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#fic: passageway
ladylynse · 1 year
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Summary: The Fenton Ghost Portal in the basement lab is empty, broken. Instead, the portal is inside Danny–and now he has to contend with what’s come out of it.
Chapter 14
Danny didn’t know what Kitty was going to do, but he also knew he didn’t want to stick around to find out.
So, like a normal person, he bolted.
 A quick glance over his shoulder mercifully told him that the attack—it had to be an attack; it looked like a giant lipstick print passing through where he’d been—wasn’t swerving to follow him, but—
 Something rippled, something Danny couldn’t see, and he tripped.
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hauntedpearl · 3 months
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anyway you guys should read this fic it has CHARMED me and I haven't stopped thinking about the ending since last night.
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coffeegleek · 9 days
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Why must fics have characters with names and semi-plausible details? Why can't my OC simply be named Queen ___ ___ ___ Hummel. Why can't she be fourteen instead of fifteen which would make more sense?
I'm just laughing at myself and dreading opening my Notes doc for the verse while waiting for the concrete folks to arrive.
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outofbodyinjury · 2 years
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(´▽`ʃ♡ƪ) sprint kingdom?
yes yes the medieval AU! <3 snippet ahead:
“And say we do trust you,” Valtteri interjects, before Antti can follow up. “And we cut you loose, and let you roam the halls of Brackley. What do you want?”
“Nothing I didn’t ask for right away.” Daniel’s smile grows more beatific. “I just want to know if you got my letters.”
“Lewis checks the mail, not me,” Valtteri lies. He has no idea who checks the mail, it merely appears in the great hall. He exhales in a huff and rolls his neck back and forth, ignoring the others’ winces as it cracks. “Just when Lewis and I try to get a man out to call for help, you show up and break in, and you know we’re running low on food. Not the smartest idea, but thanks for at least coming alone.”
“See, sometimes I'm convenient. Can't blame a man for getting around, can you? I mean, no one's on King Seb may-his-name-live-forever's ass about slutting it up with the Strulovitch clan, right?“
Valtteri clears his throat. "I am, actually."
"Jeez, well. I'm cuter than him."
"And Ferrari never sought your allegiance."
"And? Was that an and?"
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ineffably-good · 2 years
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New Fic: Watching (OFMD)
Another OFMD fic I posted recently on AO3
Title: Watching
Summary: during season one, Ed develops a habit of sneaking in to watch Stede sleep. It scratches an itch he didn't know he had. Unfortunately, a lifetime of being bullied has provided Stede with an infallible sense of when someone is watching him.
Read it on AO3
Excerpt:
Stede’s acting skills kicked in full force—feeling instinctively that to lay completely silent and still was a dead giveaway, he instead rolled over slightly and threw an arm up over his head, conveniently close to the handle of the dagger, before snoring again.
The presence across the room froze for so long that Stede began to think he’d imagined it, but finally he heard a quiet step coming towards him. Then another. Whoever it was hadn’t even taken off their boots. They sounded too light on their feet to be Ed or Fang. Definitely Izzy, Stede thought.
He waited until the person was very close, took a long slow breath, and then in an instant grabbed his dagger and lunged.
“Avast ye!” he cried, the point of the dagger digging into someone’s flesh. “What say you, you brigand?”
Watching - megzseattle - Our Flag Means Death (TV) [Archive of Our Own]
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iznsfw · 22 days
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Lucid Dream
IZ Days of Christmas 2023: Day 7 - Kim Minju
IZ*ONE's Kim Minju x Male Reader Smut
8,525 words
Categories | married man!You, wife!Wonyoung, daddy kink, degradation, rough sex, OC is not a good person
Content warning | cheating, humiliation, Wonyoung slander (it hurt to write but I read "Gone Girl" by Gillian Flynn recently so I guess that went into the whole wife-hating thing)
Skipping again a bit (still will do Chaeyeon and Chaewon and everyone because IZ*ONE best girls). Expect a commission and an IZ Days of Xmas fics this month again <3 I love you all, you make me happy. And as always, sorry for the inconsistency!
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Wonyoung is beautiful.
You stare at her as she undresses in front of the full-length mirror. She’s the kind of woman whose vanity seldom rolls eyes because her adoration for herself—smoothing down her dark hair, strictly adhering herself to that keto diet, doing her skincare with the dedication of one who prays nightly to god (pick any)—is wholly justifiable. Look at her. Anyone would understand.
The dress she wore for her hosting show slips off her body. Her abs reflect in the mirror, the result of hard work in the gym. Wonyoung’s waist is impeccable. Magazines have written over and over tips to attain it but it seems that the signature Bratz doll feature can only belong to Wonyoung. The makeup was cleaned up by her stylist but her eyes still shine, her lashes are still long, and her lips are still plump.
Wonyoung is standing there in nothing but her underwear, an attractive set of lace. 
Wonyoung is the perfect female form, a goddess from above choosing a man from below.
Wonyoung is beautiful, a feat that no matter how amazing besides true, she remains the same old fucking bore.
“Did you like my MCing, babe?” she asks.
“Uh-huh.”
Her legs, long and thin, move in planned strides down the room. To the bed. You know where this is going.
Your feet are killing you. Recline, welcoming yourself into the softness of the expensive mattress and pillows your wife paid for all in all. “Wonyoung, I’m tired.” 
She’s a celebrity. Of course, endless days filled to the edge with schedules chase after her. She ought to understand. The nights are her only rest hours, yet with this energy, it’s like Jang Wonyoung never gets exhausted. Always bubbly, always sweet, always so seductive. 
All these are positive traits that any other man would adore and own had you not married her. 
Wonyoung makes an adorable sigh. “But you say that everytime,” she replies sullenly.
She’s pushing her lips out into this cute pout while her brown puppy eyes beg you to give in like you used to. Once upon a time, you were putty around Wonyoung. Never could give an answer without your voice shaking. Never could come near her without blushing. 
She’s the prettiest woman in the world.
You’re the most awful, undeserving man in the world, for all you could think, as you look at her, is: Fucking bitch. 
“Well, maybe it’s because I’m always tired.”
“How about,” she puts a finger on her chin, “I do the job for you?”
Her knees are bruised. You notice this when she drops to them so she could pull your pants to the ground. So she’s been doing this for so long? Lowering herself for you? Sucking you off? You thought that she’d get the hint by now: you don’t want to have sex with her.
So instead, she uses her mouth. Better than her pussy anyway. What are you saying? She’s a tight woman. But it’s the same thing everyday: she gets on your cock and you hear her annoying voice straining as she rides you. Her cunt, soaked and useless, makes you want to call her its name. She’s always needy. It isn’t flattering when you don’t reciprocate it.
It’s a goddamned chore. Wonyoung’s throat welcomes you. The other way around, actually: your cock welcomes a claustrophobically closed passageway and has to deal with it until you cum. It’s an unwanted visitor. She rang the bell, said hi, and you let her in. Doesn’t mean you like her there.
“Doing so good, baby,” you say. Oh, yeah, doesn’t mean you mean it either—although you do feel Wonyoung smile happily. She’s happy when she makes you happy. When she makes you give her the illusion that you have any happiness in this worn-out marriage.
Her lips seal around you. You can feel them suckling. Your knees are tense. The moans are forced, though. Hearing them come out from your own mouth makes you want to place a pillow over your face and press it down as hard as you can.
She slides you down her throat. Admittedly, you love the way she chokes. Her eyes get all watery, like she’s crying from pain. That sounds appealing. 
You’re a critically messed up man, you know. But they’re what make the world go ‘round. Why do you think they write romance books about them—the bad boy, the mafia boss, the killer? Plus, one of those “terrible” people inspires the biggest Korean celebrity to continue hosting, dancing, and singing. So who’s so terrible now?
To conclude, if anything, you’re the one responsible for Wonyoung’s success.
To conclude, you groan as desperately as you can then release in her mouth. Wonyoung gags. Another pretty sound. Her eyes look up while she attempts to swallow. Saliva sticks to her chin. Semen floods up to the roof of her mouth. It reminds you of how it ends up there more often than in her womb.
You would’ve made beautiful children with Wonyoung in another world where she wasn’t famous and you actually loved her. You would have been a softer, kinder man. She would have been a person who’s easier to love and make love with.
“Wonyoung, Wonyoung, that… was incredible.”
If you weren’t a director, you’d be the one on camera. You’re a great actor when it comes to your wife. Your incompetence in the house is masked by husbandly exhaustion; an artificial gaze of attentiveness hides your indifference to conversation. 
She smiles coquettishly. “I try.”
The wide closet parts. She chooses a pair of silk pajamas that hang around her thin frame. She climbs onto the bed and wraps an arm around you. Her skin is always cold to the touch. Like she’s dead or something. How interesting.
You stroke her hair. “I’d return the favor but… I’m actually gonna pass out. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.” She kisses your forehead. Wonyoung’s a sweet girl. “Good night.”
You smile. Say it back. Her eyelids flutter closed. Her palms are flat against each other and are placed under her cheek. Cute, you guess. She sleeps. 
You don’t. 
You should have—nothing good ever happens after midnight.
-
2:05 a.m., more specifically.
-
Amazing how time slips through your grasp like air. You reach and reach, desperate for a return, desperate for a flash to the past. As always, your efforts aren’t fruitful. The seconds pour through the pinched waist of the hourglass and you can’t stand it on its other head. You’re unable to revert back to the moment you took your arm from underneath your wife’s skull. The moment you opened your phone. If you hadn’t, maybe things would have been different.
But it’s past two, and you’re resting your back on the pillowy headboard with your phone in your hands. The circumstances just play right into danger: Wonyoung’s asleep, the night is eerily quiet, and the screen is there, awaiting the secret routine. Which girls would you cum for today? Why aren’t your thumbs clicking over censored sites?
Your feed shows a naked woman, her eyes staring up and her mouth wide. Scroll past that—you prefer the amateur videos, where the expressions balance between exaggerated and naturally provoked. A ton of videos could help in the bathroom where you take your nightly “shower,” and it’s not one of those.
Maybe you need the real thing.
Look at Wonyoung. Perhaps you should have let her ride you just so you could cum in a warm pussy again. After all, it’s the least you could do when you were once a fan of her. That’s how everyone starts: puppy-like adoration. But she doesn’t have the star quality she once did onstage; the coy thoughtful princess you envisioned her as. That’s why you haven’t fucked her in weeks. 
You’re about to wrap your hand around your cock and ready yourself for another night of conflicted pleasure. This video is perfect for that already. You could jerk yourself off then get a good night’s sleep. Simple. This is the safest option for a dangerous want. By just watching, you’re not cheating on your wife. It’s just porn. Jerk off, cum, cum again probably, then sleep. Nobody gets hurt.
“Fuck me… please,” whimpers the woman in the video. Her legs are spread open. Her partner’s swiping his cock at her lips while she looks at him with equal hunger, equal desire. “I can’t take it anymore.”
Then, a text message notifies you, peeking from the top of your screen. It dares you to click it.
And it says the exact same thing.
fuck me please, i cant take it anymore. 
i miss you 
You look around, like you’re afraid someone might see it. There’s only the dimness of your bedroom that greets you. It’s safe, but this message isn’t. 
The number is familiar. Has one of your friends gone crazy? Or did they send a text to the wrong person? Take it for spam, a perfectly coincidental one, or a scam, a typical, preying-on-the-married, pwning message.
But why would a contact spam you at a time so strangely perfect?
Don’t bother. Your fist works on your dick as you watch the video. The woman’s so wet that although she isn’t squirting, her juices start to stick to the man’s thighs. Her mouth is wide open as he finally pounds her. 
What you’d give to have good sex like that again. 
XXX-XXX-XXX sent a video message.
Fine. Click it, you’re curious.
Oh, so apparently, the answer is your marriage.
The video shows a face that’s more intimate than familiar. The ebony-black hair already tells you who she is, as does her body. Her form is encased in a floral tank top and nothing else. Although her chest is covered, she’s still a little daring with how her nipples stamp the fabric. She turns herself around to let you admire the curve of her wide hips and her round butt.
There’s only one woman with a body so perfect. And she’s the one and only Kim Minju.
There are reasons for everything. This is yours for why you didn’t give this number a name: 
No one needs to know just from a text that you cheated on Jang Wonyoung.
That was so long ago, back when you were still boyfriend and girlfriend. You were drunk and missed Wonyoung’s old self. Why did she have to be such a bitch? Why did she dedicate herself to work and leave you dry? It’s not like the industry would go bankrupt without her. Minju came over, listened to your complaints—every little whine about Wonyoung being busy, every little jab at her workaholic character—then said something along the lines of, why don’t you have a little fun while she’s away. 
And you thought… yeah, that was a really great idea. 
That was the beginning of the end. After multiple secret meet-ups and raunchy sex in alleyways, you didn’t contact Minju again. You forgot her. You thought she did, too. She should have understood that your infidelity, albeit alluring, would be a thing of the past. 
But here she is, in your messages, with a pornographic clip of herself in a round-cornered bubble. She’s waiting for a reply. 
Although you’ve long lost your aspirations to be a better husband, you type what a good man should. This man is proper, faithful, and loving. He loves his wife only and the only other people he loves with this deep of a bond is his family. 
Stop texting me or I’ll block you. 
It’s not enough. You’re not a good man. You aren’t proper or faithful or loving or any of that shit. You were about to masturbate to an internet celebrity after turning down sex with your wife. What about that makes you a good person?
:( you miss me sooooo bad it’s pathetic, Minju replies.
You look at her again. You may not be able to turn back time with your metaphorical hourglass, but you can turn this hourglass body into any position you want. You could push her against a window for all to see, perhaps fuck her to the floor, or slam her on a desk like a teacher would to a test paper. Minju would let you do anything to her.
Stop it.
She really has to. As much as you dislike Wonyoung, she’s your wife, and you vowed on your wedding day to only have eyes for her. 
But you’re only one man against a body like Minju’s that curves in every right place.
Three circles float up and down in a contained bubble before she texts you back:
alright…what a pity :( i’m already outside!! i guess ill have to go back…
You’ve never bolted out of bed so fast. 
You look back at Wonyoung as you stand in the doorway. She’s still in deep slumber. Now, are the curtains closed? The entrances locked? Scan the house thoroughly, until you inch your way to the front door. 
Hesitate. You didn’t know you had a conscience but here it is. It tells you to wonder if Minju really is behind it, like she said. She knows how to use the privilege of being Wonyoung’s close friend. That’s how she came to your house like she used to with no worry for paparazzi or suspicion. Best friends don’t fuck their best friends’ husbands, right?
Open the door. This one did.
Minju grew more beautiful in her absence. Her hair is silkier this time and her shy smile is brighter. The long coat is smoothed by her fingers, and you wish you could be the brown piece of fabric her pale hands run down. What makes you guilty for thinking it, even when you’ve done it, is the fact that she looks so innocent. It’s like it would be a crime to even buy her a drink. 
How could she be innocent with that photo she sent? The time you spent together: you folding her over a table and promising to fill her up? Fucking her while Wonyoung is busy and counting on you to welcome her home? Sending nudes like there’s no tomorrow? Nothing about Minju is pure, yet she acts like she could do no wrong.
“Minju,” you say. Your voice sounds fragile. She has a way of breaking you befote you’re breaking her into breaking another bed. 
She blinks theatrically. Everything she does is angelic. “Glad you opened the door.”
The knob is cold in your fist. It chills your animalistic brain and urges you to consider the consequences. Right, it says, here’s what a human—a good one—would think. If Wonyoung wakes and sees you with Minju, she’d have a lot of questions. If paparazzi are somehow hiding in the forest that extends to acres before your house, everyone would know you’re cheating on her. Most of all, you’re married, monogamy and everything. 
So what will it be? This is your last and only chance to send her away.
You know what you have to do. Take a few breaths. “You have to leave. I’m not joking, it isn’t right.”
In response, Minju unravels the ribbon of the layers sealed around her waist. It falls apart. You do, too.
She’s a real danger. As it turns out, the girl isn’t wearing anything underneath that trench coat. She’s an artist’s naked muse—bare long legs, wide hips, and a sizable bust that has sculptors carving something else.
The cold hardens her pink nipples. You notice how her breasts are much bigger than your wife’s. How her hips are more tempting to grab, so you do. How her body is meatier, a lot more enticing that you wouldn’t refuse a day without touching it.
Minju fuels your infidelity, and you won’t stop for it if it kills you.
She simpers, fingers curling into your work shirt. “Still wanna make me leave,” she asks, “when you can breed me all night long?”
You laugh, huffing it out as you pull her inside and close the door behind her. Minju looks gorgeous pressed to it. She looks gorgeous in whatever situation, actually. Her thighs squish against the carved design and look thicker as a result. More reasons to dive into that shaven cunt and abuse it.
“You’re not leaving until we make a fucking mess, Minju.” You take your shirt off. Throw it on the ground. “And we better make it quick.”
“Of course.” She nods. She’s slyer than a fox, but she submits to you without a second thought.
You lean in to kiss her. The heat is unbearable. You can feel it from Minju’s body transferring to yours. It’s the effect of her natural skills as your personal slut: trying to fit her tongue deeper in your mouth while you pull her close like she’d dare to run away. 
You haven’t gotten this hard for anyone else. It’s always been Minju you fall for. You miss the way she kisses, the way she roams her hands all over your torso, the way she’s goddamned insatiable. Feeling it all now in one, heated moment makes you dizzy. You’re taking in too much of her, but without her, you’d go thirsty again. 
Your fingers are in her hair; hers are on your waist. Your teeth are clamped down on Minju’s bottom lip; hers are apart and allow soft moans to pass through—one, two, three. You fit each other in so many wicked ways. They did say misery loves company.
Open your eyes. The dream doesn’t stop. Minju’s still pushing her mouth in your face and you’re letting her. You don’t know if you ought to be relieved or downright horrified. You’re cheating on Wonyoung again with a woman whose body is just a bit nicer. You should be furious at yourself. You aren’t.
You’ve made out with each other on the way to the dining room. You and your wife worked hard for its designed walls and sturdy, well-furnished ornaments. A lot of money was raked out to make this house the best place to call home. So, why do you want to ruin it?
Well, because of her.
Minju leans on the dining table with a funny smile on her face. “She really doesn’t do it for you, huh?” she asks.
It makes you wince how you know who she’s talking about. Who else is she referring to other than poor Wonyoung? Poor, skinny, ugly Wonyoung?
Nibble at her earlobe. Hear little gasps come out of her. “Don’t talk about her,” you say.
You don’t want to have any afterthoughts about fucking Minju. Besides, being reminded that you’re disloyal to a woman who loves you very much is painful, even to a man like you.
Wonyoung is an angel. Minju isn’t—but you run after her to darkness.
“Ohh, come on, I know I’m better than her.” Minju squirms with erotic moans. Your kisses are going south, and she loves their little detour. “You don’t fuck her like you fuck me.”
When was the last time you worshiped Wonyoung? Like what you’re doing to Minju now? Your lips haven’t passed over it in ages that you probably wouldn’t know where the bigs and smalls of her body are. Like there’s anything to know. 
“Actually,” you snort, “I don’t fuck her at all.”
You stop chuckling. That was the wrong thing to say. That was the wrongest thing to say out of the millions of other cocky phrases you could’ve thrown to Minju. The look on her face, the one that’s of pride and submission and dangerous knowledge united, tells you to watch your mouth. 
You’re five seconds minimum too late to listen. 
Minju grins. There’s the answer she wanted. “That’s how it is? Just looking at a girl and thinking you wanna stamp a divorce approval on her forehead? Jesus. This is why I never got married.”
“First off, nobody put a ring on you because you’re a slut, Minju.”
“That’s only the third reason.” Her fingers drape the sides of your face and tugs you in. You’re invited to the sight of her infallible tits. “These are the first two.”
The girl isn’t as busty as that woman Wonyoung likes to call her industry mom, but you bet they’re better. No, it’s a matter of truth. Minju’s boobs aren’t too big or too small; just the perfect, filling size to hold onto when you’re railing her from behind.
You choose to suck on them for now. It’s like a trip down memory lane when you kiss down her neck and collarbone. You remember how good her smooth, soft skin feels beneath you, how her moans are a favorite tune. Minju bites her lip while you do so to her shoulder.
It’s crazy to think that she just so happened to be born with this. She was born to be a pretty face with a sex-defined body that you pull and push and pry apart. Best thing is, she’ll lay back down and beg for more. It’s like she knows her purpose, which would’ve shot down her dignity and humanity.
Her nipple pops in your mouth. Your sucking guarantees its hardness, and Minju starts whining. She arcs her body, wanting something rougher. Thus, you seize the span of her hip to rub her pearl with fierce speed.
“Oh, fuck, god—” What others might take for blasphemy, you take for praise. Minju’s already soaking wet. She would have had embarrassing laundry to do if she wore panties. Maybe it’s a good thing she arrived wearing nothing.
She’s still so sensitive. You caress her clit after a few kisses down her midriff. She fidgets needily like you aren’t already touching her. You’re nearly right—this touch is nothing when she needs something harsher. That something involves you treating her less than a human being, putting her down and tearing at her hair. 
“Please just fuck me,” she whispers. “Breed me, breed me, breed me—”
Yeah, that’s what she wants.
You don’t need further motivation, not when you’re presented with the prettiest pussy you’ve ever seen. Her fat lips are soaked. They frame the clitoris you’ve been stimulating that shines with slick. Then there’s the tiniest hole below it that begs to be used.
Your digits shove past all tightness. Her wetness allows a deeper exploration, so you curl your digits like you’re beckoning the orgasm forward. You know how easily you can get it out of her. All it needs to get Minju cumming around you is a slap, roughness, and giving her what she wants anyway. You know your methods, she knows hers. It’s a recognizable cycle that despite this, you can’t break.
Part your fingers widely to spread her. She’s so wet that she soaks your knuckles. There’s an ocean inside her waiting to be waved to shore. A storm, too, brews from the base of her throat as Minju whimpers. Her body lifts off the table but you force her down on it. She isn’t going anywhere, not without a fight.
Oh, and fight she does. She was an idol before an actress, so her muscles still memorize the circling motions that repeat on your fingers rather than move onstage. She sang once. That was a long time ago yet her voice sounds perfect as it strains her moans. Every little thing she does is a reflection of her past. 
That’s why when she leans back, pupils dilating north, and says “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit,” you get deja vu.
Your palm hits her clit, adding impact to your strokes. “There you go, little slut,” you snarl. “Are you happy now? Maybe even a little grateful?”
If Minju’s ass isn’t pressed down on the glass mantling your dining table, it hovers so her pink little hole receives you better. It’s not without the help of her weak hands clinging to the table for dear life, but she seems to be losing her balance. Her hips are shuddering. Her beautiful face is squeezed up into a blissful wince. Her breaths are becoming blunt little gasps that say none of the gratitude you want to hear.
You slap her boob. Red blooms from her pale skin that deepens when another impacts her bosom. The recoil dizzies you. If anyone’s getting the impression that you’ll slap her bouncy tits until you hear a proper word of thanks, they’d be right. First impressions are right just for once.
