something akin to grudging respect, stared at you.

"Need a lift, sweetheart?" he drawled, the familiar glint of mischief in his eyes.

You forced a strained smile and managed to mutter, "No thanks. I'll just jump," though the words felt heavy on your tongue.

Bucky chuckled, a sound that sent a shiver down your spine, causing your shoulders to tense involuntarily.

"How does it feel to be betrayed by someone you trust?" he asked, his voice laced with bitterness, his eyes piercing into yours, searching for a reaction.

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