“T-thank you—” Her voice cracks, breaking like her. “Fuck, shit, thank you, thank you.”
Squeeze her cruelly and pull on the perky nipple. Your thrusts become mindlessly paced. Your hand returns to your cock while the other ruins her pussy. The pleasure is telepathic. It’s connecting you; her screams and squirms make you do the same. The electricity firing up in your veins is a shared network. When you point your fingers to her spot, she arcs her back in the same direction. How beautifully fucked up is that? 
“That’s not enough. You didn’t come here for nothing. What do you want, Minju?”
Minju babbles. You got your gratitude but not a proper answer. To be fair, she can’t speak when you’re fucking her like it’s your dick inside her, and when your lips are all over her collarbone. 
“And you better keep quiet,” you add, curling your thrusts, “or Wonyoung‘s gonna hear. Do you really want her to know her precious friend is a big slut?”
However, despite the rumors she starts, Minju could be a very good girl when needed. 
“Need you to make me cum,” she whispers. Her midriff is fluid as water with the way it rolls, showing off the hourglass shape of her waist and a soft tummy. “Do everything to me you can’t with Wonyoung. P-please, I can’t take it.”
Even if she can’t (wrong by the way), you’ll make her. She asked for it. She walked up to your house with a purpose: to be used, to be treated like less of a human being. So it’s understandable that you slam her down the table and seal a hand around her neck. 
She’s so light that the forceful push doesn’t break the fragile glass. But there’s something of hers instead that’s going to be broken.
“Oh fuck! It’s so–” Minju’s eyes roll back. “Ohh… oh!”
Little sparks of wetness shoot in the air. Your pace turns merciless. With just three fingers, you puppet her body. Strings are pulled—her arms raise and her long legs strain to pull you in. You push and she keens, you pull and she yells. You’re making her desecrate the place with her water.
“C-can’t breathe.” A squeeze of her beautiful features—eyelids wrinkling, mouth parting, cheeks filling with scarlet—occurs before she squirts again. She whimpers pathetically, sounding so pitiful you want to laugh. “Ah, fuck, daddy—”
Something stirs inside you. When men hear that name, it ought to feel purely platonic and familial. They’d hear it from their daughter and feel compelled to protect them from men who’d do to them what you do to Minju. But you much prefer hearing that two-syllable word when it comes from a naked woman squirting all over the floor, from whom once you register it, you’re urged to pin her down, tie her down, hold her down.
Ironically, you release her. That isn’t because it’s over though. “On your knees. Follow me.”
Minju releases a gasp, grateful for the oxygen. The color returns to her face yet she barely has the energy to get off the table. You’re a generous man, and hey, it still counts as helping. So you yank her hair and force her on the ground. She fucking moans, a feat deserving of a healthy spank to her ass.
You walk to the living room. She follows you withher hands and knees bearing the cold tiles. You lead her to the place where you spend your time watching movies, rehearsing, and hanging out with Wonyoung if she’s ever home.
Speaking of, glance at the door of your bedroom. It’s still closed. It’ll stay that way.
Look down after wondering why Minju’s noisier. She’s playing with herself on the floor with no care for the cold chill of the tiles or the little dirt wedged between them. She lightly rubs her abused clit, quivering at the contact. You expect that from her—she’s corrupted, an irredeemable cause. She’ll get herself off anytime anywhere.
But what’s unexpected is what those watery eyes are focused on: you, in a framed picture on the wall. You look younger, happier. You’re in formal garments standing next to Wonyoung in a church.
It was you on your wedding day.
You spit on Minju. “Filthy cumslut.”
The drool slides down her cheek like a tear. She darts her tongue out and licks it. One could’ve thought it was candy considering the lift of a smile. 
“I’m sorry, daddy,” she says resolutely. Her fingers still toy with her entrance. They won’t serve her well when there’s a bigger, better thing behind your pants to do it for her.
Your pants are already off. “Get up. Get the fuck up,” you command, but you do it for her. 
You grab her neck and force her up. The look on her face is addicting, the way the shock turns into carnal need, the way she bites her lip. You press her to the wall, right under the framed wedding pictures, and finally plunge yourself inside her.
“Oh, oh, oh!” 
What did Minju do to get this tight? Her walls are squeezed closer around you than you remember. They’re still wet from her squirting, easing your burden of fighting against the tautness of her core.
Her groans are pitched just like how you pitch yourself in her and make her fight for it. She tries everything: gathering the strength she has to push her ass into your crotch, rolling her body, looking back to watch your cock disappear between her lips. 
“So big, daddy!” she cries. With a lick of her lips, she turns to face you. “Mmm, d-do you ever get this massive when you’re fucking Wonyoung?”
That seals it. There’s no restraint in using her body. Her plump ass leading to her toned back is a temptation by itself. You’d burst all over it (maybe in it) if you weren’t already firm in breeding her. But dear god—it rises and descends into your angled pumps so effortlessly that you aren’t afraid to spank it like you’re angry at her. 
“Keep your whore mouth shut.”
Spank after spank you bestow and you realize, oh, you and Minju are really made for each other. The more her ass reddens, the more hot pain sparks on your palm. She throws herself back hard, you piston her harder. 
Your puzzle pieces stick together so perfectly that it’s a shame you didn’t meet under different circumstances. She could’ve been an adorable girl next door and you could have been a guy looking to slip her a love letter. She would’ve been your loving girlfriend, a beautiful wife, someone you’d actually enjoy touching, so different from the woman asleep in the bed upstairs.
But that’s never happening. Minju’s a slut through and through, and she’ll forever be a sin you won’t go to confessions for. She was made to be fucked then discarded of when she’s no longer of use. You see it in the way she’s in a mantra of craziness, the way she yells, the way she looks back at you like she’s daring you to hurt her.
You choose the dare rather than to tell her the truth. You curl her hair into a fist and pull her into you. 
“God, I’m so close.” Minju’s trembling body grows warmer in your touch. “I’m gonna cum all over your big gorgeous cock. I can’t hold out longer, daddy.”
Your teeth dig into her earlobe. You could make her bleed and she’d still find a way to make the pain heavenly. “I thought I told you to be quiet. Is Wonyoung waking up and ending your life worth it for this?”
“What if I say yes?” 
“Fuck.”
“Wouldn’t that be nice, making her see you’d give her away to get a night with me? You’ll give up all this stupid shit t-to be my daddy. Because Wonyoung’s just sooo worthless, isn’t she?”
Savage her cunt and shove your fingers down her mouth just so she could shut up. You love this. Minju’s always so ready for you. 
No, actually—now that you think about it, you hate it. You hate how she’s curvier than your wife, how she’s more alluring than she could ever be, how she moans despite the blockage in her throat. Everything about her is so sexy that the sound of her choking up spit makes you throb. 
This is the wrong time to have a conscience. You’ve already split her apart. You’ve already got your fingers in her hair that pull hard to the point that damage is highly likely. You’ve already—
—got Minju screaming, biting down on your skin as her legs spread. What a strange thing to have as a natural reflex. That’s all she knows to do: spread her legs, hope her innocent face attracts a guy into her home and his dick into her pussy. Her skin, white as snow, has become impure with red blemishes. You see her purple-bruised neck flex when she yells into your hand. 
“Daddy! Daddy!” Minju yells. Her fingernails leave fine scratches on the wall. “Fuck, I’m squirting so much I don’t know what to do—oh fuck!”
You bump the manic girl up on your knee before spreading her legs. A godless squirt of her juices hits Wonyoung’s face, the savior being the glass protecting the picture. Others bless their homes with water blessed by esteemed priests; you like to stand out. Choose to have Minju’s unholy juice flood the photo you once held dear. 
Did something possess you? An evil spirit, a god of fertility? All are clichés but you can’t help but think so when you notice how fast you’re pumping Minju. It’s like greed’s finally reigned you. It’s difficult to resist. Minju just wrings your cock perfectly dry with her tight cunt, keeps you speedy with her desperate moans. You’re vandalizing her with your climax and she doesn’t want to be clean ever again.
“You think you’re special, Minju?” You press her to the ruined picture. Her side profile mashes on the glass. “You’re nothing, only a useless hole, just like that bitch. Now clean it up.”
Her eyes light up in shock. Excitement? “What?”
You pull her head back in order to have her full lips pressed against Wonyoung’s face. The clear squirt is still dripping from it. Minju’s face is red, and although your cock left her moments ago, she insists on tensing like it’s there. Is that how she lives? Her way of bonding is riding on the high she got the night before and the night before that. She always has sex in her mind that thoughts of it occur to her as they would to an animal. 
That’s right; she’s an animal. Perhaps even a dog would have more self-control than her, ironically. 
“Lick your mess,” you command. “Now.”
Minju whimpers. You bury your fingernails in her scalp until she loses her fake hesitance. Her tongue glides on Wonyoung’s face and relieves her of the mess. Her lips part and close, taking in her own taste. 
She looks like she’s making out with your wife. Her pretty face smudges the other pretty face in the picture and it’s so much hotter than it’s got the permit to be. Wonder how it’ll look if she’s actually kissing the real Wonyoung—picture them with their legs locked together and tongues coming out to play—and you’re hard enough for another round.
“That’s right. You want to be Wonyoung so bad? You want to be the one I drive into the bed everyday? So fucking make out with her.”
“Y-yes, daddy. Oh.” Minju’s moans fog the glass. “I taste delicious.”
 It’s probably a hygienically reprehensible thing to do. But her mouth is dirtier than the picture anyway. You force her lips deeper into it until you pull her away, satisfied.
Not quite.
Rub her clit a few more times. Hose her squirt all over the floor. You’ll have a mess to clean up. Oh, there’s all the evidence: her squirt on the floor, her lipstick in the shape of a languid kiss on the picture frame, the mess she made in the dining table where you ate her rather than your food. 
But it’s all worth it. An evil idea plants and sprouts in your mind. “Bedroom.”
Minju pants. Her hands are flat on the wall. She turns to you, saliva and lipstick smeared on her chin, and asks, “W-which one?” 
“You know exactly where.”
Her wide eyes tell you wordlessly that she got the point. She’s well aware of what room you want to use her body next. It’s not even supposed to be a question given the ways and moments you fucked her there.
“But daddy—if, if she hears us?”
You grin. “Then you’ll have to be pretty fucking quiet.”
The best thing about Minju besides her body is her passiveness. She may act up sometimes but she still needs your cock, and she’ll do anything to get it. So when she hangs her head to hide her smile, you spank her. It speeds her steps to the staircase. Continue doing so all the way.
It’s funny how she struggles to even lift a foot. Streams of your cum and hers slide down her legs, staining the carpet. You’ll have to wash that out, too. If you have the maid do it, she’s likely to put two and two together. 
Even from the back, Minju’s body is beautiful. Her reddened ass twists from side to side and brings attention to her wide hips. The deep line on her spine is a path you trace your fingertips on. She quivers. 
“Daddy,” she whines.
Hit her butt. Let it fill your palm. “Keep on walking.”
It’s borderline dehumanizing. You’re treating her with a ferociousness a woman like her should never have to go through. The eyes of the painted men and women on your walls lock on her. It’s like their hard stares are real. Minju bears the blows to her cheeks during her walk of humiliation up the stairs. Tiny yelps are caused by each one. It’s in her to be quiet now that Wonyoung is quite near, although not as close as she is to another heavy orgasm.
You slap her pussy, making her shake, then lead the juices mingling in it up to her asshole. She chews on the inside of her cheek to hide her moan. She reaches the last step with a huge sigh of relief. 
The finality of the torture doesn’t last long. Fuck, it doesn’t even exist. You collect the semen and wetness from her legs, then drag it right back to her pussy.
You shove your fingers deep in her cave. There. Now your cum stays inside her. After that, it’ll drip all the way to her womb. She screams through pursed lips. 
Push her hard against your bedroom door. Her stomach’s flatness goes up to the point that it’s the only thing engendered into the wood. Minju’s tiny gasp is already loud for you. Her beautiful side profile is mashed deep into the solid barrier between the two women.
Minju whimpers. Is she scared or heavily turned on? The thing with her is she likes both. So, yeah—she’s wet at the thought of being caught with you, being fucked within a distance of your wife wherein she could finally pin down your infidelity. 
The little angel closes her eyes when your words hover near her prone ear. “Shut up,” you warn, “unless you want to lose your career. Or this dick.”
You slip your shaft between Minju’s shapely thighs. A friction is nurtured and grown into rough, pant-accompanied humping that leaves both of you breathless. Her pussy lips splay warmly on you and you’re allowed to rub yourself on her clit. 
Minju tenses up. Her breaths are kept to a hummed volume yet their huskiness gets you to fuck her legs faster. The core between them is so warm and you haven’t even welcomed yourself in it again. 
You carefully open the door. You don’t know what you’re expecting: Wonyoung crying with her face in her knees? An anger you never knew she could have? But what shows calms you. There’s your wife who remains asleep on the bed. From the soft snores, it’s easy to tell she’s deep in a dream.
“Wonyoung’s so pretty, daddy,” whispers Minju. You push her to the footboard where she holds on tight. “Do you think she’ll want to join if she wakes up? Or she’ll leave you for me?”
“Are you sure you want to act like that?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “Depends on what you’re gonna do to me.”
Everything. You’re planning on doing everything to her. 
Push her to the small pole of the wood. You’re forced to shove your fingers in her mouth again to keep her from yelling. The contact it makes to her clit is already overwhelming. But she’s all for overwhelming—she wants the kind of sex that leaves her beaten and bruised, the kind that leaves her sore and not knowing if she should tell you to keep going or halt. 
You know what she’d choose.
Minju grinds on the pole. She’s dancing her hips again. Somehow, things of the past don’t leave her. Her idol days still leave an impact on her. The guy she made cheat on his wife a long time ago returned to her life to cheat again. 
No, you’ve never been one for sentimentality, but things have somehow stayed the same. The slut that is Minju today was a slut all those years ago, too. 
Grab her hips and force her to hump the ball of the pole. She soaks it instantly. Minju is corrupted to no hope of return. There’s your cum, leaking from her pussy and to the bedsheets. Her juices wet the pole and increase the creaking noises that would wake Wonyoung up if not for whatever dream she’s having.
“Oh, daddy! Oh, daaaddy—” she stammers, words bitten and broken in the major need to be quiet.  “Just… fuck me. Please?”
“As long as you—”
“Be a good quiet girl, yes. I’ll do anything, daddy. Anything for this cock.” 
She kneels down. Her tender mouth seals around your left testicle. You nearly shout right there and then. Minju’s running her lips on the underside of your swelling dick. She feels so good, and she is so good. She has all the tips and tricks to keep you hard memorized, if her brain wasn’t too full of other dirty thoughts.
The rasp in your throat materializes and makes her squirm her legs together. She puckers her lips then slips your cock through their joined entrance. Her almond eyes look wider tonight. Your tip pokes the back of her throat. She lets it rub there for now. You find pleasure in the texture that makes you leak. No, you can’t cum. Not yet.
Take a last look at Wonyoung before diving your rod to the depths of Minju’s throat.
It’s funny that the girl still has a gag reflex. Sucking dick is second nature to her. So is getting throatfucked. The walls of her oral hole flex to keep you in. She makes sharp inhalations only to take in the musky scent you thrust on her. In her?
Choking comes after. The orifice grows tighter which makes you fuck it harder. Saliva’s slick liquid state sheens your erection. Minju’s lost her breath a long time ago but she’s lost more than that now. The regular beat of her heart is gone. You can’t search her face for any color other than the palest white. 
“You have to stop gagging, Minju,” you say. Don’t help her though; keep ruining that throat. “Maybe you really do wanna get caught. Makes you really wet, doesn’t it?”
She nods. Your hard tip bobs in her mouth as she does. Her pretty eyes, with their long lashes and big pupils that always seem to gleam with innocence, fill with watery tears. 
“How cute.” You’re surprised that her hair is intact to her scalp after you pull it back. “But I make the rules around here. And I need you to seal that mouth shut and use it for good.”
There’s a possibility that, like Minju, you’re a dancer as well. But the upward grind of your body has no grace in it. It’s a rough, punked up beat that renders the girl humming and screaming.  This roughness is nowhere close to natural.
You dip your cock in her just to see how far you could go, how far is needed to keep her quiet. Feed her more than she could suck. Every sensitive spot of yours is on fire thanks to Minju’s dutiful tongue and hard sucking. Your sack slaps her chin so hard it’s surprising it doesn’t hurt. 
But, like you iterated, Minju isn’t normal. She takes the pain for pleasure and doesn’t give a damn if she gets wounded because of it. 
The tears finally fall from her eyes. 
The lines blur. Who is she—the woman asleep on your bed or the woman you fucked to be disloyal to her? Minju’s beautiful; so is Wonyoung. Jang Wonyoung is beautiful but there’s a category of beauty wherein the girl you’re destroying right now falls in. That’s the section for women who look pretty when they cry, who’ve accepted they’re as fucked up as whoever finds them and takes them in for who they are.
Your wife is pretty. You guess. But Minju is a beauty who lets you do everything to her, and that makes her a little bit more important.
Defile, defile, defile. Wonyoung wouldn’t let you get cum in her hair—(”I have a photoshoot, babe, you can’t!”). Semen sticks to Minju’s locks right now. Wonyoung wouldn’t let you be this rough with her—(“And what if they see? I shouldn’t look dirty to the fans.”) Minju is sitting there taking it like she’s just a cum dump. Wonyoung wouldn’t let you tear off her clothes because “they’re couture so it’s not really mine.” The coat Minju wore coming here lies discarded on the first floor.
Wonyoung doesn’t let anyone defile her. It’s her most fatal flaw. It’s the flaw that makes her husband see all the tiny imperfections she doesn’t allow the camera to see and chase highs in another woman’s throat.
So when Minju cries, gags, chokes—you realize it’s all so simple.
Slip out of her. The delusions clouding your head make you steal a look at the bed. Oh, now it’s unbelievable. Wonyoung is still asleep.
Not that it’s any inconvenience to you.
You prop Minju up to the vanity table. The counter carries the heave of her small chest. She can barely lift her head up. It makes her carry a look of humiliation that’s not at all true. She’s the most shameless woman you’ve ever met.
“Daddy… daddy…” 
Twist her chin so she can look at herself in the mirror. Her body is amazing despite the handprints and bruises peppered on her stomach, butt, and neck. She flusters but your finger presses on her lips before she can look away.
“Not a single sound,” you remind her. 
She nods. Good girl.
Minju’s a capable girl. Well, mostly. She offers those amazing dicksucking lips, shapely curves, and sometimes, her ass for ruining its own tightness. But nothing beats the feeling of her cunt. It’s all the right things: wet, tight, and perfectly quivering as they wrap around your shaft.
Minju closes her eyes. Bites down on her lip. She fights to be true to her promise of silence. Being a good girl and bad girl simultaneously is one of her versatile traits. The table creaks louder than expected. You would’ve shot another look at your spouse again, but Minju’s pretty face is in the way. Her cheeks are scarlet and her brows bead with sweat. She really is a beauty.
Your strokes are ceaseless. The thing that shocks you the least is the fact that her legs look as if they spread wider and wider. She splits while you split her apart. Place a hand on her tummy to muffle the sounds of skin colliding and wood creaking, and reach a better end: your cock is hitting her guts, making a bobbing print on her flat stomach.
“Look how deep I am, Minju.” You grin wickedly at her reflection. “You call me daddy anywhere, don’t you? How about I become a real one?”
Minju bounces herself on you. That’s a yes. A definite, enthusiastic yes. 
Your penetration is rougher, gliding on places she can’t even imagine. If you cum right now, and this far in, you’ll live up to your name of “daddy.” Minju isn’t the only one who has to keep promises.
Corner a pulse point on her neck. Her core squeezes and although its resistance is tough, your pumps are more so.
“You’ll be my secret good girl. Daddy’s gonna put a fucking baby in your stomach, and no one has to know it’s mine. No one has to know you’re mine.”
Minju pouts, not out of sadness but of the orgasm that’s creeping from her feet to her center. It’s so close she could reach for it, taste it like a strong wind. You allow the tiny breaths and pants that leave her to be exemptions from your bedroom law.
“Wonyoung would be so happy for you.” You lick the sensitive spot behind her ear. “‘That’s so great, unnie! Come on, tell us who’s the lucky guy.’ And you’ll have to stop yourself from telling her that I did it. Can you do that?”
Minju emphasizes each repetition with a responding throb and push of her cunt. “Yes, yes, yes—”
Allow that, too. Burst inside Minju. Flood her insides with cum that shall infiltrate her fertile womb. Soon, that tummy would be round rather than flat. It’ll be your baby. 
Minju got what she wanted in the end.
-
The next day, Wonyoung will wake up crying. 
It’ll happen early in the morning, when the moon is still up and sheets still wrap your exhausted form. But she’s sobbing so loud that it’ll rouse you. 
“What’s wrong?” you’ll say. 
She’ll tell you about a dream she had. Wonyoung’s going to narrate a complex dream of Minju, her beloved former member and best friend, seducing you. It happened right in the house and in front of her. You dared to do it to her while she was sleeping and thought she didn’t know.
And you?
You’ll take her in your arms, kiss the inside of her trembling wrist, and say, “Oh, honey—it’s okay. I’m here, baby. I’m here. I’m here.”
989 notes · View notes
vivwritesfics · 2 months
Note
Can you do a James Potter fic where you and Sirius argue over who he loves more
This didn't quite go the way of the request - more reader gets pissed at sirius for always demanding james' attention
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Paper hit the back of her head for the fifth time in the space of a minute. She let out a sigh as she looked at Remus, her desk partner. "Your boyfriend is annoying," she said to him and he stood his head.
"He just wants attention from your boyfriend," he mumbled as they tried to get on with their work. But it was damn near impossible, and Sirius was unrelenting.
When a particularly large piece of paper hit the back of her head, Y/N turned around with an exasperated sigh. The next piece of paper smacked her directly in the face. "Sirius!" She hissed. "Stop. It. Now." James blew her a kiss.
Something hit her desk and Y/N turned back around, sheepishly looking up at Professor Slughorn. "Is my lesson really that boring, Miss L/N?" He asked and she shook her head as as returned her eyes to her parchment.
It didn't just happen in potions. It happened all day every day. At first Y/N blamed Remus for not giving Sirius enough attention, but that didn't matter. Remus could have had his entire focus on Sirius, and it still wouldn't have been enough.
Under James' attention, he thrived.
Y/N was not allowed a moment alone with her boyfriend. It wasn't something they discussed, but Sirius wouldn't let them have a moment alone.
It got to the point where they had to try and hide away in broom closets or secret passageways. Anywhere to get away from Sirius. But, with the held of the Marauders map, he always found them.
"Fucking hell Sirius!" She finally snapped. "Can we have five minutes, please! Five fucking minutes!"
Sirius looked at her, his eyes wide. "Jesus, Y/N," he mumbled as he looked towards James.
"No, don't look at him for help." She turned towards James. "Don't try and help him."
James stepped back, his hands held up defensively. "He's all yours," he said to his girlfriend, and she sent him a sweet smile.
The smile dropped from her face when she turned back towards Sirius. "All I want is a moment alone with my boyfriend. One single moment! And you're always there. Why are you always there? Why are you so annoying?"
Sirius looked from side to side. He looked past her, at James, and then back at her. "Is that it? Are you done?"
"I'm going to hit you."
She hit him. It wasn't hard, but Sirius still covered his face, protecting his hair probably. "Okay! Okay! Fine! I'll go bother Remus then."
When he walked out of the broom closet and shut his door behind him, she threw her arms around James. "There," she said as she looked up at him. "Problem solved."
James kissed her. "You're brilliant, you are."
442 notes · View notes
sepherinaspoppies · 17 days
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Only If For A Night (i/iii)
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pairing: Dark! Book Aemond Targaryen x Modern! Reader
summary: In Dia De Los Muertos (Day of the Dead), she gets forcefully transported to Westeros and meets her favorite book character, Aemond 'One Eye'. She asks and begs for his help to send her back home after realizing this was a world she did not want to live in. Unknowingly to her, her favorite fictional man had already grown too attached to fully let her go.
warnings for this part: profanity, tea drugging, blood magic, sexism, I think that's it... more dark stuff later. READER IS LATINA !
wc: 4,027
series masterlist
my masterlist
pt2
notes: originally I was gonna have this fic be a one shot but it is sooo long that I decided to split it into three. this is an introduction part, aemond will be on the next (I'm half way done with that part).
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She knows she is screwed when Doña Maribel broke the news to her that the last of the cempasuchiles were completely sold out in her shop. Making it five flower shops in the span of an hour that she walked to have fully run out of the bright orange flowers she needed for her ancestral altar that she and her abuela worked tirelessly on for the past few days. (marigolds, grandmother)
She wonders what to do next or perhaps where to go as she plays with the gravel beneath her shoes. Sure, she could walk another mile or so to another flower shop and try her luck there just as Doña Maribel suggested but she finds herself too tired to venture deeper in her small pueblo by herself. (town)
Even the walk back to her abuela’s was not something she looked forward to as of now. This was the time where she wished she had the ability to drive but alas she could not for even the streets of Mexico were more hectic and nerve wracking than back at the states. (grandmother’s)
She sighs in defeat. The cempasuchiles were the last thing on her abuela’s list of things she required for tonight’s first day of Dia de Los Muertos. The bright orange flowers illuminated the path of those who died, back into the land of the living and enjoy the offerings their family’s set up for them. (Day of the Dead)
Maybe for just tonight she could spare them.  
She sets her three mercado bags beside her as she sits down on a bench right next to a bus stop that could lead her directly to her abuela’s home. The smell of citrus of the lemon tree above her eases her disappointment and feels that this is the perfect spot to reread one of her favorite books. (shopping)
George R. R. Martin’s, Fire and Blood Vol. 1. She wondered what it was like to reside in a world of dragons (before they were all extinct), dire wolves from the North, red priestesses from Volantis, and mysterious yet powerful witches. To live inside the walls of the Red Keep and tour around the secret passageways and to fight for the rightful Queen of Westeros, Rhaenyra and the other members of the Blacks during the Dance of Dragons.  
Sadly, even if it was possible to venture deep into alternate fantasy universes. It all was pure fiction. Not real. Impossible. 
‘And so one-eyed Aemond the Kinslayer took up the iron-and-ruby crown of Aegon the Conqueror, “It looks better on me than it ever did on him,” the prince proclaimed.’
“Excuse me, do you happen to know when the bus is due to arrive?” She snaps her head up meeting the most beautiful and enchanting woman she’d ever seen. Eyes round and greener than the trees itself during spring. Hair long and black like ravens in the night sky. She was tall, taller than most of the women here with skin like porcelain that had not seen a day of sun, a rarity here in Mexico. 
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It was her mischievous tight lipped smile that made her feel loss of words. Unknowingly, this mysterious woman was the first person who spoke to her in English, not Spanish.
“Umm… I- I’m sorry?” 
The green eyed woman smirked as if she knew the small effect she had on her. Gods she was beautiful. 
“The bus–” 
She shook her head out of her revere, coming to reality. “Oh, I’m not sure. Perhaps a few more minutes.” She informed, pulling her mercado bags closer to her side, allowing the green eyed woman to sit, not wanting to be rude. 
She murmurs a quick thank you as she sits exceedingly close to her, shoulder to shoulder, flesh to flesh with her. Jeez, talk about personal space! However, the woman doesn’t seem to care or acknowledge that she has enough space for her own person. A feeling of uncertainty rests below her gut, telling her to be vigilant around her presence.    
“How long have you waited?” She asks, breaking away the long silence between them. She almost shivers at the intensity hue of her eyes that bore right through her. 
“About ten to twelve minutes.” She replies, looking anywhere else but her. 
A satisfactory look sketched around the woman's youthful yet elderly face which she found odd. What could be so pleasing about the bus not arriving? The woman said nothing, only sitting rather straight, almost elegant in her simple long green dress. Though, in the back of her mind, she wondered if she felt hot underneath the heaviness of the velvet fabric. She sure as hell did.
“Wait, how did you know I spoke english?” She asked as the hairs on her arms stood up straight in some kind of chilling fear. 
The woman’s eyes lowered and centered on the object sitting up on her lap. “Your book gives it away.” She snickered softly, tilting her head reading the bold letters of her very worn book she got at the thrift store for just two dollars. “An interesting read.” The green eyed woman said whilst her face held no sincere fondness of it for someone who found it interesting. 
“You’ve read this before?” She asked curiously, little taken back, that she finally found someone else who read Fire and Blood Vol 1. Or anything by George R. R. Martin. 
“Yes, almost like I've lived through it” 
She opens her mouth to speak but the green eyed woman beats her to it. “I don’t mean to pry but where are you headed?” The smile falls off her face as she remembers the warning of stranger danger she learned as a kid. 
The woman must have noticed the dubious look upon her face as she threw her head back in a laugh. “I ask because it seems a storm is coming our way. And it looks like an angry one.” 
Sure enough, as she looked up the sky had turned into a deep gray with heavy clouds ready to pour any minute. Well this wasn’t forecasted in the noticias this morning, otherwise, she’d carry an umbrella. Or better yet, she wouldn’t have walked all this way if a storm was brewing. (news) 
“My cottage is not very far from here,” the green eyed woman revealed, standing up from the bench, overlooking the seriousness of the clouds. “It is just around the corner. Would you like to come?” 
She wanted to say no, that she was better off walking an hour back to her abuela’s house, even if it meant that she’d catch a cold in the pouring rain with blisters all over her feet. Besides, she did not know anything about this woman. Every bit of her mind screamed stranger danger! Don’t go!
But as she glanced between the heavy clouds and the green eyed woman with her hand extended out, all that doubt and worriment went away. 
“I don’t even know your name,” she pointed out. If all goes bad, at least she had a name to tell the authorities.
“My name is Alyssandra Riveras.” The green eyed woman smiled, bowing at the waist. 
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Though still somewhat skeptical, she walks alongside Alyssandra to her cottage. She makes small mental notes in her head, counting the red stop signs, right and left turns and any other landmarks of important significance. 
She was almost positive she could point her way back home. It did not help that five minutes into their journey, it started harshly pouring out of nowhere like a bucket of water had been poured all over, blanketing her vision. 
Alyssandra’s cottage had sat on the outskirts of the pueblo, isolated from all civilization, hidden around tall and green pine trees. A faint voice in the back of her head screamed to run and never look back. She ignored it.
From a close distance, she was able to distinguish a small window with overgrown vines and branches wrapped around the perimeter of the cottage. Bones, bells, and crystal windchimes hung from the roof and windows, mostly likely put up for some kind of spiritual protection. 
She was no stranger to the craft. Although raised catholic, both her mama and abuela had hung an old broom above their doorway to keep away unwanted guests and negative energies as well as pinning the mal de ojo sigil around the walls for the look of evil and envy against their family. (evil eye)
“Cempasuchiles,” she murmured in awe when Alyssandra’s small garden came into view. It was the most of the orange flowers she had ever seen, all bright and lively and huddled together. 
“When the storm is over, you can grab as many as you’d like,” Alyssandra offered, peering over her shoulder, unlocking the door to her cottage. She nods following her inside whilst giving a grateful smile. 
The interior of the cottage was small, meant only for one person to take residence. The same size as what a studio apartment would be back in the states.
In no way was the inside minimal, in fact it was the opposite. Almost all of the walls were covered with shelves with small trinkets adorning inside such as little statues, crystals, herbs and other supplies. 
In the center of the room lay a huge stone like table, old and antique bearing the resemblance of something medieval. And something about it, sent shivers down her spine along with the same faint voice, telling her to run. 
She ignored it, again. 
“Give me your belongings, and change into this,” Alyssandra says, tossing a strappy white chemise. She exchanges her poor-soaked mercado bags that contained pan de muerto, churros, and tamales for her ancestral ofrenda. (bread of the dead, offering)
She turns around to protect her modesty, seeing as there was no other room to change nor did Alyssandra point her to the bathroom, so she lifts the drenched garment over her head and sheds away the last clothing she had on her body, leaving her completely bare in her birthday suit. 
She couldn’t help but to feel Alyssandra’s eyes watching her very intently, examining every inch of her body as if it met her standards or so. She knows she should use her hands to cover up and give Alyssandra a piece of her mind, or better yet introduce her to a knuckle and hand sandwich for the way she was looking too closely.  
Yet her body feels frozen, unable to move under the green eyed woman’s gaze. 
“Would you like some tea to keep you warm?” Alyssandra asked, moseying to the kitchen. 
She blinks, whatever paralyzing feeling she had dispelled away. “Um, yes thank you.” Alyssandra nodded, pulling what looked to be a kettle on the stove. Meanwhile, she slipped on the white chemise in a hurry to not feel as exposed anymore. 
She takes the time to analyze the rest of Alyssandra’s cottage as she hears the droplets of rain hit the rooftop harder and the sound metal being filled with water. Various of the same purple flower plants were placed near the entrance, she notes to herself that these couldn’t possibly be lavender but another species or something within the same family. 
A small cot laid in the corner close by the hearth, with multiple open ancient books and scrolls spread on top of the bedspread. She almost wants to look through the pages and read Alyssandra’s interests but she doubts she could as she observes the handwriting is unreadable from where she stood. 
She walks forward to where the hearth is, feeling slightly warmer as something immediately catches her eye. Above the mantle, hung on the wall was a medium sized portrait of a small boy, appearing no more than three years old. He stood straight, almost regally with his hands behind his back. His face held no gentleness or warmth like a child should have. 
Gods forgive her, but the child looked cruel like the gueritos who bullied her in elementary school when she was just trying to make new friends. (white boys) 
Though, for an evil looking child, he sure was beautiful. The most striking thing about him was his set of eyes. Wide with his left eye a dark violet and his right a dark green similarly to Alyssandra’s. His hair was straight and cut short right below his ears. She looked closer at the portrait, thinking if her eyes deceived her as she noticed the peculiar color of the boy’s hair. 
Silver. 
Curiosity takes the better of her as she asks, “Is that your son?” 
Alyssandra turns, holding two mugs of steaming tea. “Yes, that’s my beautiful little boy,” She places both glasses on the stoned table before she sits adjacent to her. It doesn’t go unnoticed by her the sad look on Alyssandra’s eyes. “He looks like you,” she points out though it’s somewhat of a lie in hopes to lift up Alyssandra’s spirits.
Alyssandra throws her head back in a chortle, “For all my hard work and labor, I had hoped he looked like me but nature loves to play its cruel jokes. He is a replica of his bastard father.” The thought of her son’s father left a sour and disgusting taste in Alyssandra’s mouth. 
Alyssandra focused her attention back to her, “What about you?” She asked, sitting rather too straight. 
“Do you mean if I have kids? Gods, no.” 
Alyssandra smirked, “I take it you don’t like the idea of children. I did not either but after years of solitude, I changed my mind. I had other children before my son, but all of them died before they were due. You, however, are still young. Your mind can still change.” 
She shifted in her seat anxiously, sipping the odd taste of the herbal tea Alyssandra provided. It wasn’t like she did not like children. She respected children and found them quite cute with their little tiny hands and feet and infectious laughs. But besides the point of appearance, children were a tremendous amount of responsibility that she found herself not ready for.
Not now. Not ever. 
She could barely handle taking care of herself. Much less care and provide for a child for eighteen years or so. 
“I don’t—” 
“Oh but you will,” Alyssandra fired back without so much as blinking an eye. 
She grimaced, knowing where this conversation was heading. And it was about to be a not so pretty one. She glanced at the window by the door, the rain was still heavy if not more.
“I thank you for giving me shelter. But I really must go. I was only just supposed to be out for some groceries and my abuela is probably wondering where I am.” Polite and respectful enough just as her mama taught her.
She grabbed her belongings that were hanging by the fire and stuffed them inside her mercado bag. Her hand was on the cusp of prying the door open when Alyssandra rushed to her side, wrapping her hand around her wrist. 
“Wait. Please don’t go.” Alyssandra pleaded, “It’s just that you remind me much about myself. I didn't mean to cause offense, I’m sorry.” 
Run. Say no and run now, While you still can…
There it was again that same paralyzing feeling closing in on her feet, preventing her to move. It was strange like a shield gluing both her legs down. 
She nodded, murmuring ‘fine’ under her breath as Alyssandra slowly led her back to the woven chair with such gentleness as a porcelain doll. “I still need to call my abuela, so she can know I’m alright.” 
Alyssandra twisted her face in a wince, “I’m afraid we’re too far out for any signals to catch a telephone call.” She held back the overweening snicker to herself, it was why Alyssandra chose her cottage to be settled this far out in this very modernized realm; so no one could find her. 
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Alyssandra wasn’t lying. No matter how hard she hit her Iphone against her palm or moved it around, there had not been a single signal bar glowing. She wondered if her abuela had started to grow worried and perhaps began to search for her. She hoped she didn’t and that her cousins kept her preoccupied with the rest of the decorations to notice the duration of how long she’d been out. She also wondered if they were still going to the cementerio, to clean and decorate the graves of their loved ones but with the amount of thunder and rain, she’d doubt it was still on the agenda. (cemetery)
Alyssandra prepared some more tea as the fire gradually faltered down. This one had a different taste than the previous one with tiny purple petals floating around. Alyssandra watched very intently as she sipped every last drop while she scarcely touched her own mug.
The green eyed woman began asking her multiple personal questions, mostly about where she was originally from (due to the fact that her vocabulary deemed to be more vehement in English than Spanish), her family, and if she had any siblings. She had answered them all. Letting her know that she was just visiting from the states to celebrate Dia de Los Muertos with her family she had not seen since the death of her sweet abuelo. (grandfather)
Alyssandra’s eyes glimmered even more when she explained how strangely, her very stern and overprotective mama had suddenly let her travel by herself to a country she had never been to in years since she was small. Her mama preferred her to be where she could keep a close eye on her because ‘uno nunca sabe’ especially if you’re a woman. (one never knows)
It was odd, alright. Especially when her mama gave her money that she didn’t have, and enthusiastically wished her good fortune on her travels. Yup odd…
But not to Alyssandra.
Alyssandra sat down after cleaning both mugs ready to ask the hard hitting questions she’d been warming her up to. “Have you ever been with a man?” Her eyes widened before breaking rounds of deep laughter that made the sides of her ribs ache and cramp. 
However, there wasn’t an ounce of amusement displayed on Alyssandra’s face, but rather annoyance. What was so funny? It was a simple and uncomplicated question that meant no harm. At least not to her. He couldn’t harm her any more here. Alyssandra guessed perhaps it was the side effect of the tea making her humoristic. 
“No,” She replied, wiping the humoristic tears at the corner of her eyes. “The opportunity has never presented itself?” Alyssandra asked.
All the humor that previously lingered had gone swiftly away, realizing that Alyssandra was indeed asking something so personal to her. “No,” She shook her head, feeling her face hot and red. “People don’t look at me as someone they want to be with. They’d rather be with someone exciting, adventurous, and outing. And I’m neither of those things. I’m a homebody who’s idea of fun and adventure is living through fictional books.” She answered truthfully, too truthfully. 
Alyssandra watched her face transform into a deeper shade of red. “What is it?” She questioned, taking a hold of her hand, taking in the role of someone empathetic. 
“I want my first time to be special. Like the fairytales I grew up reading about with the grand Prince sweeping the young maiden off her feet and taking her to his castle…” The way her eyes reflected small flashes of light made Alyssandra almost feel guilty for her true intentions once the repercussions of the tea ran out. 
She remembers when she too wished for a dashing knight in shining armor to take her away, far away from the shit she had been through; the pain, the suffering, and the poverty. All of it. As Alyssandra grew well into her womanhood, she realized there was no knight coming to save her. Instead, there was a selfish Prince who spared her for his desires and her many talents beyond the acts of the flesh.  
But Alyssandra needed her to go. She needed that piece that was stolen from her. She didn’t want the risk of going back and facing him again and repeating through the hell and agony he put her through. So sending her for it seemed like the better alternative. 
“I know you probably think it sounds stupid–” She stammered, her face still beet red. 
“I don’t think it sounds stupid,” Alyssandra softly smiled, giving her hand a light squeeze. Judging by the serene look upon her face, it was a good lie that she seemed to believe. 
She smiled. Finally, someone who didn’t think of the idea of waiting for the right person was silly and unrealistic. 
Her smile deterred, sensing something trickle down her nose, dropping against the skin of her hand. 
Blood. Her blood. 
Run! 
“Alyssandra?” She whispered, puzzled at the sight of more blood spilling out of her nose. Every strand of hair in her arms stood, sensing a new type of alertness course right through her. She glanced at a very blurred Alyssandra with what looked to be a smirk written on her face. 
“W-What’s happening?” She stood from the chair, but that soon turned out to be a bad idea as her knees gave out, sending her straight to the stoned cold floor. She glanced up, watching as Alyssandra sauntered in front of her, and as much as she wanted to crawl away her body was glued to the floor. 
“Look,” Alyssandra said, crouching down at her level before she took her in her arms like a newborn baby, weighing little to nothing. “We don’t have much time. When you wake up, I need you to retrieve something of mine…” 
She felt her back collide on top of the stoned table, “What was in that tea?” She questioned but Alyssandra was quick to shush her. “It doesn’t matter now. You drank it all willingly.” There was no argument there. 
Alyssandra pulled out a jar with overflowing cempasuchil petals inside and circled the petals around her. Almost like a ritualistic circle she used to watch the brujas next door do. (witches)
“You need not to be afraid. You will not be harmed as long as you do what I say. Exactly as I say.” She gulped, nodding seeing as she had no other choice. “Bruja.” She spat but Alysssandra only chuckled, “I’ve been called much worse, little dove.” (witch)
Through the corner of her eye, she saw Alyssandra holding out a small knife. “I am in need of a sapphire. It was stolen from me many years ago. It is one of a kind, which is why when you see it you’ll know it is mine.” 
She momentarily shut her eyes as the dark haired woman rapidly cut the middle of her palm spewing her blood on top of the petals. “Once you’re successful, you’ll come back here with the sapphire and gather some of my materials. The marigold petals with your blood coating them; The blood of whom you took the sapphire from and lastly you’ll lay on top of my precious table here to be transported back.” 
There was an evil smile on her lips that she desperately wanted to punch it off. “And if I don’t get the sapphire?” She questioned. 
Alyssandra combed away her unruly braided hair, “Then I won’t bring you back and you’ll be stuck there forever.” 
Fuck. 
“Stuck? Stuck where? Where am I going?” 
Alyssandra clicked her tongue, “A place where fairy tales do not exist, my little dove.” If she wanted a Prince to sweep her off her feet. Alys would gladly give her one. 
She attempted to wiggle herself out of this pendeja’s spell but whatever Alyssandra mixed in the tea it was compelling her body to still and her eyes to slowly falter shut in a peaceful sleep. (dumbass) 
“However I should warn you, this spell is only valid until tomorrow. Until Dia de Los Muertos is over and even if you do achieve in retrieving the sapphire but it is after November second, you'll be permanently trapped with him.” 
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its-pip-art · 3 months
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Chokehold
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Astarion x Tav (f)
Warnings: NSFW 18+, minors DNI, smut, blood, p in v sex, fingering, blood drinking, slight praise kink, slight pain/injury kink, porn with no plot
Summary: Astarion gets a little bit TOO into Abdirak's demonstration of torture on Tav in the Shattered Sanctum. Has to immediately steal her away and sort himself out
Word Count: 1.8k
Notes: I was going to write a whole fic about Astarion and my Tav, Antillia and this was one of the plot points, but I woke up this morning and wanted to write it. So if I ever get around to writing the fic I'll re-write this scene and add more delicious, angsty, lovey stuff into it - this is just bare-bones shit. Plus lack of character description in this makes me shake because I wanted to keep it as vague as possible so it's easier to project yourself/Tav into it.
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Astarion throbbed against the leather of his trousers, the once gentle want for her now burgeoning desperation. It was becoming painful. Each strike committed against her made him pulse with desire. His eyes followed the pretty rivulets of blood that escaped her broken skin. “Keep going.” He urged, doing everything he could not to moan her name.
Tav braced against the final strike and she could do nothing but yelp and tremble in the wake of it. She drew in ragged breaths in an attempt to calm herself. 
“You have earned her love, sweet thing. Loviatar is so very impressed.”
Astarion watched Tav dangerously as she composed herself and thanked the man with an earnest smile (oddly misplaced, he thought, given the circumstances). The first moment after they stepped out of the room Astarion seized Tav’s wrist and dragged her off to the side. “We have to go.” He hissed.
Tav stared at him bewildered and with growing worry that her odd encounter with Abdirak had inadvertently caused trouble somewhere else in the sanctum, “is something wrong?” She could feel him shaking against her. She held his gaze, the brilliant red giving way to black, his pupils were so dilated…
Astarion held her arms, mostly to steady himself but it was all undone when the cool wet of her blood finally deigned to touch him. His eyes flickered shut from the exquisite sensation, and when they opened they were dark. The light started to disappear between the two of them as the distance closed. His body tipped towards her. “I’m going to fuck you.” 
Tav lit red with the abruptness of proximity and his command. “Right now?” She asked in a hoarse whisper, but a wry smile broke through at the vulgar thrill of it. “The torture stuff got you going, didn’t it?” She felt fervour lighting within her when Astarion smiled at her, that dazzling smile.
“Immensely so.” Astarion whispered. He felt a little bit of comfort from the way she flushed, knowing that he was soon to get what he craved. He shot a glance over his shoulder, both Karlach and Shadowheart hadn’t gone with them into the priest's room, and for that, he was eternally thankful. He straightened up, clutched Tav’s wrist and began the search for a secluded room - a secret place for him to indulge wholly in his biting desire. He led Tav quietly and quickly through meandering passageways, leaving behind the thrum of the main hall until the sound became just a hum, and then, nothing. 
Tav gazed around the silent room that was lit only by a few candles and she leaned against one of the sarcophagus’s, which eased the strain on her back greatly but did nothing to aid her mounting hunger. She watched Astarion pull various crates and large objects in front of the door to block it. “Is that necessary?” She was joking, and only a little concerned. But before she could utter another word he was between her legs grasping her throat, and the wind was well and truly knocked out of her. 
Astarion’s expert fingers began to release the leather straps and laces that kept him from her deliciously soft skin. He eased the thick shirt off and his eyes danced over the crest of her shoulders, where he could see the beginnings of her wounds. “Show me.”
Tav’s skin stung with goosebumps at the demand and she turned her back on Astarion, her stomach twisting with pleasure at the gasp that came from him. She flinched at the coolness of his touch, one hand resting on her waist and the other carefully tracing the fresh lines in her back. “Ah-!” She gasped when the hot flat of his tongue dragged along her upper back. She felt a thump between her legs immediately and she braced herself against the hard stone tomb. 
Astarion sighed with the instant gratification of her blood flooding his tastebuds - the most beguiling and richest of wines, and as always, utterly dizzying. He nudged his hips against her and his determined cock pressured his leathers once more. He tightened his grip on Tav’s waist, eliciting a strangled whine. Silently he guided her to face him, beguiled by the way she gazed at him…breathlessly wanton. “Darling…” he said so softly as his raptured gaze devoured her heaving chest, his fingers carefully tracing down her clavicle where old marks healed from their last tryst covered her supple breasts. He bent to kiss them, admiring how pillowy they were and how they juxtaposed his hardness so wonderfully. 
Tav watched Astarion kiss and kneed at her, her brows knitted in a deep but pleasured frown as his teeth plucked at her stiff nipple. She raked her fingers through his wicked curls and guided his lips to hers, finally tasting him. The advance quickly deepened and she could feel his teeth teasing at her bottom lip, the weight and heat of his body pressed against her. A rough hand pulled her flush against him she could finally feel his tortured cock press against her stomach. As if he heard her plea she was lifted and perched atop the sarcophagus and his rigidness lined up perfectly with her wetness. She reached quickly into his trousers and gripped him, laughing into his kiss at the reaction. “Astarion…” She pressed her forehead against his as she began to work her hand up and down his shaft.
Astarion managed to steal a glance at her as she sighed out his name, the dim candlelight danced in her eyes and her skin was pricked with sweat already. He pulled quickly at her trousers and threw them behind him and he pushed her forcefully onto her back and he fucked his fingers into her, devouring her expression as she convulsed beneath him. “You are soaking, love.” He nipped mischievously at her jawline and slapped away her searching hand. “Not yet.” He warned.
Tav threw her head back and her back involuntarily arched as Astarion continued to viciously pump his fingers into her. She wanted to take control somehow. She considered her next move carefully, which was extremely difficult to do in her current situation, she could quite easily carry on as she was - he was excellent with his hands. But she wanted to be filled. 
Once again she lulled Astarion’s lips to hers and held him in a kiss as she reached across herself to drench her fingers in her blood. She broke the kiss and slipped her fingers into his mouth and he groaned, clamping his lips around them and sucking. Tav felt her legs begin to shake from the sensation of her quickly building orgasm but she disrupted his rhythm and it receded. She took the chance to untangle herself and spin beneath him so that her bare arse pressed against his pulsating cock, she pushed back further and grinned when he moaned - an aching moan. “You said you wanted to fuck me,” she glowered over her shoulder at him, “so fuck me.”
Astarion could have finished there and then at the sight of her eclipsed by shadow - his shadow. His hunger for her grew, but not only that, the pleasure in denying light any access to her - he was greedy for all of the spaces it had touched in the past. He wanted the sun to envy him, to resent his sinful kisses, his decadent touches and his maddening caresses. 
He pushed his fingers back inside of Tav briefly and used the wetness to lubricate himself with a few languid pumps. His rapacious hands rocked her onto him, setting a brutal pace. His scarlet eyes burned into her back at the redness of her skin, he felt no shame for the ecstasy her pain had brought him. For a moment the only sound other than their laboured breathing was the slapping of his hips against the meat of her arse, and if he wasn’t so offended by her silence he would have enjoyed watching her ripple in the wake of his thrusts. But Tav had a habit of being a nearly silent lover, mostly due to fear of being overheard - which did not line up with Astarion's depraved need to hear her scream his name. He took a fistful of her hair, wrapped his other hand beneath her torso and pulled her up so his lips could meet her ear. “We have a rare opportunity, love, you can howl and you won’t be heard.” He wasn’t entirely sure that was the case, but he wanted her to sing, needed her to sing. 
Tav shuddered against him as his nimble fingers closed around her throat. Her heart pounded against her ribcage, and as Astarion had confirmed before, he was able to hear it. The first rumbles of vocal pleasure began to thrill out of her, slightly performative to begin with, but even those made Astarion rut harder against her, prompting a genuine and searing wail of pleasure. She was released back onto resting on her elbows, allowing her to drive some of the motion against him - the response of which made her keen loudly. 
“That’s it,” Astarion growled in praise as he marauded every depth of her. “Good girl.” He sharply inhaled as Tav pounded back at him. He hunched over her, desperate to be as close to her as possible. He pushed his fingers into her mouth and when they were sufficiently sodden he took them to her folds and began to circle her throbbing clit. The reaction to which was a delicious buck of her hips that all but destroyed her grasp on control - he now had it back. 
Tav grasped desperately for anything to hold onto to centre herself as Astarion mercilessly fucked her. Her skin was white hot and her vision was clouding. “A-Astarion-…” She managed shakily.
“Yes, love?” 
Tav could feel the spread of heat in her stomach, the rope pulled taught. “I’m going to…” She couldn’t manage the last part, her lungs needed air and she was becoming delirious. 
“What, darling? You’re going to what?” Astarion relished the way she writhed and reared against him, his fingers worked more ferociously now - agitating her further. 
“Cum.” Tav choked out, “I’m going to cum.” She was burning up, searing. She could feel Astarion's hot breath on the back of her neck, his teeth seeking a spot to sink into her.  And instantly it all fell apart, the rope snapped the moment he bit into her. “Gods, Astarion!” She cried and mumbled and mewled as her body succumbed to rhapsody. 
Astarion drank from her blissfully, her clenching and undulating coupled with the exquisiteness of her blood tipped him over the edge and he emptied himself into her, his pace eventually slowing to a tired stop. He kissed the tip of her ear and nipped the lobe. “You’re a dream.” He sighed into her hair. 
Tav laughed. “So are you.” 
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niki-phoria · 1 year
Text
‧₊˚✩ chishiya, arisu, and kuina's habits they get from dating you
warnings: ooc chishiya, mentions of blood, not exactly canon divergent but i kinda expanded on canon (??), kuina's mom being sick
a/n: most of these probably should've been full fics but i want to write more reactions so here we are
gn reader (no pronouns used)
requests open !! read my rules first
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‧₊˚✩ chishiya
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word count 411 jack of hearts chishiya >>>
playing with your hands
you pull the chair back, sliding into the seat next to chishiya. he’s sure to sit between you and niragi, leaning back in the seat. arisu stands awkwardly at the edge of the room. his gaze remains focused on the only person he’s seen before - chishiya. 
chishiya raises his hand, waving at him similarly to the way he did in ‘tag.’ ann, mira, and kuzuryu sit on the other side of the table. aguni shifts across from kuzuryu, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms over his chest. finally, hatter stands at the head of the table. he dramatically raises his arms.
“welcome beach executives,” he bellows before glancing over at arisu. “and potential executive.” he sighs, pushing his hair back and sitting down in the chair. “we are here to debate whether or not a new executive should be instated.” 
next to you, chishiya subtly pulls his left hand from his pocket, reaching over to grab yours. it’s not an uncommon reaction, especially since you’ve become more comfortable in your relationship. he almost does it unconsciously as he casually intertwines your fingers together before stuffing your hands back into his pocket. 
the meeting drones on around you. their voices all blend together as you impatiently wait for the meeting to conclude. after a few minutes of arguing, hatter stands once again. “it’s decided. arisu will be tested, and if he passes, the beach will gain a new executive. this meeting is concluded.” he walks to the door before glancing over his shoulder. “arisu, i’d like to speak to you more. do join me.”  
you ignore arisu’s nervous look as you follow chishiya out of the room. both of you slip through the various different passageways further into the beach. he leads you to his makeshift workshop, only letting go of your hand to begin working on yet another kerosene bomb. 
you lean back against the table as you watch him tinker away. once complete, he slowly feeds the mess of wires into the metal soda can. he passes it to you, hands holding yours for a second longer than necessary. you smile, setting it aside on the table. “you always do that.” 
chishiya raises an eyebrow. “do what?” 
“hold my hand.” he doesn’t react, instead looking away as he glances for another can. but the light flush on his ears is enough confirmation for you. he’s always searching for you, even when you’re standing right next to him. 
always thinking of you
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the rest of the players crowd around into groups, forming little cliques. they nervously glance around at the other players when they aren’t taking turns turning around and exposing their symbol, relying on the trust of the group to be truthful. 
you observe them from your place at a table in the cafeteria, silently watching. this is nothing new for chishiya - picking up on the little details about people is how he’s been able to survive in the borderland for so long. but as the games become increasingly difficult and your situation becomes more dire, you find yourself replicating his mannerisms. 
chishiya glances over his shoulder at you momentarily before refocusing on the wall of snacks before him. it’s all junk food, but junk is better than nothing. you probably won’t be able to eat much while trying to complete the rest of the games and avoiding the king of spades, he reasons. 
a woman stands at the edge of the shelves, watching him. he reaches out to grab a packet of cookies, opening the bag and taking a bite of one. he glances over at her before nonchalantly raising the packet. “you should try them,” he says. “they’re the best ones.” the woman doesn’t respond. instead, she simply slips back behind the shelf to where her group is. 
despite chishiya’s insistence about his personal choice being the best cookies, he pauses when something catches his eye. this bag is a deep blue. it’s wrapped in plastic instead of the paper he holds against his chest. they’re vanilla. from the look alone he can tell that he won’t enjoy the artificial sweetness, but something makes him take a packet before he goes to find you. they’re your favorite. 
chishiya silently sits down next to you, placing his packet of cookies on the seat beside him. you subtly move closer so your shoulders brush, leaning over to see what he picked. “i didn’t take you for the cookie type.” 
“it’s good to know i can still surprise you, then.” his initial hesitance of which snack to choose immediately disappears as your face lights up when he slides the blue packet to you. 
“i didn’t know they had these!” chishiya is unable to fully suppress his smile, allowing his lips to curl upwards slightly. “thank you.” 
“i thought you would like them.” 
“you know me so well,” you hum, opening the packet before holding out one for him. “want one?” 
chishiya was right when he thought that he wouldn’t enjoy the artificial taste of the vanilla. but when you smile up at him, happily eating another, he realizes he’d be content to eat overly sweet cookies for the rest of his life - as long as it’s with you.
‧₊˚✩ arisu
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constantly talking about you (pre-borderland au)
word count 425
“hey, check this out!” chota takes a packet of ramen from the shelf, holding it up. arisu squints, stepping forwards to read the words. the packaging is pink, decorated with a picture of the noodles and… strawberry? 
karube reaches out to grab it, reading the words. “strawberry shortcake ramen?” he reads, raising an eyebrow at chota. “seriously?” 
“why not?” chota shrugs, returning to look through the various options. 
“sure, man,” karube chuckles. “whatever you want.” 
arisu smiles, shaking his head. he picks out a bowl of instant ramen, tucking it in between his arm and holding it against his chest to cook later. from the corner of his eye, a different packet catches his eye. it’s spicy - spicier than he would normally eat. but it’s perfect for you. he doesn’t realize the small smile unconsciously spreading across his face as he imagines the scene. 
going home to you after a day spent with chota and karube, pulling out the noodles, dancing around the kitchen together as you let them overcook on the stove, you teasing him as he tries to eat them and then has to desperately drink milk to soothe his burning mouth. 
he’s brought back to reality when karube places a hand on his shoulder. he leans in with a raised eyebrow, kneeling down to be eye level with him. “are you crazy?” he teases, gesturing to the packet in arisu’s hand. “we all know you can’t eat that.” 
“y/n will like it,” he says. he doesn’t notice the shared glance between chota and karube. 
“wow, man, you’re whipped.” chota comments. 
“seriously, i didn’t think it would get worse than that time he left in the middle of a match because y/n wanted to cuddle,” karube laughs. 
arisu purses his lips, unable to deny their teasing. he knows he’s whipped, or a simp, or a dumb lovestruck fool, or whatever else people want to call him - but he doesn’t care. going home to you, kissing under your kitchen lights, falling asleep to a bad sitcom wrapped in your arms, it’s all worth it. 
so instead of denying it or putting the ramen back, he lets them joke as he follows them to the register. he pays extra for the second packet before rejoining karube and chota by the window of the convenience store. “hey,” karube leans over to pat his shoulder. “in all seriousness, we’re glad you found someone like y/n. we’re proud of you.”
arisu smiles, refocusing on the bowl of instant ramen in front of him. “thank you.” 
trusts you with his life
word count 701 got a little carried away whoops
usagi’s hand stays firmly on the boy’s shoulder, subtly standing in front of him. “don’t worry,” she whispers when she kneels down next to him. “i’ll protect you.” he nods a little before she stands up. 
“we need to go,” you whisper. arisu nods, grabbing your hand as you follow usagi through the structure and up the stairs. other players chasing each other echo along the metal. arisu’s grip on your hand remains tight. he’s nervous- you can tell. he glances at you every now and then, pulling you through the different structures.
“queen’s turn ends. player’s turn begins.” the announcement chimes. you pant, leaning back against the metal. arisu never lets go of your hand, leaning down on his knees to catch his breath. 
“we need to find the other players,” usagi says. “if we can convince them to help us then we can win this.” you nod, squeezing arisu’s hand. “let’s split up. we’ll find more people that way.” 
“meet back here at every round.” arisu says. you note the area, before forcing yourself up, running off in search of the other players. 
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arisu curses as you follow him up the winding metal structures. it’s a dead end.you look down over the edge, and then over his shoulder. a chain hangs down from somewhere above. “you need to grab onto that chain,” you point. arisu looks at what you’re pointing at before looking back at you. 
“are you crazy?” 
“look, there’s nowhere else to go!” he seems unconvinced, looking down at the ground below. you reach over to hold his face in your hands, turning him to face you. “do you trust me?” 
arisu nods immediately. “of course i do.” 
“then i need you to grab onto the chain and swing. i’ll catch you, i promise.” he glances back at the chain before nodding. 
“okay.” 
the queen catches up to you seconds later, smirking as she pants. “looks like your luck has finally run out.” you push arisu behind you, standing between them. 
“i wouldn’t call it luck.” she narrows her eyes at you, stepping closer. “arisu, now!” 
he jumps off of the edge of the structure, grabbing onto the chain. you push the queen away, putting distance between yourself and her. you grab arisu when he swings back, helping him down from the chain as you begin running again. 
once you’re sure you’ve lost the queen in the maze of her game, you give yourself a few minutes to relax. arisu leans back against the wall, panting. “thank you,” he whispers. you reach over to grab his hand, nodding.
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you lean back against the metal railing for support. “this is the final round for the players,” the announcement chimes. “after this round, the game will end.” a man wearing a bike helmet nods at you before running off towards the left. you take his cue to go right, running  to the area where you agreed to meet up with arisu and usagi, finding them already there. usagi pats your shoulder as you lean up to look up at arisu. 
“there’s only two more players on the queen’s team,” she pants. “we can do this.” you nod, running through in search of any other players. you press the button on a man’s back, sending him to the ground from the shock. “sorry,” you whisper, kneeling down next to him to make sure he’s okay. you lean over the edge of the structure again, reading the scoreboard. 19 players vs. 01 queen. you let out a relieved sigh, making your way over to the area where you first entered the game. 
a few other players are already there, standing around and watching the time tick down. the boy rushes over to your side, standing next to you. you place a hand on his shoulder, watching the timer. “it’ll be okay,” you whisper. he nods, eyes glued to the screen. 
arisu rushes over to your side, quickly followed by usagi. he immediately pulls you into a quick hug. you wrap your arms around his shoulders, keeping him close to you. “y/n,” he sighs. “i’m glad you’re okay.” 
“me too,” you pant. he presses a quick kiss against your temple. 
‧₊˚✩ kuina
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doing everything for two
kuina sets the pot over the makeshift stove she created, using the fire to heat the water. a box of noodles sits beside her as she waits for it to boil. the store is almost eerily quiet, the flickering overhead lights being the only other source of noise. 
word count 532 there are literally NO kuina gifs and it makes me so sad ://
she pulls her knees up to her chest as she waits. when the water becomes uninteresting, she finds herself staring at the picture she took from the wall of her mother’s hospital room. she remembers that day clearly, valuing it as one of the most important moments of her life. she was younger when her mother had first been diagnosed. she nervously clutched the straps of her bag as the nurse guided her to the room, leaving them alone in the room. she remembers how her mother had gasped, eyes welling with tears before she wrapped her into a hug for the first time in years, whispering about how she was a beautiful young woman. 
kuina remembers calling you in her car immediately afterwards, happy tears rolling down her cheeks. she remembers the excitement in your voice as she told you the good news and the taste of the noodles you surprised her with when she arrived home. that was the night she fell in love with you. 
she sighs, refocusing on the pot of water. it’s boiling now. she slowly pours the noodles in, stirring them around with a pair of wooden chopsticks she found in the hospital’s cafeteria. it’s only once they finish cooking and she fishes them out of the pot that she realizes she has too much food just for herself. she made enough for two. enough for you.
she curses the tears that build in her eyes. the hope of you being alive fades with each day, let alone being able to find you. a noise at the doors of the store startles her. her body stiffens, anxiously peeking behind a shelf to see who’s there. 
the breath escapes her lungs when she does. bloodied, dirty, and standing on shaky knees, you stand there. you lean against the wall to catch your breath. kuina clambers to her feet, rushing over to you. “y/n?” 
your eyes blink open at the mention of your name. your voice is breathless when you speak. “kuina?” 
she runs to you, wrapping you into a hug. you’re quick to reciprocate, hiding your face into her shoulder. “i was so worried about you,” she whispers, pulling away enough to brush the hair out of your face. “how did you find me?” 
“i figured you would go to the hospital. when you weren’t there, i thought i would check the grocery store next.” kuina doesn’t notice the tears rolling down her cheeks until your hand brushes one away. “don’t cry, baby, i’m here.” 
she smiles through the tears, nodding. “are you hurt?” 
you shake your head. “i’m alright.” 
kuina traces her hand along your jawline. she can’t wait any longer, pressing her lips against yours in a sweet kiss. you smile when she pulls away. “i made food. it’s your favorite.” 
you press another peck against her lips, pulling her a little closer again. “thank you.”
always touching you
“hi,” you smile, lowering your head into a quick bow. they’re quick to reciprocate. “i’m l/n y/n.” 
word count 527
“y/n,” kuina smiles, reaching out to grab your hand as you sit down beside her. there are two people sitting on the beach chair across from her. you recognize them as being the beach’s newest recruits. 
“usagi yazuha,” the woman smiles. her hair is short, cut into a chin length bob. her forehead bangs frame her face nicely. she’s wearing a peach jacket and black biker shorts. 
“arisu ryoehi.” his hair is longer than hers. he’s wearing a white t-shirt and blue swim trunks. they both look uncomfortable surrounded by the frenzy of drunk beach members. 
“don’t worry,” kuina chuckles. “we don’t bite. there are drinks pretty much everywhere, and drugs, if you’re into that.” 
“which games have you played?” you ask. 
they detail how they first met during tag before meeting up again in a club game. kuina grows even closer to you through the course of the night as you laugh and joke around with your newfound friends. her arm interlinks with yours, body leaning into your side. 
in the mix of shared drinks and laughter, she eventually ends up on your lap. you wrap your arm around her waist, both to hold her up as she leans against you and to keep her warm. you’re all too familiar of how cold the beach gets during the night, especially when your girlfriend is only wearing a bikini. 
the night continues on, party raging around you. usagi had decided to find a room in the hotel once the ocean breeze became less of a slight annoyance and more of an unrelenting wind. the night continues to blur as kuina and arisu continue drinking and joking around together. 
“you two are cute together,” arisu’s words slur together as he smiles at you. kuina reciprocates, taking another small sip of her beer. 
“so are you two,” she smiles. 
“ah, we’re not dating,” he sighs. 
“really?” she cocks her head at him. “you should ask her out. she totally likes you!” 
arisu nods to himself, contemplating. “maybe i will.” 
“babe,” you whisper, running your hand against her side. “it’s getting late. we should head to bed.” 
“you’re right,” she hums, finishing off the rest of her beer. 
“i should probably get some sleep too.” arisu nods. 
“the rooms are all unlocked. just pick one that’s empty. we don’t really keep track of room numbers or anything.” kuina wraps her arm around your shoulder, leaning into your chest. 
“thanks,” arisu smiles. “it was nice meeting you guys.” 
“you too!” kuina clings to you as you lift her body, carrying her away from the pool and into your shared room. you use your elbow to open the door before setting her body down on the bed. you set a bottle of water on the table beside her and prepare a trash can just in case before sliding underneath the covers beside her. “i love you,” she smiles, moving to lay on your chest. you pull the blanket up over her body, rubbing your hand against her back. 
“i love you too.”
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Text
When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 13: Condemned From The Start] [Series Finale]
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Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra’s wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother’s life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting…
Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, violence, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, references to sexual content (18+), death, angsttttttt, more children than usual, Wolfman!
Series title is a lyrics from: “7 Minutes In Heaven” by Fall Out Boy.
Chapter title is a lyric from: “Sophomore Slump or Comeback of the Year” by Fall Out Boy.
Word count: 8.1k.
Link to chapter list: HERE.
Taglist (more in comments): @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauraneedstochill @not-a-glad-gladiator @daenysx @babyblue711 @arcielee @at-a-rax-ia @bhanclegane @jvpit3rs @padfooteyes @marvelescvpe @travelingmypassion @darkenchantress @yeahright0h @poohxlove @trifoliumviridi @bloodyflowerrr @fan-goddess @devynsficrecs @flowerpotmage @thelittleswanao3 @seabasscevans @hiraethrhapsody @libroparaiso @echos-muses @st-eve-barnes @chattylurker @lm-txles @vagharnaur @moonlightfoxx @storiumemporium @insabecs @heliosscribbles @beautifulsweetschaos @namelesslosers @partnerincrime0 @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @yawneneytiri @marbles-posts @imsolence @maidmerrymint @backyardfolklore @nimaharchive @anxiousdaemon @under-the-aspen-tree @amiraisgoingthruit @dd122004dd @randomdragonfires @jetblack4real @joliettes
Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoy the finale.🦀💚
In the Eyrie, one of Rhaena Targaryen’s three dragon eggs has hatched at last; the creature is small and pink, and she has named it Morning. When Rhaena’s tears fall onto the scales of her diminutive wings, they glitter like flecks of rose quartz. Deep within the snow-laden labyrinth of the Mountains of the Moon, Nettles is in hiding with Sheepstealer; already the nearby clans are bringing her offerings of meat and treasure, axes and clubs and daggers, hairpins carved from the ribs of enemies and necklaces made of bear teeth. Silverwing is settling into a lair on an island in the Red Lake at the northwestern corner of the Reach. Word of this has travelled back to King’s Landing, and Borros Baratheon implores Aegon II to seize Silverwing for himself; but the king does not want a new dragon. He wants Sunfyre back. That grim truth aside, Aegon is unable to trek across the continent to tame the beast anyway. Some days he cannot even cross a room. At the bottom of the Gods Eye, bodies are dissolving into bones, threads of long white hair breaking loose to flow in the currents like weightless strands of spider webs torn free by cold drafts. And only a few miles from the border of the Crownlands—preparing to cross the icy waters of the Blackwater Rush—the army of Northmen camps under a full moon in a clear, indigo sky heavy with stars like glinting coins.
“There are passageways under King’s Landing,” Clement Celtigar says. He stands by the bonfire with his sword in his hand, his face flame-bright and eager, forever licking up drops of the Kingmaker’s approval, a stray cat lapping milk splashed in an alley. Increasingly, Cregan Stark finds him tiresome. Clement is brash and dramatic, forever swearing vengeance, reveling in his newfound position as the head of his house. The Warden of the North has never had to beg for attention, admiration, acclaim. These things come to him like snow falls to the earth in winter: effortlessly, inevitably. Yet Cregan tries to be patient. Clement is soon to be his brother-in-law, and it is dishonorable to fail to extend courtesy to one’s kin. Furthermore, it seems, Clement has his uses.
“Are there really?”
Clement nods. He wears the banner of his house on a strip of fabric looped around his upper arm: crabs red like blood, a backdrop of white like snow. “That monster’s disciples used them to kidnap my sister from the Red Keep. But she fought hard. When we searched her rooms, all the furniture was upturned and the sheets ripped from her bed.”
“She is brave,” Cregan murmurs in agreement, though he is distracted now. The air tastes like smoke and ice, the wind rubs raw spots into the soldiers’ faces. They are arriving just in time. The depths of winter is no time to wage war. Cregan Stark imagines how you will greet him when he liberates you: a desperate embrace, hands that refuse to let go, whispered gratitude and breathless kisses on his earth-stained knuckles, bones of steel softened by the innate weakness of womanhood. You will love him, of course you will, fervently and entirely. Then when the realm and succession are secured, the Kingmaker will take you North and wed you in the tradition of his people, under the heart tree where the Old Gods can witness it. And then there will be the wedding night. In Cregan’s understanding, women receive little pleasure from the act itself. It is a burden they bear for the men they love, for the children they are divinely tasked with bringing into existence. Cregan Stark intends to alleviate your suffering in this regard as much as possible…yet he has already begun to choose the names of the sons he will make with you. He especially likes the sound of Brandon, sturdy and grounded and thought to mean leader or prince. “This is the last night your sister will ever spend in the clutches of the Usurper.”
“Praise the Seven.” Then Clement adds diplomatically: “And the Old Gods too, of course.”
“It’s the end of the world,” Cregan Stark says, gazing up into the night sky where constellations tell the stories men deem worthy of remembering. “And the start of a brand new one.”
~~~~~~~~~~
“How did you learn to braid hair?” little Jaehaera asks you in her lilting, reedy voice like a bird’s. You are sitting behind her on the floor in Alicent’s bedchamber. Nearby, Autumn is flipping through a child’s book with Rhaenyra’s ever-solemn son, murmuring as she points to colorful illustrations of ravens, dolphins, bears, dragons, crabs. They are learning to read together.
“My sisters taught me,” you tell the princess. Firelight turns her silver hair to gold, her pale skin to flames. Logs crack and pop as they melt to glowing embers. Alicent glances over at you and sighs despairingly. The dowager queen, so thin she might disappear, is hunched in a chair by the fireplace. She has an unshakeable, rattling sort of cough that reminds you of how Sunfyre sounded on Dragonstone when he was near the end. Her long auburn tresses are falling out in handfuls. She will not survive the winter, this is a certainty.
“You have sisters?” Jaehaera says, surprised. “How many?”
You smile faintly as you weave her hair into one thick braid like the kind Aemond once wore when he went to battle. “Three. Piper, Petra, and Penelope.”
“Where are they now?”
“Back on Claw Isle, where I came from. With our mother.” Mourning Father, mourning Everett, writing letters to Clement to keep his spirits high as he and the Warden of the North march towards King’s Landing to slay the Greens’ king and bind me to a different man’s will.
“What’s Claw Isle like?” Jaehaera asks with a child’s clear, boundless curiosity.
“Rocky, misty, grey. But the ocean is beautiful.” You think of Aegon’s eyes, the same as his daughter’s, a murky storm-blue that is deeper than it looks.
“What brought you here?”
You consider this before you answer. You see it, you feel it: cinders like dark snow in the air, Aemond’s iron grip on your forearm. “When your father was burned at the Battle of Rook’s Rest, he needed someone to help heal him. Your uncle Aemond found me.”
“And he asked you to stay with us?”
He would have slit my throat if I said no. “Yes, he asked very politely, as any gentleman would. And of course I agreed. I wanted to make the king strong again. I wanted to take his pain away.”
Jaehaera stares down at her tiny hands, palms crossed with lines that are long and shadowy in the shifting firelight. She does not speak of Aegon. She does not know him, and he frightens her: the burns on his skin, the suffering in his glazed eyes. She has no memories to impress his true character upon her. If she does not make them herself, she will believe whatever she is told. “I miss Aemond. I miss Daeron.”
“I know, sweetheart.” They were formally laid to rest yesterday on two funeral pyres. Daeron’s bloodied, charred, seafoam green cape was burned to ashes on one. All that was left of Aemond—his favorite books, his quills and ink, small leather eyepatches from when he was a boy—were torched on the other. “I miss them too.”
Jaehaera’s braid is finished. You reach into a pocket of your emerald green velvet gown to retrieve what you have brought for her: a thin golden chain necklace with Aegon’s ring as a pendant. He can’t wear it anymore. His fingers are too swollen. “What is this?” Jaehaera says as you place the chain around her neck. She lifts the ring and peers at it, gold wings and jade eyes.
“It’s supposed to resemble Sunfyre,” you explain. “Your father loves you very much, Jaehaera. He wanted you to have this ring and keep it with you always.” Aegon didn’t say that; he rarely mentions Jaehaera at all. Sometimes you think he forgets she exists. But she is a part of him, she is his legacy, and you cannot look at any piece of her without seeing the man you love.
“He gave it to me? Like a gift?”
“Yes. A gift.” A gift, an inheritance, a relic, a reminder.
Jaehaera turns around and looks up at you hopefully, vast wave-blue eyes like winter oceans. “Do you think I’ll have another dragon someday?”
Her own infant beast, Morghul, was killed in the Dragonpit before Rhaenyra fled the city. “Maybe,” you tell her. “There are eggs that could hatch someday. And there are a few unclaimed adults left, Silverwing and the Cannibal. Perhaps you’ll tame one.”
She wrinkles her nose in confusion. “What’s a cannibal?”
Someone who murders, devours, fuels their body to the detriment of their soul. “Someone who eats their own kind. Like a dragon who feeds on other dragons.”
“So just like in the war. Dragons killing dragons.”
“Exactly,” you say, a shiver crawling down your spine. “Now go show your new necklace to Grandmother.”
Jaehaera wobbles to her feet and dashes across the firelit bedchamber to where Alicent is slumped in her chair. “Look, look! It’s Sunfyre!” you hear Jaehaera chirping. Alicent examines the ring—skeletal hands trembling, large dark eyes slick with tears—and dutifully fawns over it, telling the little girl how beautiful she looks, how brave she has been. Then she bundles Jaehaera into her boney arms and holds her like she’ll never let go. Autumn catches your gaze from the other side of the room, and when you leave to return to Aegon she follows.
“What is your plan if the Greens lose the battle?” she says in the hallway under an arc of grey stones. Her tone is urgent, her hazel eyes sharp. Everyone knows the Northmen are within days of King’s Landing. Borros Baratheon—a large, loud, abrasive man, but with a bottomless appetite for combat—and his soldiers will march out of the city tomorrow to meet Cregan Stark’s army on the fields of the Crownlands, sparse and grey with winter. The Lord of Storm’s End has spent hours locked in the council chamber discussing strategy with Larys Strong, Corlys Velaryon, and the misfortunate yet courageous Tyland Lannister, maimed by his months of torture at the hands of the Blacks.
“We won’t.” We can’t.
Autumn slams her palm against the wall behind you; the sick thud of flesh against stone reminds you of the day Helaena died. “Wake up. We might. You’d better have your options figured out.”
And you recall Larys’ words on Dragonstone: I think it’s time for you to consider what your options are if a Green victory no longer appears to be viable. “We’ll run,” you say weakly. “We’ll take Aegon and we’ll escape through the corridors under the Red Keep, just like he did before. Cregan Stark will kill Aegon if he finds him. I can’t let that happen. We’ll have to run.”
“Run where?” Autumn snaps pointedly, pushing you towards a conclusion you refuse to acknowledge.
“I don’t know.”
“Where? Where could we go that is beyond the grasp of your wolf if he seizes the capital?”
“Dorne, Essos. Somewhere, anywhere.”
“The king won’t survive a journey like that.”
You cover your face with your hands, feel the biting cold of snowflakes melting in your hair, see the stains of earth on your thighs as Cregan Stark forces them apart. How can I lie with a man who hailed the deaths of people I loved? How can I spend the rest of my life listening to him being called a hero for killing Aegon? How can I give him children? How could I love a baby that was half-made of him? “We ran before. We’ll have to do it again.”
Autumn scoffs. “You have no idea what it means to be a woman on your own in the world. What will you become without a great house, without protection? A prostitute? A peasant? Will you eat scraps covered with rot or mold? Will you live in a tree? Will you beg some family to take you in? And then when the father who is oh-so-gallant in daylight starts fumbling under your blankets once the candles are blown out, will you let him inside you? Or will you fight him off and risk a blade in your guts, your throat? You have no fucking idea what it’s like out there.”
“I don’t care what happens to me if Aegon’s gone.”
“You would abandon Jaehaera? You would abandon me?” Autumn demands. “You speak for us now. You are the only one who can. Our fates are twisted up with yours.”
That’s true. And I promised Helaena I would look out for her daughter. You can’t imagine a life without Aegon; there was a time when he was only a name—and an infamous one, a terrible one, soulless and monstrous—but now he has broken down the eaves of what you were once resigned to call your life and painted colors in the sky you’d never glimpsed before, never even dreamed of. You ask Autumn with genuine, painful bewilderment: “What is the point of learning that something exists only to have it taken away? Why would that happen? Where is the justice in it, where is the reason?”
Autumn smiles, sad and patient. “Ah, this is an affliction of the highborn. You still believe that there is a design, and that life has some amount of fairness in it. There is no divine judgment being passed, my lady. There is no god weighing the worth of your dragon or your wolf or yourself. Life is random, and it is ungovernable, and it is very often cruel. And that makes it all the more remarkable that you knew the king for the time you did. That you ever met him.”
It wasn’t enough. And I can never go back to who I was before. “I’m sorry. I should not complain to you. Your losses have been terrible.”
“It is no contest,” Autumn replies, weary now. “But I should go back to check on the children. They need me.”
“No. They love you.”
And now she beams, sparkling eyes and copper ringlets. She doesn’t need to say it, you can both feel it in the winter-cold air. She loves them in return. She loves them fiercely. As long as they live, she will have reasons to.
When you reach Aegon’s bedchamber, Grand Maester Orwyle is just leaving. He bows to you and grins, pleased that you have both survived the fall and retaking of King’s Landing. He is haggard from his months in the dungeons when Rhaenyra ruled the capital, but he endured. Who would have guessed at the start of this war that the old man had more years left than Aemond or Daeron or harmless little Maelor? You wait in the hallway for the maester to amble sluggishly by, but then when he is gone, you peer through the slit of the half-open door to see that Lord Larys Strong is speaking to Aegon, who is propped up in bed on a mountain of pillows and wearing only his cotton sleeping trousers. He is thin, frail, ghostly pale with the exception of the scars that are a mosaic of white and scarlet and bruise-like violet. Aegon and Larys have not noticed you. You linger just outside the doorway, watching, listening.
You can take care of Aegon as much as you wish now: feed him, clothe him, clean sweat from his brow, dose him with milk of the poppy, rub rose oil into his scars, stretch his legs, test the heat of his skin for fever. He’s too weak to stop you. He can’t walk, can’t stand, can’t stay awake for more than an hour or two at a time, can’t even pour his own wine or milk of the poppy; the glass bottles are too heavy when full. Yesterday, Aegon had to be carried outside in a litter to see the remnants of his brothers burned on the pyres. And he had exchanged a brief, somber glance with Autumn that you neither anticipated nor understood. He acknowledges her so rarely. And yet her small hazel eyes had been alarmed, knowing.
Larys is saying with a grave expression and his restless hands propped in the handle of his cane: “Lord Borros Baratheon is asking for your assurance that as soon as the war is won, you will take his eldest daughter Cassandra as your wife.”
Aegon stares at him, incredulously, impatiently. Aegon has not called you his wife in the company of others since his homecoming. You do not ask why. You already know. It is not because his intentions have changed; it is because if he is not the victor, your life is in less danger as his captive than as his queen. “Surely even a man as brainless as Borros can surmise that there would not be much benefit for the lady now. I am a worm. Useless, pathetic, deformed, no longer virile.”
“He is willing to take the chance, I gather. And he is placing his eggs in more than one basket. He would like another daughter, Floris, to be married to me.”
“Seven hells,” Aegon mutters. Then he turns determined. “I cannot marry another. I won’t do it. I am claimed already, body and soul.”
“I fear how enthusiastically Borros’ men will fight for you if you do not agree to the match. He is risking his life for your cause. He will expect generous repayment.”
Aegon is quiet for a long time. He stares fixedly at his bedside table: a full cup, a large glass bottle of milk of the poppy. His dagger is still there from when you cut and braided his hair for him this morning; he cannot do it himself anymore. At last Aegon says, almost too low for you to discern from the doorway: “He’s not cruel, is he?”
“Who? Borros Baratheon?”
Aegon glares at Larys. “No.”
After a moment, Larys realizes what his king means. “Cregan Stark isn’t cruel. I’ve heard many whispers from many mouths, but I’ve never heard that.”
“Look at me. Don’t lie to me.”
“He isn’t cruel,” Larys says again. “Perhaps the truth is worse. He is measured, competent, merciful, wise. He is honorable. The Manderlys want to torture everyone and the Boltons itch to sharpen their flaying knives but Stark forbids it. He respects the laws of war. He tries to avoid the slaughter of noncombatants. He forbids his men from burning farms or raping women. He is devoted to the woman you call your wife. He takes no mistresses, visits no brothels. Cregan Stark is not a monster. He’s not soulless. He’s just on the wrong side.”
Aegon nods slowly, then his face breaks into a humorless smirk. “Tell Borros Baratheon that I’ll marry whichever daughter he wants me to when the war is over. I’ll marry all four if that is his preference, and bed them all on the wedding night too, one right after the other. Agree to anything he asks for. It doesn’t matter anyway.”
It doesn’t matter because none of it will ever happen, even if the Baratheon army does win the Iron Throne for the Greens. It doesn’t matter because Aegon does not believe he’ll still be here in a month, or two weeks, or perhaps even days.
But he can’t mean that. He’s not thinking clearly. He’s confused, he’s exhausted, he’s in pain, you tell yourself, before remembering that Aemond said it first.
“Yes, Your Grace.” Larys is subdued, sorrowful. He bows deeply to his king. Then he turns to depart.
“One more thing,” Aegon says, gesturing to something on the side of his bed you can’t see from where you’re standing. “I hate to impose upon you further, but I can’t manage it myself. Can you take that and empty it somewhere? I don’t care where. But you must keep it hidden from my wife. The red-haired girl Autumn knows, and so do the maesters now. They are all sworn to secrecy. Can I trust you to exercise the same circumspection?”
Larys is gaping down at an object that is a mystery to you. He begins to stammer out a reply, stops to collect himself, and starts again. “Yes. Yes you can.”
“Good.”
Larys picks up the object; you are puzzled to discover that it is a chamber pot, white and porcelain. And as he navigates around Aegon’s bed and towards the door where you wait, you see that the vessel is full of blood.
You gasp before you can stop yourself, a razor-sharp inhale of breath that both men hear. They spot you, lurking in the doorway like someone lost, someone far from home. Shock bolts across Aegon’s face, and then frustration, and then defeat, and then profound misery.
“I didn’t want you to worry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to lie to you, I just knew…I knew you’d be upset and I…I didn’t want to hurt you. I’ve never wanted to hurt you.”
“How long?”
“It doesn’t matter, Angel.”
“How long?” you ask again. “Just since this morning?”
“Four or five days now.”
“Four or five…?” Your mind whirls like storm winds. He’s dying. He’s really dying. His kidneys are failing and there’s nothing I can do. I can’t cut him open and stitch him back together. There’s no wound to scrub clean with vinegar and then bandage with honey and linen. There’s no brew that can restore the rhythm of his blood and bones and nerves. He’s just dying. That’s all there is. That’s the beginning and the end of it.
“Please don’t cry,” Aegon says, reading your face. “Don’t do that, please don’t, I’ve hurt you enough already.”
His hands stretch out to close the space between you, and as Larys slips from the room you go to Aegon, climb into bed beside him, collapse into him as his arms catch you and rest your head against his bare, scarred chest, his feverish skin mottled with the history of wounds you helped close all those months ago. “I’m sorry,” you sob. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have let you go after Baela and Moondancer on Dragonstone. I should have stopped you. I should have dragged you inside the castle to wait until Aemond and Vhagar could help you. I shouldn’t have let Aemond go to Harrenhal. I shouldn’t have let Daeron fly south. I shouldn’t have let Autumn go back to King’s Landing, and I shouldn’t have let Everett stay there. I shouldn’t have let Helaena leap from the window. I should have stopped Maelor from being sent to the Reach. I should have stopped Rhaenys and the Red Queen from taking flight to burn you in your armor at Rook’s Rest. I should have stopped this! I should have done something! The only good thing I’ve ever had to offer the world was healing but I can’t save anyone, I can’t stop their suffering, I can’t do anything!”
“None of it was within your control, and none of it was your responsibility. I am the king. The fate of my kingdom and my followers rests with me. I wear their spilled blood, not you. I am so full of red I’m overflowing with it.” And he chuckles, sardonic, exhausted. He’s already battling unconsciousness again; you can hear his heartbeat slackening, the slow laborious expanding and contracting of his lungs.
“Aegon,” you say softly, as if afraid to speak it into existence. “What happens if the Baratheons don’t win tomorrow?”
“They will. They have to. There’s nothing I can do for you if they lose.” Then he winces and groans. It’s his back again, his failing kidneys, overrun with so much ruin—burns and breaks and pressure and heartache—that their cadence faltered and then ceased. You grab his cup of milk of the poppy and tilt it against his lips; and how many times have you done this since you met him, burned nearly to death and half-mad at Rook’s Rest? A hundred? Aegon drinks it down, his arms still tight around your waist. They do not loosen until he’s out like a snuffed candle.
You refill the cup on his bedside table with milk of the poppy in case he needs more when he wakes, pick up the dagger you use to cut his disheveled hair, take it to the dresser. And in the cascade of silver moonlight flooding in through the windows, you practice laying the gleaming blade against your wrists, pressing it to the throbbing arteries of your throat, angling the sharpened point of it between a gap in your ribs and towards your racing heart.
Autumn. Jaehaera. Aemond’s child that Alys carries. I still have promises to keep. I still have tasks that cannot be left unfinished.
Helaena’s words surface like a drowned man dredged from the waves: You must whisper into the right ears.
You set the dagger down on top of the dresser and roam to the castle library where Aemond once spent so many hours. You collect a stack of anatomy books and carry them back to Aegon’s bedchamber. There, before the roaring fireplace, you devour them for any scrap of hope, any last resort. You turn pages until one illustration stops you. It is an unclothed man, his major veins etched in blue and his arteries in red, his nerves a faded yellow, his bones white and unshattered, his body a roadmap of the bricks and mortar used by the architects of nature. You have seen this image before. It is the same page Aegon teased you for studying when you were travelling by carriage back to the capital from Rook’s Rest.
You rip out the page, crumple it violently, pitch it into the fire and watch it burn.
~~~~~~~~~~
At dawn, Lord Borros Baratheon leads his men out of the city. You hear them through the glass panes of the windows, closed against the winter chill and flecked with frost: boots marching, hooves of warhorses clomping against cobblestones. They carry with them swords and spears and bows and morning stars like the one Criston Cole was famed for using. Meanwhile, throughout the city, civilians are arming themselves with anything they can find to ward off an invasion of Northmen, creatures they believe to be bestial and mindless. Men carry kitchen knives and clubs fashioned out of bits of furniture or driftwood. Women hide their young children in cupboards and under creaking wooden floors.
“I should be going with them,” Aegon says. He’s just taken another dose of milk of the poppy and is struggling to keep his eyes open. His long, slow blinks close his vacant eyes for ever-increasing intervals. You’ve changed his clothes and cleaned the sweat from his skin as best you can, but he’s burning from the inside out.
“You’re not able to fight, Aegon. Nobody faults you for that. Everyone knows you were wounded in battle.”
“They must think I’m a coward.”
“No, you inspire them. They love you. I love you.”
Aegon doesn’t say it back. He never says it back. He only offers you the same drowsy, mournful phrase of High Valyrian he always does, not knowing that Aemond told you what it means: To your misfortune.
Autumn is with the children in Alicent’s rooms. The castle is tense and as quiet as a crypt—Alicent weeps soundlessly, Larys paces the halls with Corlys and Tyland Lannister, everyone peeks out of windows constantly to see if bannermen of the victor have appeared on the horizon—but she keeps them distracted with stories and games. You cycle between Alicent’s bedchamber and Aegon’s. He is in and out of consciousness; sometimes you perch beside him on the bed, sometimes you lie curled up against him counting the beats of his heart, sometimes you help Autumn read to Jaehaera and Aegon the Younger. It is just after noon when the city bells begin to toll and screams rise from the streets outside the Red Keep. You and Autumn hurry to a window. In the distance, beyond the city gates, there is a swarming mass of infantry, cavalry, archers. Their banners, when you strain your eyes to decipher them, are not the brazen, vivid yellow of House Baratheon. They are night black and an icy, steely grey. They are the colors of House Stark.
“No,” Autumn says, denial in a protracted, helpless exhale. Alicent shrieks, frightening the children. You grab Autumn’s hand and lead her out into the hallway to warn the others if they don’t know already.
Lord Corlys Velaryon comes bounding up a staircase. “There are soldiers down in the secret passageways!” he booms. “Northmen! Armed! I’ve helped our guards bar the doors, but that won’t hold them back forever.”
Autumn looks to you. “Get the children ready to travel,” you tell her. “Find Larys and inform him.”
“Yes, my lady,” she says, and is gone. You sprint in the opposite direction towards Aegon’s bedchamber. You blow the door open like a strong wind, and Aegon startles awake. You rip through his dresser for things he will need: warm clothes, boots, his dagger, bottles of milk of the poppy.
“Get up, Aegon. We have to go. We’ll run, we’ll flee, there are Northmen in the tunnels but we’ll find another way out, we have to try, we have to, if they catch you they’ll—”
“Come sit with me,” he says from the bed, calmly, like you have all the time in the world. He is reaching out for you with one hand.
“What? No, we have to hurry—”
“Angel,” Aegon says. “I need you to come sit with me now.”
Why isn’t he afraid? Why isn’t he frantic? You cross the room with slow, numb footsteps. When you reach the bed, Aegon takes both of your hands in his own. And suddenly you know exactly what he is going to say. You remember what he told his brother in High Valyrian the last time Aemond left Dragonstone. Your voice is trembling and hoarse. Your throat burns like embers. “Aemond was supposed to be here to help us win. But he’s gone. Daeron, Criston, Helaena, Otto, Everett, Jaehaerys, Maelor, Autumn’s baby, so many people are gone.”
Aegon whispers, smiling softly as tears spill down his cheeks, one scarred and the other pure: “I’m not going to get better this time.”
“No,” you moan. “No, Aegon, no. You can’t say that, you can’t tell me that—”
“I’m not going to get better.” Now his palms cradle your face, forcing you to listen. “I’m not. And it’s okay. I’m not angry, I’m not scared. You’ve done everything you could and you’ve bought me more time and I’m so grateful. But I don’t want it to hurt anymore. I’ve been in pain for so long. I’ve been in pain my whole goddamn life.” He kisses you, like tasting something rare and fleeting. His thumbprint skates along the curve of your jaw, memorizing the angles of your bones, the rhythm of your pulse. “Please, Angel. I don’t want to try to run and die on the side of the road somewhere. I don’t want to die with Cregan Stark’s blade at my throat.”
You shake your head, unable to believe, unable to understand.
Aegon glances to the empty cup on his bedside table, to the large glass bottle of milk of the poppy. Then his eyes return to you. “You know how to do it.”
No. Never. But beneath those cold, dark, stormy waters: It would be painless. “I can’t,” you say, overwhelmed with horror.
“Listen, listen to me—”
“No—”
“Angel.”
“I can’t do that to you. Not to you. I can’t, I can’t.”
“When I’m gone, go to Cregan Stark,” Aegon says. “He is an honorable man, he will ensure your survival. He is the only person who can now. He wants to put his mark on the world. He wants to play Kingmaker. Let him. He can decree that my daughter will marry Rhaenyra’s son and ascend to the Iron Throne. He can end the war. Cregan will keep you safe. Tell him that I kidnapped you, that I forced myself on you. Tell him that I wanted an heir with Valyrian blood. Tell him that I was a drunk, a degenerate. Tell him whatever he wants to hear.”
“You would become a monster?”
“To protect you? I would become anything.”
He’s holding you, he’s pulling you into him until you can feel the fever bleeding from his flesh into yours, until you can number the knots of his spine and the ladder-rungs of his ribcage, counting them with your fingers through the sweat-drenched fabric of his cotton shirt. You draw back to look at him, to really look at him, sunken bloodshot eyes and rasping breaths, scar tissue of the body and the soul. You remember the day you met him, how he’d begged to die and been refused, how you brought him back. You postponed a debt, but you never paid it. It’s not possible to ever pay enough. You stack up gold coins in a vault until they touch the ceiling and still the Stranger comes knocking, jangling his purse sewn with scorched skin and chanting: more, more, more.
Aegon glances to the cup again. “How much?” he asks you, hushed like a prayer.
You don’t answer. Instead, you stand and go to the dresser. You open a small wooden door beneath the mirror. Your reflection is a woman you don’t know, someone who walks through fog and memory, someone made of ghosts. You take four clean cups from the cabinet and set them on Aegon’s bedside table. As he watches—eyes glassy with agony, lungs rattling—you fill them all with smooth, pearlescent, lethal liquid, as well as the empty cup that was already there. “Five,” you say, and it sounds nothing like you. “I think three at once would be enough. Five to make sure.”
He sobs with relief, and only now do you realize how badly he needed this. “Thank you. Oh gods, thank you.”
Your own words come back like an echo: I preserve life, I don’t take it. But that was a different lifetime, a different you. Aegon’s fingers are lacing through yours. He is drawing you back onto the bed, he is brushing your hair back from your face, he is kissing the path of tears down your cheeks so he doesn’t waste a drop of you. He’ll never get another taste, another chance; not in this life, not on this earth.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to the end with you,” he says. “I really tried.”
“I know, Aegon.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough.”
“You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known.”
He looks down at his left hand, then remembers where his ring has gone. He chuckles, darkly, bitterly, dismayed by all the failings he is built of. “I don’t even have anything to give you.” Then he remembers. “My dagger. Can you get my dagger?”
You are petrified. “Why?”
He grins, dull teeth beneath dazed eyes. “I’m not going to hack off a finger or my exemplary cock or something. I promise. Just get it.”
You fetch the dagger and bring it to the bed, and only then do you realize what he means for you to have. He points to it, then threads it through his pale, swollen fingers: his thin lock of hair that you’ve been weaving for him since the day you met. He wants you to take his braid.
“You’ll have to cut it yourself,” he says. “I don’t think I can.”
You hook the blade beneath the top of his braid, and with a few cautious slices of the dagger it is free. You tuck the braid into a pocket of your gown, thick black velvet to guard against the winter cold. Then you lay the dagger on the bedside table and pick up one of the cups filled to the brim with milk of the poppy. Your tears are scalding and torrential; it is almost impossible to see through them. You smooth back Aegon’s white-blond hair as you pour the blissful, deadly brew through his lips and down his throat, hating yourself, knowing it is the kindest thing you can do for him.
Suddenly, when the cup is half-drained, Aegon pushes it away. “You don’t have to be here. You don’t have to watch,” he says. “I can do the rest. Go, now. Right now. If the Boltons or some other house finds you before Cregan does, they might not recognize you. They might not care. You’re only safe with Cregan Stark. He has to find you first.” Aegon takes the cup with one shaking hand and presses a palm to your shoulder with the other. You haven’t moved. You can’t move. “Go. Leave me. Now. Please go. I love you, but you have to go now.”
“I can’t,” you choke out.
“You have to.”
“I’ve never wanted anyone but you.”
“Angel,” he says tenderly, smiling. “I’ll see you again. Just not too soon.”
“Okay,” you whisper, and you kiss him, traces of milk of the poppy on his lips that deaden the thunderstruck horror faintly, powerlessly, like small clouds drifting over the sun.
“If there’s anything interesting on the other side, I’ll find a way to let you know.”
The dreams, you think. “Okay,” you say again, barely audible.
“Now go. Right now. Go.”
You wipe tears from your face with your sleeve as you turn away from him. You can’t look back; if you do, you’ll never be able to walk out of this room. You take the dagger from the bedside table. Your bare feet pad across the cold floor. As you step through the doorway, on the periphery of your vision you can see Aegon swallowing down each cupful of poison as quickly as he can. It won’t take long to stop his heart. Minutes, perhaps. Seconds. You walk into the hallway. Autumn has just arrived with Jaehaera’s tiny hand clasped in her own. A few paces behind her, Alicent and Larys stand with Rhaenyra’s son. Two orphans without choices, two pawns in a much grander game.
Autumn is panicked. “Where should we go? What should we do?” Then she takes another look at your face. Her eyes go wide with terror. “What? What happened?”
“Follow me.” Your voice is low, flat, dark like deep water. Your eyes flick briefly to Lord Larys Strong. “Keep the boy here. He’s not safe with the smallfolk yet. But the Northmen won’t harm him.”
Larys knows. It’s over. He is devastated; and yet you think a part of him might be relieved as well. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“I’m not the queen anymore. I never really was.” You give him Aegon’s dagger. “I don’t think you’ll need this, Lord Larys, but now you have it in the event of any danger. Or in case I can’t convince Cregan Stark to spare you and you decide you’ve had enough of this world. You should get a say in how your life ends. You’ve earned it.”
Then you break away from them and glide through the Red Keep, Autumn and Jaehaera trotting swiftly behind you to keep up. You pass the rookery where Aemond wrote his letters. You sweep through the gardens where Helaena loved to collect her insects. You gaze down to the beach where Daeron landed on Tessarion under a dazzling sun before winter came like a plague to King’s Landing. From inside the castle, you can hear Alicent wailing as she discovers her last child’s lifeless body. What was all of this for? Why did this have to happen? Why didn’t anybody stop it?
Out on the streets of the city, the smallfolk have flocked with their makeshift weapons to defend their homes from the Northmen. But their eyes are darting everywhere and their faces are uncertain as they clutch their clubs made out of the legs of chairs and their rusty kitchen knives. They haven’t decided if it’s futile. They don’t want to be butchered for nothing.
“That’s Autumn!” they shout and sigh, especially the women. “The mother of the king’s bastard son, the one murdered by the half-year queen!” They reach out to skim their hands over Autumn’s gown, her long coppery hair, as if she is a saint or a spirit who can impart good luck upon them, who can change their fates. They fall to their knees to bow to Jaehaera, their king’s only living child, and she blinks at them with benign confusion.
But the smallfolk have a different reception for you. You hear their venomous chattering: “Is that the Celtigar woman?” “Her family put this city through hell.” “They served Rhaenyra.” “She’s a traitor, she’s a thief.” A few of them venture close enough to tug at your gown, to strike at you. A woman’s knuckles rap against your cheekbone, raising a bruise there like lavender in a dusk sky. You think dully: I wonder if they’ll gouge out my eyes with those knives like they did to Everett.
“Get back!” Autumn hisses, shoving the smallfolk away. And when she speaks, they listen. “She is going to the Wolf of Winterfell. She is my protector. She is your protector now too. She is the best chance you have left.” And the crowds open up and the three of you pass through King’s Landing unimpeded, though cloaked in thousands of fascinated gazes.
The King’s Gate has been abandoned; the guards must have feared the Boltons’ flaying knives or Lord Stark’s dark justice. Autumn instructs several hulking men of the smallfolk to open the gate if they wish to be spared from the wolf’s wrath. They are reluctant at first, but do as she asks. When the massive doors creak open, the people of the capital huddle behind the wall and peer out skittishly as you, Autumn, and Jaehaera advance to meet the Northmen, who are bloodied from battle and now within a hundred yards of the city. Above, the sky is thick and iron-grey and frigid. Snowflakes—the first of this winter to touch King’s Landing—begin to fall and land in your hair, and you are reminded of how embers rained from the smoldering pine trees at Rook’s Rest.
“Can you catch one on your tongue?” Autumn asks Jaehaera, and the little girl giggles as they both try.
The Warden of the North rides an immense, shaggy warhorse at the head of what remains of his army. He recognizes you immediately, dismounts, approaches with determined, unbreakable strides. Clement is close behind him.
“You’re alive!” your brother shouts joyously. “And apparently not pregnant with a Targaryen bastard! Praise the gods!”
Cregan Stark does not act as if he’s heard this. The Warden of the North is not as you remember him; he is larger, heavier and broader from the muscles won in battle, coarsened by weather and war. His hair is long and dark and pulled back from his face. He wears a sword at his belt that is taller than you are when it’s unsheathed. He is entombed in leather and furs. He does not hesitate before he lays his hands you. You are betrothed to him, you are his property, would a man ask before he grabs his horses or his dogs?
The Warden of the North does not seize your forearm roughly like Aemond once did. Instead, his massive palms and fingers clasp your face as he marvels at you. You can feel the stains of dirt and ashes he leaves there. You want to scream when he touches you, but you can’t. You want to burn with rage and heartache until you crumble like ruins. Your life is already over. Your life has just begun.
“You have suffered greatly,” Cregan Stark says, a marriage of shock and reverence.
“You have no idea.” Perpetual Resurrection, you think. It doesn’t mean you come back better. It just means you’re still here.
“You are safe now,” Cregan swears. “The Usurper will never harm you again.” And it ends the same way it began: with a man mistaking your allegiance and beckoning you into a destiny that he wholeheartedly believes is greater than any you could have envisioned for yourself.
“He’s dead.”
This stuns Cregan. “When? How?”
“Today. Of old wounds sustained in battle.”
He looks at Jaehaera, noticing her for the first time. “Is that his daughter?”
“Yes,” you say. “She must always be treated with kindness. She must be protected.”
“You have an affinity for her,” Cregan notes, intrigued.
You hear Aegon’s voice, so clearly it cuts like a blade: Tell him whatever he wants to hear. “We have been through great trials together. We survived the same monster.”
The Warden of the North nods. This is a story he craves to be told. “Very well. If it is your wish that she not be discreetly disposed of as a Silent Sister, I will betroth her to Rhaenyra’s surviving son. They will unite the noble houses of Westeros and end this war.”
“The worst of the Greens are dead already. Those who remain should be shown mercy. Alicent is old and ill and broken from loss. She poses no threat. She should be permitted to remain in the company of her granddaughter. Corlys was loyal to Rhaenyra until she falsely imprisoned him for treason, and he belongs on Driftmark with Rhaena. Larys Strong, Tyland Lannister, and Grand Maester Orwyle, if no pardon can be arranged for them, should go to the Wall instead of the scaffold. And Autumn, my companion there with Jaehaera…she was a true friend to me. I owe her my life several times over. She must be permitted to stay with Jaehaera and Aegon the Younger as a caretaker, and reside in comfort in the Red Keep for the remainder of her days.”
“Who do you think you are, sister?!” Clement exclaims. “You’re speaking to the Kingmaker, not some handmaiden! You do not command him!”
“I am not commanding,” you counter levelly. “I am pleading for mercy on behalf of imperfect souls who showed me kindness during my captivity. If granted, I will consider these my wedding gifts.”
“She is remarkable, is she not?” Cregan Stark says, grinning to Clement and several other men who have ventured closer. They wear the sigils of Northern houses: Bolton, Cerwyn, Manderly, Hornwood, Dustin. They chuckle in agreement, stroking their wild beards with huge filthy hands. “Dauntless but merciful. Clever but obedient.” And then the Warden of the North claims your lips with his, chaste but overpowering, the first of a thousand kisses you never desired, a thousand acts of affection for a woman who isn’t really you, feigned resignation and bitten-back rage, eternal war with the interminable knowledge that there is something more, more, more…you just aren’t permitted to have it. It was taken from you, it was ripped from your hands like stolen treasure.
All your life you will have to murmur in wounded agreement when people recount the terrible sins of the Usurper. All your life you will have to praise Cregan Stark for killing millions to rescue you. And the days will pass, weeks, months, years, summers and winters, the births of your children and their own marriages; and when Cregan’s boy Rickon, born of his first wife, produces only daughters, your son Brandon and his descendants will become the heirs to Winterfell. In the desolate North—so far from the ocean, so far from everything Aegon ever knew—your greatest solace will be letters from Autumn as she learns to read and write, books that your husband orders for you from the Citadel, setting bones and treating burns, a tiny lock of braided silver hair that you keep in a hidden drawer of your jewelry box, dreams that you never want to wake up from.
But one day, decades after you leave King’s Landing, you will receive a raven from Queen Jaehaera Targaryen, and she will ask you: You knew the Greens in your youth, Wardeness Stark. You knew Aemond, Daeron, Helaena, Alicent, Otto, Maelor, Aegon the Usurper. What can you tell me of them? What was my father like? Who was he really?
And you’ll pick up your quill and begin writing.
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ladylynse · 2 years
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Summary: The Fenton Ghost Portal in the basement lab is empty, broken. Instead, the portal is inside Danny--and now he has to contend with what's come out of it. (Gatekeeper/Ghost Portal!Danny AU)
Chapter 12, in which Danny is reminded (again) that trying to control his power as a gatekeeper is easier said than done.
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thebestofoneshots · 3 months
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Gilded Constellations | (wolfstar x reader)
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Series Masterlist | Previous episode
Pairing: Wolfstar x Reader Word Count: 7.3 K Warnings: Graphic descriptions of violence. (Reader discretion is advised). Prompt: It's the night of the prank This IS a wolfstar x reader fic, but it's incredibly slow burn. They won't start all dating each other until we're very deep into the story, but I promise the long wait will be worth it.
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Chapter 28: If You Want BIood (You’ve Got It)
You were walking through the dark halls, wand raised with a lumus charm so you could see better. You already knew the path you had to follow, it was almost exactly the same one that you used to get to the fireworms but a little further and then 3 lefts and 2 rights. 
You wouldn’t say you’d pride yourself on your sense of direction, you had gotten lost in the castle more than once, but you had been in the passageways so often, and you had explored them and gotten lost in them just as many times. You had already taken three lefts and were about to take a right when Sirius appeared in front of you. 
“Oh hey–“ You started, but were cut off by the way he scooped you into his arms, hugging you tightly, he leaned his head on the crook of your neck. 
“Missed you,” he whispered into your hair. 
You frowned, what’s gotten into him? “I saw you in the morning.” 
“But you sat far away,” he whined. You frowned but finally hugged him back. It’s not that you didn’t like when Sirius was clingy, in fact, you loved it. But most of the time he got clingy it was because something was up. 
Could it be because of your wound? But he had known about it for a week, and he hadn’t been this clingy earlier. In fact, he’d been a lot more concerned and serious about it. Yeah worried, and definitely a little touchy when you fell asleep on his bed, but not clingy. You noticed he was still nozzled in your neck after a couple of minutes, and felt how he took a deep breath “Are you smelling me?” you asked in disbelief, a teasing smile slowly creeping up your mouth. 
He pulled away, a sly little smile on his lip. Am I really the one that’s a fox? You wondered as his smile widened to a grin, “Got a problem with it trésor?” 
You almost rolled your eyes, you had let it slip that you liked it when he spoke French to you and he was making a conscious effort to fluster you about it whenever he had the chance. “Non, mon coquin,” you replied with a little smirk. 
He gasped “Take that back!” 
“Is it not accurate?” you teased again.
“Oi! I swear if you–“ 
“Everything all right?” You heard Remus’ conciliating voice from behind. 
“She called me coquin!” Sirius complained with a pout. Looking an awful lot like a small child. 
He looks adorable, both you and Remus thought. 
“So?” Remus asked, he did not speak much French. 
You giggled and placed your hand on his shoulder, he leaned towards you “It means rascal, naughty or… mischief.”
Remus nodded and turned back to Sirius. “I’d say it’s accurate,” he said with a shrug. 
You covered your mouth with your hands and attempted to hold back a laugh. “Moony!” Sirius complained, “don’t back her up! I was trying to be cute-“ 
You shook your head, “–he was trying to fluster me.” 
Remus wasn’t sure what he was doing in the middle of such a silly discussion, but since both you and Sirius looked absolutely adorable, he wasn’t sure he cared too much “How come?” 
“I called her trésor.” Remus looked at him expectantly. “It means treasure,” Sirius clarified. 
Well, that one’s accurate as well, he thought before he spoke again “Well you’re both mo chailleachan àlainn.” He placed both arms over your and Sirius’ shoulders and prompted you to continue your way.
“Hold up! You’re back at it with the Gaelic?” 
“That was Gaelic?” Sirius asked, “No wonder I understood shit.” 
Remus shrugged and then with a cheeky little smile responded “You understood it perfectly then.” 
Sirius gasped again, turning to Remus just a little, “You wouldn’t dare!” 
“Wouldn’t I?” He asked again, pulling Sirius’ shoulder so he would turn back to the front. You just laughed. 
“Yeah chachan àlain,” you mocked. Remus laughed at your miserable attempt to speak Gaelic.
“If I’m a chaillchan àlainn so are you!” Sirius argued. “He said it to the both of us.” 
Remus sniggered “Indeed, you’re both my chailleachan àlainn,” the way the words rolled off his tongue made it sound as sexy as Sirius’ french. 
You elbowed him, and he played hurt. But his fun lasted until the three of you fell into a comfortable silence and his mind started to wonder. Reprimanding himself for calling you what he had, had either of them actually understood, he thought. Of course, Remus knew neither spoke Gaelic, but sometimes words were similar and both you and Sirius spoke like 5 different languages in between each other. He had been stupid. 
And more stupid than that, he was just casually hugging the two of you as you walked, not that either seemed to mind. Sirius had a bit of a frown but that was because he thought he’d been called a “shit”, you on the other hand, had a diverted look on your face as you leaned slightly into Remus’ shoulder, clearly pleased over the fact that he had sided with you. But he felt too content, too joyful, it felt –even if it was just for a second– like he could have the two of you, and that you’d be happy to have him as well. 
He felt like it was the Halloween Party all over again and you both had your hands all over him, no restrictions attached, the three of you high to the heavens with that euphoric potion. Yes, it was delightful, but at the same time, it was torment. Torment because he knew he couldn’t just give in to his delusional fantasies, torment because he knew there was a limit to how close he could be to the two of you before either noticed, torment because his mind kept telling him to get away. Still, his body refused, refused to let go, refused to stop feeling your warmth. And he had been the one to place himself in that situation this time around.  Perhaps, it was he who was the cailleachan in the end. 
Either way, he didn’t step away, he knew it would be more suspicious if he did, so he kept his arms around yours and Sirius’ shoulders, careful not to touch the section he had scratched. 
“Took you long enough,” the three of you heard Prongs’ voice once you arrived at the meeting point. 
“They were having a domestic fight.” 
You gasped at that, “It was a small quarrel.” 
“No, it wasn’t! You called me a–“
“But you are a…“ 
“–Guys?” you heard Peter’s voice rise a little as he tried to gather everyone’s attention, interrupting the two of you “Can we discuss your quarrels later on? We don’t have all night.” 
“It wasn’t a quarrel,” Sirius muttered to himself. Remus had already stepped away from the two as he went to talk to James and you closed the gap between you and your boyfriend, extending your hand to chase his.
 “Hey mischief?” you said, trying to get his attention. He gave you a side look. You leaned your head on his shoulder. “You did hear what I said, right?” He turned his head to you, eyebrows raised like, telling you with his face that he most definitely had, “Yeah, but did you really listen?” 
“Yes, it was very clear when you called me coquin.” 
You shook your head and leaned into him, to be able to whisper in his ear “I called you mon coquin.” 
He turned to you with agape, a silent scoff rolling off his pretty lips. “Oh, so now you’re claiming ownership over me,” he teased, a smile plastered on his face. 
“Well, if the shoe fits…” you replied, mirroring his smile. 
He pulled you closer to him, brushing his lips against your earlobe before he spoke “Est-ce que ça fait de toi mon trésor?” 
Your mouth went dry and you shivered, bIood rushing through your cheeks so fast you weren’t sure you’d be able to play it cool afterwards. Regardless you tried, leaning in closer to his own ear and actually biting his earlobe before speaking again. “Je peux être tout ce que tu veux que je sois…” 
“Love puppies, time to focus, please,” James said when he noticed the way Sirius’ eyes had shone. He may or may not have been afraid of what the two of you would have done if he hadn’t stopped you.
You turned to James with a smile and nodded. Remus had averted his gaze, your back was to him, so you didn’t notice, but Sirius did, and he almost felt a pang in his chest when he realised Remus’ slightly bitter reaction. Well, he had felt the pang, but he pretended like he hadn’t. It made no sense for it to be there. You were his girlfriend and Remus was just Remus. Same Remus he’d always been, except that he wasn’t making him feel the same way he always had. His hand settled on your back as the two of you walked closer to Peter, who had the map in a hold. 
“So, I’ll get in first and eavesdrop on the password. That way we know what it is. Then the four of you will get in through the door with the cloak on.”
“We won’t fit,” Remus said, remembering how close he had stood to Sirius in the library the previous night. 
“Yeah, we thought about that yesterday while you were making the potions,” James spoke and then turned to you “You’re gonna have to turn into Vixen and let us carry you.” 
You looked at James for a second, blinking as you processed the information, and then shrugged. “Okay, just be careful when you pick me up.” 
James nodded in response, and Peter continued speaking. “Great, once we’re in, we’ll just sneak into their dorms and we’ll help you and Remus with the hex bags.” 
“We’re not going to get anyone that’s not on the list,” you said as you looked at them, it was something between a question and a statement. You just wanted them to confirm it. Everyone nodded, except for Sirius, who looked a bit vexed. You threw him a look. “I have friends in Slytherin, you have friends in Slytherin. We can’t punish them all just because of a few assholes are in the same house.” 
“They’ve been messing with you since you got here, Starshine.” 
“Yes!” you agreed. “A small little group of them have. Not every single one.” 
He looked to the side but eventually nodded , “Fine then. Just them.” 
“Such a good boy,” Peter teased, in the same tone you’d use for a dog and Sirius almost hexed him. Which just had you all laugh. 
“Everyone’s against me tonight,” he complained. 
“I’m not,” James said as he placed an arm over Sirius, you gave Remus a diverted little smile, and he returned it with a bit of a shrug. “You’re our best boy after all,” James said, using the same tone Peter had used earlier, and making the rest of you laugh. 
Sirius looked at James shocked, like he had been betrayed by his friend. He then removed James’ arm from his shoulders and lagged behind until he was beside you, you leaned towards him a little. “It’s all right Puppy, I’ll make it up to you later.” 
He gave you a coquettish little smirk, “You promise?” 
You almost rolled your eyes at his lightning-fast change of behaviour, he had never even been actually upset, but decided to humour him instead “Oui, mon amour.” 
“I understood that!” James said teasingly. 
You just chuckled, “As if it were a secret.”
Sirius’s smile widened. Yes, that was right, he was your love.
Once you reached the end of the passage, just a few metres away from the entrance to the Slytherin Common Room Peter shrunk into Wormtail and disappeared through the door. You looked at him go, still fascinated by how the animgus transformation was so seamless. Yes, you were one yourself, but it’s not like you’d ever seen yourself transform. It had never even occurred to you that the process would be so interesting. 
And you were also thinking of how different it was to Remus’ transformation. His was painful, at least you assumed that it was since it had seemed pretty bad when he transformed back in the shack. You still remembered the way he’d yelped and bawled as his skin ripped and gave away to the wolf. The memory caused a shiver to run down your spine. 
“You cold?” you heard Remus whisper after he leaned towards you. You all had to be a lot more quiet now that you were close to the Slytherin common room. But the three of you had sat down in the hallway. You were on one side, with Sirius and Remus on each of your side, and James was in front of the three of you, Sirius had been leaning towards the front to be able to talk to him. 
“Me?” you asked as you turned to Rem. “No, no. It was more of a… It was just… nervousness,” you lied in the end. 
“You’re nervous?” he asked with a bit of a frown, emphasising the “you” as if he didn’t believe it was possible.
“Well, I’ve never sneaked into someone else's dorms to cause havoc,” you argued, digging yourself deeper into your lie. “It’s only natural that I would-“ 
He shook his head, “That’s not it. I know you, Miss Let’s Add The 100-year-old Veom Instead.” 
Sometimes it was annoying how well Remus could read you. You sighed, “well, I’m not nervous, but I’m not cold either. Let’s leave it at that?” He tilted his head to the side as if analysing the situation before nodding, you pulled your feet towards your chest and rested your head over your knees. “You think he’ll take much longer?” 
“He has to wait for most of them to be asleep. We can’t risk the door opening up and having no one get in.”
“We should have just gotten Slytherin ties and walked inside like we were part of them…” you huffed. 
Remus chuckled “As if the entire school didn’t already know the faces and names of three of the Gryffindor Quidditch Players.” 
“Polyjuice potion?” 
“And you just have that one around?” 
“Well, we made a pretty good one with Slughorn at the beginning of the year...”
“Maybe we should have kept some of it in a vase before handing it over.”  
“I did,” you said casually. 
Remus looked eyebrows shot upwards as he looked at you, trying to decide if you were joking or not, “You did?!?” 
You nodded, “it’s safe and sound on my trunk, in case we ever need it.” 
Remus had opened his mouth to speak again when you saw Wormtail returning through the small hole in the wall. He quickly turned, he was still crouching when he turned back, his teeth slowly shrinking to their normal size, which was already a little big for his face. 
“It’s emerald enigma,” he whispered, loud enough for the four of you to listen.
You raised your eyebrow, “emerald enigma? really?!?”
“Slytherins aren’t ever particularly clever with their passwords,” James said. 
“Once upon a time it was clever schemes,” Sirius said as he turned to you.
You looked at him even more shocked and  Remus nodded beside the two of you. 
“Time to go then,” James said. Peter was a rat in seconds, and then it was your turn. Just seconds afterwards, you had already turned into your own animagus form and walked towards Sirius’ lap. It’s not that you were certain he’d be the one carrying you, but it made sense. 
“Hey Kit,” he said softly as he allowed you to climb over one of his legs and then wrapped his hand under your belly, picking you up as he stood, and then placing his other arm underneath so you felt more secure. You leaned your head on his chest and paid attention to the reaction of the boys. Remus was wrapping the cloak around James and Sirius, while James had leaned closer to you and was staring at you from the side. 
James had never seen a fox up close, well he had seen you back at the full moon but it wasn’t the same thing. He seemed genuinely interested, but when he extended his hand to touch you, Sirius pulled back protectively, accidentally crashing into Remus. “Oi!” James complained as he stared. 
“She’s still hurt,” Sirius said defensively. 
“But she likes to be rubbed behind the ear,” offered Remus. 
Sirius nodded, the fact that Remus knew, or how he knew, didn’t even cross his mind. James looked directly at you “May I?” 
You didn’t hiss, or emit any other protest sound, so he leaned his hand again, staring at Sirius for permission. Your boyfriend nodded, a little apprehensive still and James pressed his hand onto your head. He was soft, like he was with cats, but then he scratched you the same way Padfoot liked being scratched and all of your hair stood on end. 
Involuntarily you turned your head towards him and opened your mouth to bite, your snout was already around his wrist when you realised what you were doing and pulled back, being helped by Sirius who also pulled you back. You looked at James and he had an apologetic look in his face, you too looked like you were sorry for trying to bite him. 
“Sorry,” the boy whispered, you nodded and that was that. James did not try to pet you again, at least not for a while, he’d seen how sharp your teeth were. 
Remus finished arranging the cloak around the three of them Sirius and you had ended up in the middle, James and Remus on each side, they were all standing pretty close to each other as the three walked outside of the hideout and towards the dungeons. You saw the potions classroom,  the boys passed by it as you stared around carefully, as a fox your senses were a lot better than theirs, except perhaps for Remus’ so you kept a close eye on the boy in case either you or him, heard something that would require you to warn them about something. 
Eventually, you reached the bare wall that would lead you to the Slytherin Dorms, you felt excitement piling up in the form of a knot in your stomach. You’d wanted to see their dorm for a while now. You had already seen the Ravenclaw and yours, obviously, and for some reason, the goal to sneak into all the different common rooms prowled into your head.
“Emerald Enigma,” James whispered towards the door and slowly the bricks from the wall started moving and opening into a relatively long passageway. The four of you stared ahead, paying close attention to the way the bricks moved and stepped forward as soon as they could comfortably fit through the door. The passageway opened into a rather long room, the ceiling was clearly very high above you, making the place feel almost nothing like the dungeons. In fact, you’d go as far as to say that it felt more like a palace since it was rather regal. The windows were looking straight to the black lake, with a few water creatures passing swiftly through them every now and then, it looked rather peaceful, which you wouldn’t have ever imagined the dungeons to be. 
The boys, who had to actually pay attention to where they were going, and who clearly had been there before, weren’t as awed as you were, in fact, they looked a lot more on edge, as they were checking all around the common room to make sure it was empty. Still, Remus and James continued to hold the cloak tightly, to make sure it wouldn’t fall, tumble or get caught into something. 
Once they were sure it was mostly empty, Remus removed the cloak from atop of you, and Sirius laid you gently on the ground. You turned back in a matter of seconds. “The boy’s dorms are to the left,” Sirius informed. “Barty’s number 15, he’s with Regulus.” 
“Evan, Snape and Mulciber are on the 24th,” you said. Sirius turned to you with a frown, as if asking how you knew, you shrugged, “I got it from Minho.” 
Sirius’ frown deepened “You asked him?” 
“Of course I didn’t straight up ask him, It’d be too suspicious, although I’m sure Minho wouldn’t rat us out.” On purpose, you thought, after all, he had been the reason you concluded Remus was probably bi, or maybe pan. 
“So how?” 
“A magician never reveals her secrets,” you said with a sly smile. It really hadn’t been a particularly smart conversation that you’d had. You just mentioned that Mary was telling you about the power of numbers and that she thought our room numbers had significance. It was partially true, at least she did talk to you about the power of numbers, after divination a couple of weeks ago. You then told Minho your room number and the boys and he started sharing all of the Slytherin ones you knew.
He hummed in response, “Fine then, we split.” 
“That’s the worst idea ever.” 
“No, it’d be faster,” James added. 
“You’ve never seen a horror movie, have you?” 
Remus smiled, he understood exactly what you were referring to, and then leaned a little closer to you. “Don’t worry, you’re already hanging out with the most dangerous monster in the castle,” he joked. 
You turned to him, almost a little surprised by his statement, “Who knows, maybe there are vampires hidden somewhere, or acromantulas, or basilisks, or magical armours that want to cut you in half.” 
“You need to tone it down with the fantasy books Vixen,” James said with a teasing smile, “you and Sirius go to Barty’s. We’ll go to Snivellus', Peter, look out. Deal?” 
You huffed, but nodded, “Keep the cloak,” you said before casting a disillusionment over yourself and Sirius. Remus, who had heard from Sirius how good your charm was, was still somewhat shocked by it. It really was almost as good as James' invisibility cloak, unless he paid really, really close attention. 
“Damn she’s–“ 
“Really fucking good, I know!” Sirius finished. You handed a small bag to Remus, who took it as it slowly became visible. 
“I’ve kept what I’ll need, use the rest,” you told him, and finally split ways. You and Sirius moved to Barty’s room.  
“Alohomora,” he whispered, along with a silencing charm so the door wouldn’t creak. Four boys were soundly sleeping on each of their beds. The first one you spotted was someone you instantly recognized and you gasped, covering your mouth when you realised you had been a bit too loud. 
Sirius threw you a look and walked closer, “It’s Nox,” you whispered, the muffliato you had used earlier helping you be as stealthy as possible, “from the reading club, didn’t know he was Barty’s roommate. He hangs out with Neil and Todd most of the time.” 
It’s not like Srius didn’t know you had friends other than your friend group, but it was sometimes weird that you knew people in the castle he barely even recognized. “Want me to add a ward around him?” 
You thought about it for a second, and nodded “We really should,” you said “I don’t want the prank to affect him…” 
“What about the rest?” 
You turned around, there was a silver-blond haired boy who you didn’t actually recognize, Sirius leaned closer to you and pointed at the boy, “Solacis Gaunt, he’s close to Reg and Barty,” he said as he pointed. 
“Gaunt as in…?” You turned to him, in disbelief.
“Yeah…” 
You bit your lip, even if this Solacis was friends with Barty and his group, he hadn’t been there that night, and you had no idea how he would have reacted, and regarding his last name, well you refused to believe that was any sign of people’s character. After all, you being who you were and Sirius being who he was, had never actually altered your actual selves… What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, you remembered. “We’ll ward him too.” 
“And Regulus?” he asked, you could see the apprehension in his voice. You turned to the boy, last time you saw him he had tried to approach you in a friendly manner and you’d blown him off. Being asleep he looked so unguarded, so little preoccupied as his chest rose up and down, you almost felt bad for the way you had treated him. But then you remembered what he had done and the anger boiled back up to your chest. He had knowingly betrayed you and Sirius, all those lost years… 
You had two hex bags, you could easily slip one under his pillow as well, have him suffer the fright of his life, bring him down to desperate cries, overpowered, helpless. But Regulus had stayed on the sidelines, he had tried to stay out of your way since that time at the race when you basically told him to piss off. It was like he had been trying to make you less uncomfortable, even if it pained him, not that you knew. But you did notice that you saw him around a lot less, he avoided you, and even if he did stare at you and Sirius from the sidelines, he never even dared to accidentally cross paths. That you had noticed. 
And laying there, his head resting on his pillow, his hair pulled back revealing his delicate features, he looked every bit a Black, every bit like his brother. You took a deep breath, it was in his graceful nose, in his long dark lashes, in his thin, pinky lips. All of those features that drew you to Sirius, the things that made your boyfriend as beguiling as a Siren’s call. They really are brothers, you thought. And how? How would you be able to hurt him? What he did had been years ago, and he had been a kid too, pressured by his parents. It’s not that you wanted to be friends again, but you didn’t want to cause him sorrow either. “He’ll too be warded off.” 
Sirius frowned, “But after what…” 
You turned to him, your dark expression clearly telling him you knew exactly what he had done, even if he could barely see it due to your spell. “He was not there that night. He didn’t do this to me,” you said, pointing to your wound, “this isn’t about some old grudge we have against him, this about Monday. This about what happened that night and the people that allowed this bastard to do it,” you said, giving Crouch a short glance “And Sirius, he is your brother.” 
He swallowed, “He’s a Black.” Every bit a Black, you recalled your earlier thought. You also wondered how such a messed up gene pool could make such beautiful children. 
“You are one too,” you whispered as you walked closer, “and I still, I lo- like you very much. Every bit of you,” you added in the end and pressed a few kisses to his face for good measure, perhaps he would have missed the slip of your tongue. Not that you didn’t mean it, but you wouldn’t expect Sirius to comprehend it, you’d barely been dating for a few months. “You’re still my Puppy, no matter what last name you have.” 
Sirius gave you one long look and smiled when you kissed his nose, placing both hands around your face to bring your lips to his, he had heard the slip of your tongue, and it only made him want to kiss you even more. When you finally separated for air, he was the first one to speak. “I’m gonna have to kiss you again if you keep it up with the sappy stuff,” he joked. 
You raised your eyebrows at that and then placed your finger over his lips, “You have a terrible habit of kissing me in the middle of stealth missions.” 
“What do you mean I have the– You’re literally the one that starts it!” he added with an accusing finger.  
“Yeah but you always kiss back,” you shrugged. 
He gave you a diverted look as he bit his lip, and leaned in again, you leaned in as well, but he stopped right before your lips crashed against each other and smirked, “yeah, I’m not the only one who’s eager to kiss back.” You pushed his chest playfully as you narrowed your eyes at him, and then you heard Nox stir on his bed. The two of you leaned down and gave each other a look. 
Both realising how stupid you had been by flirting –and making out– in the middle of the room where you were supposed to place the hex bags. You gave each other a look and almost chuckled. If Remus had been here, we would have stopped us, you thought, he’s the most reasonable of this bunch. And perhaps Remus would have, but only because he wasn’t able to join you. 
When Nox finally stopped, you took a deep breath and both stood again. “Warding, I’ll place this.” 
Sirius nodded and the two of you started with your tasks. You walked to Barty’s bed and smirked when you realised how easy this would be. You took a deep breath and leaned over the boy. Asleep, he didn’t look as wicked as he did on a daily basis. There was no sneer on his face and he almost looked peaceful. Not for long, you thought as you bit your lip to stop yourself from chuckling. You took a deep breath and raised his pillow slightly, placing the hex bag in its place. Then you looked at the leftover bag and decided to place it under his pillow as well. You shrugged, the more the merrier. 
He instantly stirred on the bed, a small frown appearing on his face as his breath quickened. Let's see how you liked being scared, you thought and turned to Sirius. He was just finishing with his castings. He gave you a questioning look and you nodded, the two of you slid out of the bedroom as soon as possible. As you got out you spotted James and Remus just below the stairs, giving you questioning looks. 
“What the hell took you so long?” James asked, “I thought there was only Barty there.” 
“We had a bit of a pitfall, but we did it.” Sirius responded. 
Yeah, making out is definitely a pitfall, you thought. 
“We’re ready to go then?” Peter asked, he looked rather nervous.
Remus nodded, “We just have to make sure Jackdaw does his…” 
At that moment, from all the different walls, ghosts started sliding in, you smiled, Richie had actually convinced them. He approached your group with a smile, “You owe them some rotten meat,” he informed. 
“Rotten meat, that’s all it took? Should’ve told me sooner, I’ll take you all the rotten food you want,” you replied. He gave you a wink and flew towards the rest of the ghosts.  Sirius frowned at the flirty wink from Jackdaw but didn’t say a thing. 
“Job’s done kiddos,” James said, and Remus pulled the cloak out. All of you stifled inside and walked together until you were away from prying eyes. You all knew it wouldn’t be a good idea to turn into your animagus in front of the ghosts. The muggle saying “silent as the dеad” couldn’t be further from the truth. 
Once you were in the hall that led to the inside of the common room, and that both Moony and Prongs made sure there was no one watching, you and Peter turned at once. Sirius picked you up and held you in his arms, while Moony adjusted the cloak to make sure it was covering everyone up and finally, you left the common room. 
That’s where things went south. Just as the bricks opened themselves again someone was walking inside. The three boys took a step to the side as Slughorn walked in. The three leaned against the wall, Sirius carefully squeezed you, or Vixen, against his chest, so you occupied as little space as possible. You noticed Peter trying to distract Slughorn by walking near his feet, but he still seemed focused on walking in, the first thing he noticed was the ghosts making their own little mess, the main distraction. 
Thankfully the headless hunt was not about to be deterred by one teacher, and they continued with their task as Slughorn called for help. This wasn’t meant to be now, it should’ve been later. You turned to look at the boys, they all had apprehensive stares, you could practically smell their stress as they finally unglued their backs from the wall and started walking towards the hallway. Once in the dungeons, and away from the havoc you had caused, you thought you were safe. And perhaps you would’ve been, had Evan not been coming back from the infirmary so late. 
He pretty much bumped into the invisible wall that was your three friends, and all would have been fine, except for the fact that he straight-up stepped on James’ feet and he grunted in response.
“Potter?” Evan asked, instantly recognizing his voice. 
Fuck. 
Evan extended his hand to grab onto the front but the boys pulled back just in time. Regardless, Evan didn’t relent, “Potter I know it’s you. Either you come the fuck out or I’ll hex your stupid rat,” he said, pulling a screeching Peter out of his pocket. James swallowed and gave each Sirius and Remus a look; you tried to jump down from Sirius’s grasp, perhaps you could distract Evan by biting him while Peter escaped, but Sirius tightened his hold as you tried to squirm away. He knew what you were thinking, but he also knew Evan could just kick you out of the way, and he was not going to risk you being hurt by his hands again. 
Evan pointed his long and thin wand towards Wormtail and you felt everyone tense even more. “Come on Jamesie, you wouldn’t allow me to kill your stupid rat, would you?” he added. “How much damage do you think a confringo like the one your stupid little friend used on me earlier today would cause? Hmmm… Perhaps I could use him as target practice…” Evan tilted his head, “No?” he asked again, “well then,” he added and adjusted his wand in his hand. Peter shrieked again, “We’ll see if your stupid rat ends up better or worse than your friend after the Shrieking Shack.” 
To your surprise, it wasn’t James who jumped to protect Peter, but it was Sirius. He handed you over to James who barely managed to react and grab you before he left the cloak and planted his fist on Evan’s face. Peter fell from his hands and shrieked as his face crashed onto the floor just before running off. 
Evan staggered back, reeling from the sheer force of Sirius’ punch but he retaliated, shoving Sirius with eager ferocity as if he had been longing for a challenge. One where he actually won. Evan was much taller and broader than Sirius, and you squirmed in James’ arms yearning to intervene but he held you firmly, casting down an impatient glance before turning his attention back to the boys. 
Evan managed to land a solid on Sirius’ jaw, but the longer-haired boy didn’t even flinch, instead he used the momentum and the loss of balance from Evan to throw himself towards his opponent, effectively managing to throw the blonde on the ground. You winced as Evan turned the two of them around and started hitting Sirius’ defenceless face. 
In response to the escalating violence, James panicked –handing you over to Remus who cradled you with a lot more consideration– and he too left the cloak, leaving only you and the werewolf inside. However, Sirius had already managed to turn things around, he had started to punch Evan repeatedly in the face. James lunged forward to intervene, but he got accidentally elbowed by Sirius, who, swivelling in concern, was met with another punch from Evan. 
When you figured James wouldn’t be able to stop them, you started squirming again, a lot more intensely now but Remus’ hold didn’t budge. So instead you turned back, which surprised the boy only for a second as you ended up pretty much shoved against him. You were just about to leave the cloak too when you heard a voice.
“STOOOP!”  Slughorn roared. 
After looking at the man using his wand to pull Sirius and Evan apart, you were ready to jump out, but Remus’ strong arms tightened around you, not letting you out. You weren’t sure if it had been intentional or not, but somehow he hadn’t touched your wound while he did.
“Remus what–“ You started to complain, but he placed his hand over your mouth and started dragging you back and away from the upheaval. 
You tried to fight it, but it was useless. Remus was much more stronger than you, once you were far away enough he whispered, “It’s okay, they’re okay.” You frowned, he must have felt how tense you were, because he continued talking, voice a lot more soothing now, “if I had let you out there, you would have achieved nothing other than getting punished along with them.”
You knew he was right, and yet that didn’t reduce the urge you had to bite him for talking your agency away. You jerked your shoulders in response, still angry, feeling a sharp pain in your arm that should have calmed you down, but Evan being such an ass to Peter had made you angry enough. Hitting your boyfriend in the face? You were actually considering hexing him again, intentionally this time around. You took a deep breath, you felt Remus’ hand brushing up and down over your good arm, still attempting to relieve your anger… And as much as you hated to admit it, it was distractingly relaxing. 
You tried to shake him off one last time before completely relaxing into his arms. He leaned in closer to whisper again, “Remember I was telling you about not getting caught?” He asked. And waited for you to answer. His hand was still over your mouth, you raised your eyebrows at him. He gave you a look, not moving his hand away. And eventually, you just nodded. He was smart, he knew you well too, you could have screamed, you could still see Slughorn talking to Evan and the boys from where you stood. 
You could have also bit him, force him to remove his hand from your face, but you had no intention of hurting Remus. Perhaps you didn’t want to get punished along them either, the more you thought about it, the more sense it made to try and stay in the sidelines and make sure the prank was completed, even if Prongs and Pads had gotten caught. 
“Well, this is one of those moments in which staying behind, and in the quiet is best,” he said softly, vocalising your own thoughts. “James and Sirius are going to get detention regardless of whether you intervene or not. Trust me, I too wanted to punch Evan in the face after he said that about the Shrieking Shack but I knew it was best to hold back. I don’t think he would’ve hurt Peter.” 
You wondered if Remus had seen or heard about the way his hands had dug into your skin that day in the Forbidden Forest, about the bruises Sirius later covered up with his kisses. Even then, some of the marks still fading in your skin, you didn’t think Evan would actually hurt Peter either, in fact, you weren’t even sure he had hurt you on purpose. That’s not something you would’ve said of Barty, he was completely unhinged. 
Remus was still holding you flush against his body when he took a deep breath. He had felt how much more relaxed you were now, somehow his voice and his touch had gotten you to calm down. 
He shouldn’t have been surprised, it wasn’t the first time it happened, but you had been so much more rilled up this time than back when the boys threw you and Sirius from your brooms that he wasn’t even sure if you’d forgive him for stopping you. 
“I’m gonna take my hand away from your mouth, okay?” You nodded again, he did, and rested his forehead on your shoulder, sighing when he realised you really weren’t going to scream. “I’m sorry,” he added then, “shouldn’t have grabbed you like that.” 
“It’s okay,” you said quietly, “I don’t mind it if you hold me Remus…” you mumbled. “I mean… Thank you.” 
“What?!” he asked, baffled. 
“You were right, it would have been stupid to join the fight. I wouldn’t have been able to do anything, I need to be more calm instead. Like I was in the library with the howler, like you. It’s just that Evan punching Sirius fucking vexed me.” 
“I know…” he managed to say, me too, he thought. In fact, if you hadn’t been around, he might have actually been the person to throw punches after Sirius got the first one. Evan might have been taller and broader than your boyfriend, but he was no match against Remus, let alone if you factored in his werewolf strength. 
You leaned back against him, the back of your head resting against his shoulder as you too sighed, “Does it always feel so terrible when a prank goes wrong?” 
He hummed in response, “they’ll be all right, detention is just sitting in a classroom being bored or writing an essay most of the time… Don’t worry too much about them.” 
“Feels bad that we’ll get out of this scots free but they won’t, though.” 
“Survivors' guilt.” 
You hummed, closing your eyes, “Thanks for holding me back,” you said again, “I don’t know what I’d do without you Rem.” 
He stifled a laugh at that, you’d probably be more than fine without him. He, on the other hand… “Count on your good old werewolf friend to help you hold those murderous tendencies,” he joked. You actually laughed at that, and then covered your mouth with your hands, looking around. 
“It’s all right, you can laugh, I cast a silencing spell,” he said, motioning to his hand with a small nod, he had his wand in a hold. 
“Was that before or after you took your hand away from my mouth?” you asked. The guilty look on his face was hidden by your shoulder, but his lack of a straight answer gave him away regardless. “Dumbass, I wouldn’t have screamed, I’m not that reckless.” 
“You literally left your wand on the floor with a werewolf in front of you. You ARE that reckless.”
“Well it wasn’t just any werewolf,” you said in self-defence, even if you were only digging yourself in a deeper hole. There was a comfortable silence and you sighed one last time, “We should finish up, the grand finale,” you said, finally separating from him, the lack of warmth almost made you shiver, “gotta make our boys proud, don’t we?” 
He smiled, his eyes shimmering with mischief, “Let’s do it.”  
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Glossaire:   Mo chailleachan àlainn: My beautiful fools Est-ce que ça fait de toi mon trésor?: Does that make you my treasure?  Je peux être tout ce que tu veux que je sois: I can be whatever you wish me to be. Oui, mon amour: Yes my love
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Series Masterlist | Next Chapter
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A/N: Hey guys, this episode definetly took a little longer to post than I expected. But it's finally out! Hope you enjoy this one as much as I enjoyed writing it. How are we feeling? More cute Rem moments, right? What's gonna happen to James and Sirius though? ᕙ( ᗒᗣᗕ )ᕗ Lilly xxx
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coffeegleek · 1 day
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I have created artwork for my new fic! And have come to the realization that while I do pretty damn good stained glass windows, I really suck at drawing grand archways. (I use Paint and I'm okay with that.)
Behold, my masterpiece:
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dreamingnights · 2 months
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Subtle games (part 1)
Larissa Weems x fem!reader
Author's note: this fic is based on the idea about Larissa and an innocent clumsy adorable Reader. English isn't my first language, so sorry for any mistakes! Enjoy, I hope you like it!!!
Warnings: none.
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Y/N couldn't walk. The gray monsters were chasing her through the long passageways of Nevermore and her legs weren't moving fast enough to escape from their shadows. She could even feel the warm breath of the creatures at the nape of her neck just before she fell into an absolute void.
Her own screams woke her up but Y/N quickly realized that she was perfectly safe in her room's comfortable big bed. She had had another nightmare. When she calmed down she turned her head and tried to decipher with half-closed eyes the time her clock showed. Half past seven, she thought. Half past seven! She was going to be late for the staff meeting again. Y/N quickly sat up, cleaned herself up and put on her academy uniform at lightning speed. She left her room slamming the door and went down the stairs -two at a time- until she reached the small kitchen next to the meeting room, where she quickly made herself a strong coffee. At the precise moment when she was about to enter the adjoining room, where the weekly session was held, someone closed the door in front of her and the content of the coffee cup fell down due to the loud bang. When she saw the huge brown stain on her new shirt Y/N cursed outloud. However, she thought it was better to show up like that than to change clothes again, arrive embarrassingly late and make a fool of herself in front of her imposing boss. So, Y/N gathered all her courage and opened the heavy door to the office.
Nine serious faces stared at her from their seats. They were all the teachers of Nevermore, the school for outcasts. Y/N was the newest addition and she taught art and literature classes. She, like all of her students and mates, also had special powers. In her case, she was able to fleetingly give life to her own creations, something that could turn out to be her best dream and also her worst nightmare when her characters returned to their original inert state on the blank page of a book.
Nevermore's headmistress was Larissa Weems, a tall woman with platinum hair who wore a very elegant green suit. As usual she was the one who was in charge of the meeting.
- You're late again, Miss Y/L/N. -Larissa sighed. Later she looked at her stained uniform and drew an incredulous smile. -You have a curious sense of aesthetics. Anyway, take a seat.
- I'm sorry, Miss Weems. It will not happen again. -A blushed and hyperventilated Y/N sat next to Mr. Vlad, the fencing coach.
During the course of the meeting Y/N gradually regained her composure and then explained the challenges posed by the new semester at the academy. Y/N could even see an almost imperceptible smile forming on Larissa's lips as she listened to her attentively. Or maybe she was imagining it again, Y/N thought to herself. She had to get the diligent headmistress out of her mind once and for all because if she didn't her vivid imagination would play tricks on her again. Despite being aware that her crush on Larissa was almost certainly platonic and unrequited, she couldn't help but be enthralled when looking at her. Her incredible height, her silhouette, her cold eyes and her red smile haunted her every day like the monsters in her nightmares. And she couldn't escape from her either.
-Miss Y/L/N. What do you think? I'm very interested to know your opinion on this matter. -Larissa's soft voice brought Y/N out of her fantasies.
Wow, it's time to improvise again, Y/N reflected. She knew that they were still talking about the same topic and used her ingenuity to try to get out of the situation.
- You have a golden beak, Y/N. -Larissa praised her, showing off her perfect pearly teeth. -Your wisdom and inventiveness never cease to amaze me.
Hearing the compliment that came from Larissa's lips, Y/N couldn't help but blush and emit a sincere and wide smile at the same time. This reaction did not go unnoticed by the headmistress, who found it tremendously moving. Larissa suddenly looked at her companions and radically changed the subject. She couldn't be so unprofessional and show that deep down the young teacher Y/N Y/L/N was her little weakness.
After an hour of proposals and debates Larissa ended the meeting. Y/N was about to leave the room when she noticed the shadow of the tall woman closing over her.
- Y/N, could I speak to you in private? -Larissa asked politely as she tilted her head.
The young woman got lost in the woman's blue gaze and once again she had to rid those longing fantasies away from her mind. After all, it was a passing infatuation resulting from her dreamy nature.
When the two women were left alone in the large office, Larissa gently placed one of her long hands on Y/N's shoulder, who seemed to perceive a tender admiration in the headmistress' eyes. Suddenly, Y/N noticed a certain electric tension in the air and thought it was strange that her bodies were so close in such an empty room.
- I always appreciate your original point of view, Y/N. Thank you for helping me make this school a better place for the entire Nevermore family. -Larissa spoke those words lovingly as her hand rested on Y/N's shoulder. - And in case you didn't know, you are wearing your jacket backwards.
Y/N got a goofy smile etched on her face. How was it possible that she had not noticed this detail? She was sure Larissa thought she was a total mess.
Although for Y/N the day had only just begun.
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lovebugism · 10 months
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YOU'RE ON YOUR OWN, KID | the beginning.
summary: a year after the end of the world, you and steve share one cigarette and two confessions. (6k)
listen to: "as the world falls down" by david bowie
tags: f!reader, roadtrip fic, friends to lovers, slow burn, mutual pining, angst & comfort, post st4, selective canon divergence (some things happen, some things don't), reader goes by the nickname "scout" TW panic attacks, conversations about grief, steve harrington smokes but he's still hot, outfit inspo (not indicative of what r's body type/skin color/etc.)
a/n: kinda surreal that i'm posting this because it's something i've been working on/thinking about for Months. i put so much time and effort and tears into this series so pleasepleaseplease enjoy it! as always, let me know what you think! let's watch these two (sort of) friends run away and fall in love with each other, shall we? <3
JOURNALS | MASTERLIST | SPOTIFY
★。\ | /。★
The beginning of the rest of your life starts in the murky alleyway outside The Velvet Lounge.
It’s pretty fitting, actually. You feel like you’re close to dying anyway.
The lightning strike of a panic attack comes first as a cold hand around your throat. The clawed talon of a long-gone monster strangles you — sucks all the air out of your lungs and leaves you gasping for a breath you know won’t come. 
A second later and the light-up dance floor beneath your feet begins to sway. You blink, and it becomes the desiccated terrain of the Upside Down — again, and the glowing rainbow tiles return. Eventually, it becomes impossible to discern the real from the imaginary.
You feel a bit like the world’s caving in on itself as you stumble through the bustling crowd. The thumping of the heady bass strums throughout your body as you squeeze between a mob of sweatier ones. The merciless pounding makes you forget that your heart’s no longer beating.
The heavy breeze of a summer night smacks you in the face. There is no fresh air outside the buzzing nightclub, just more emptiness. 
You lean against the brick wall, clutching desperately onto your chest as you stumble from the exit. The world around you starts to spin on its side, going blurry like you’re being pulled underwater.
You’re drowning, but none’s coming to save you.
To everyone else, you’re just a girl that’s had too many. The girl that’s lost too much.
You duck into the dark alley with the intention of withering away there.
A warm hand brings you back to life.
“Shit, Scout,” Steve Harrington curses behind you. “Are you— Are you okay?”
You’ve never heard the nickname leave his mouth so gently. You don’t think he’s ever touched you so softly, either. It’s all so foreignly tender compared to the war raging inside your skull — you think it would’ve made you weep if you were capable of catching your breath.
His presence is only startling in the sense that you hadn’t expected to find him there.
It was pretty much the reason you’d slinked through the dimly lit passageway in the first place — to die completely and utterly alone. The flickering orange lamplight and damp brick made this place more adequate for puking college kids, canoodling couples, and conniving Ted Bundy’s of the world. Not pretty Steve and his pretty clothes and his pretty hair.
You’re more humiliated at having been caught than you are alarmed by it.
You figure you really shouldn’t be. He’s already seen you at your worst. On your deathbed, crying so hard you puke, so far gone from the world that you’re practically a ghost — that kind of worst. 
But for some reason, his wide palm on your shoulder makes you feel fragile. Small. He stands fathoms above you and you’re nothing but an ant under his sneaker — a little delicate thing he could crush completely if he wanted.
Instead, Steve holds you.
His long fingers cradle your trembling shoulder in a steady embrace. A warm reminder that you’re not alone in this gloomy alleyway that still thrums with life. That, in some ways, you’ve never really been alone at all.
“Yeah,” you answer finally, nodding but not looking over at him. You swallow through a tightening throat. “I just… I just need to, uh… to catch my breath.”
Steve eyes you with a gaze swimming with apprehension.
Your shoulder presses into the rough brick while your other hand clings desperately to your chest. Your fingers dig into the soft cotton of your shirt like you’re reaching for your thundering heart. Each of your breaths is ragged, forced, worked for. You grunt your way through every impossible inhale.
Facing away from him under the dim amber streetlight, he can barely make out your profile. He only gets glimpses of your scrunched face and the tear that glimmers gold on your cheek. But with his hand on your arm, he can feel the rapid up-and-down motion of your heavy breaths. Panic sizzles off of you and onto him like static shock.
“Yeah, it was getting kinda crazy in there, huh?” he says within a halfhearted laugh. “I didn’t know people like Duran Duran so much.”
It’s nothing more than a feeble attempt to get you to laugh. 
And it works. Sort of.
You’d lost sight of Steve somewhere around the time “Girls on Film” came on. Nancy’s drunken hand pulled you to the dance floor, and every other tipsy woman followed right behind you. He hadn’t seemed to care much about dancing, though. He just sat in the corner booth with Robin until Vickie came by and stole her away. The last you saw him, he was sitting alone at the bar with a basket of chicken wings before disappearing entirely.
But he hadn’t disappeared, you figured. He was just here, in this eerily empty alleyway, trying to get away from it all just as much as you were.
Steve sees the corners of your mouth quirk upward in a grimacing sort of smile. A scoff sounds from your throat a moment later. He thinks that might be the sort of laugh you get from a girl who doesn’t have much to find humor in anymore.
Your newfound relief is his own.
“You okay now?” he asks once you’ve caught your breath.
You nod and settle back against the brick. The fabric of your shirt sticks to the prickly clay. “Yeah,” you repeat, more truthfully this time. “Thanks— Thank you.”
You’re forced to mourn the warmth of the broad hand on your shoulder when he pulls away from you. 
He doesn’t stray far, though. He remains at your side with his back to the brick —  his frame much taller than your own, broader too. His woody cologne swirls with the purer scent of a summer night and the distant smell of beer. He holds within him an air that can only be described as all-consuming. He’s exactly the feeling of everything warm despite the several inches that separate you. 
Steve offers you the lit cigarette in his left hand, and for a reason you can’t name, his kindness takes you by surprise. You’ve fought a monster with the guy, but he still feels like a total stranger to you sometimes.
He sees you hesitate and thinks that this might be the first time either of you have been alone together. You don’t have anything in common except for the party. Without one of the members to accompany you, the fact becomes a heavier weight to bear.
It’s sort of like a peace offering — this half-gone cigarette. A ‘hey, I know we aren’t really friends, but maybe we could be.’
You take it. “Thanks…”
Steve watches you puff from the stick. You hold the thing between your thumb and forefinger, pinching it as you bring it up to your mouth. The huff you take isn’t a deep one, probably the fault of your still staggering breaths, but your eyes flutter shut on the exhale like you’re grateful for the nicotine fix.
He realizes then that he’s never looked at you before. Like, really looked.
Like a ghost, you tend to blend easily into the background, floating around in the shadows without ever being seen. You’re only out tonight because Robin and Nancy forced your hand, but in your darkened outfit — cropped tee, plain skirt, worn boots, all varying shades of black — you threaten to blend in with the night. You do it all with the finesse of a girl who’s all but disconnected herself from the world.
You catch him staring when you hand the cigarette back.
You don’t look weirded out by his prying gaze — quite the opposite, really. You cower under the attention, chin tilting toward your chest and a sheepish smile hinting at your lips. Embarrassed without any actual reason to be.
“Wanna tell me the real reason you came out here?” Steve asks you, covering the serious inquiry with a joking lilt.
Your brows furrow as you watch him bring the cigarette to his own mouth. He’s got this look on his face — raised brows, wide eyes, and quirked lips — almost like he’s teasing you.
You breathe out an awkward laugh.
“What do you mean? I just told you.” You try to smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. It looks more like you’re wincing as you shift your weight on your feet. “I just needed to—”
“To catch your breath,” Steve finishes for you, smoke billowing from his pink lips. The grey lingers between you for a moment before disappearing entirely. He nods with a lopsided grin before handing you back the cigarette. “Yeah. I heard you. I just don’t believe you.”
Your eyes go wide. He can’t tell if you’re shocked by his bluntness or if you’re embarrassed at having been caught so quickly. Maybe a healthy mixture of both.
Your throat tightens all over again. You swallow thickly as you turn away from him and it feels like you’re forcing down a too big pill. The back of your eyes burn with unshed tears, so many stinging needles that you force yourself to blink away.
And even though you’re just trying not to cry at the reality of the situation you’ve spent a year hiding from, to Steve it looks like you’re searching for a way out. Your gaze snaps to the opening of the alley where nicely dressed people bustle on the other side, their conversations far away and muffled.
He hadn’t meant to make you uncomfortable. He just thought you could use a friend, considering you were only just recovering from the windswept panic spell.
“Look. You— You tell me why you’re out here, and I’ll tell you why I am,” he offers, partly to make you feel better.
The other half of it, which he finds it startling to admit, is that he doesn’t want you to leave.
He’d spent fifteen minutes by himself in the dark — half comforted by it, half frightened. Despite his distant unfamiliarity with you, he’s weirdly comforted by your presence. Steve’s seen enough people walk away from him to know he doesn’t want you to join them.
You look at him again, more glassy-eyed than you’d been before. Your sniffle is nearly inaudible. “What do you mean?”
He shrugs. “You know… A you-show-me-yours, I’ll-show-you-mine kinda thing.”
It sounds a lot weirder coming out of his mouth than he expected it to. It makes you laugh, though, so it feels sort of worth it.
“That sounds really pervy,” you tease with a more sincere smile.
“Yeah. Sorry. Just— Maybe just ignore that last part, yeah?” he stammers stiffly, laughing softly at himself shortly after.
You finally take a hit from the cig between your fingers. Your gaze falls to your boots.
They were a gift from someone you knew a long time ago — someone you don’t know anymore because they’re gone.
It was a well-loved anniversary present you’ve worn every day since you got them. They’re a bit tattered now, obviously worn on the platformed bottoms. You don’t know how many times you’ve glued the soles back together now — or how many times you’ve tried to wash away the faded bloodstain by the laces that refuses to come out.
It’s as stuck there as the memories in your head are.
And even though you’ve never talked about it out loud, you think you could write a million words about how looking at the stain makes you feel — about all the thoughts that swirl within you at the sight of it and why you can’t throw them out despite it all. You’d write about the boy who bought them for you, whose name it’s still so hard to say — the boy who you loved who was gone.
It was just easier to shove it all down.
You kept your grief horribly discreet, like a poorly stitched-together wound.
If you couldn’t even burden yourself with it, why should you expect anyone else to?
But here Steve goes, offering to let that raging wound breathe. 
Something about the ultimatum makes it more comforting. It’s a lot easier to tell a kept secret when you know another hidden confession is coming right after it. You don’t know if you’ll ever get this chance again — to shield your grief with someone else’s. 
“Okay,” you answer suddenly before exhaling the gray from your lungs. You outstretch your hand to give him the cigarette back. You try to smile. “You first, though.”
Steve puffs from the stick before he answers you. For a moment, it’s nothing but muffled conversations and a stifled bass that rattles the brick. The quiet is noticeably less suffocating than all the quiets you’ve known before — less lonely now that you’ve got someone to share them with.
“I hate parties,” he summarizes with a shrug.
“Yeah, I’m gonna need a little more than that,” you joke.
He flicks the end of the cigarette to dispel the ash. Grey specks fall to the damp concrete. When he hands it off to you again, your fingers brush his own. Your skin is much cooler than the humid summer air surrounding you.
“I mean, I used to like parties. I think,” Steve explains, still rather vague, gesturing with wild hands like you’re used to. “Really, I just liked to drink, you know? ‘Cause everyone liked me when I was drunk. I was the popular guy — Mr. Funny, Mr. Cool. But, uh… I guess somewhere down the line, I forgot how to have fun like that.”
“Forgot how to have fun?” you repeat with a sad sort of laugh. Your brows scrunch and your swim with sympathy. The streetlamp casts sharp shadows on his chiseled features, but he still looks at you so soft — eyes sweet with the tenderness he holds there and smiling just the same.
It’s hard to believe that the King of Hawkins High could’ve ever felt anything other than total elation when he had a whole ocean outside his front door on Fairview Lane.
“I think they have a name for that these days, Harrington.”
He laughs and turns to press his shoulder into the brick. He’s facing you now, and it feels much more like he’s looming over you. 
You remain against the wall, still a bit overwhelmed by the presence of a boy who never would’ve looked your way a year or more ago. It takes everything in you not to duck away from him completely.
“Well, I was only having fun because I was drunk, right?” he elaborates, brown eyes a golden amber beneath the flickering light. They twinkle looking down at you.
“Sure…” you shrug to humor him.
“And, like, I can deal with the hangovers and everything no problem, you know, but the… The waking up the next morning. The remembering, I guess. Remembering everything I was trying to forget when I was drinking. That’s… That’s the worst part.”
You don’t realize how intently you’re looking at him at first. Every quirk of his rosy mouth, every twitch of his bushy brow, every glint of his chocolate eyes as he divulges a deeply held secret doesn’t go unnoticed by you. Behind all the pretty hair and expensive clothes is a boy much sadder than you could’ve imagined. 
Something bigger had done a number on him. Something more than the end of the world.
His upturned gaze returns to you and you realize you haven’t blinked once.
You do a rather shit job of pretending you weren’t just staring. You haphazardly turn away again, handing him the cigarette despite not having put your mouth to it.
“Yeah, I— I get what you mean…”
Your words seem to surprise him. His brows pinch like he was more prepared to be made fun of than empathized. He takes the cig from you with an absentminded hand. It goes quickly forgotten.
“You do?”
“Well, not so much with drinking, but… It happens to me in the morning sometimes,” you shrug, feigning nonchalance, and trying not to seem like it’s a phenomenon you’ve experienced every day for a year and a half. “It’s, like, that split second of bliss right before the grief comes back, right?”
Steve blinks owlishly. Then nods.
“That half a moment where nothing bad’s ever happened to you, and it’s just the sun shining on you before the… the bad shit comes back again. Like it never even left.”
And Steve, who’s never met another person who could so easily understand him and that otherwise indescribable feeling so perfectly, is stunned into silence.
Maybe it’s his fault for keeping it all to himself, like a love letter he can’t bring himself to unfold. It’s entirely likely that he could find a million people in the world who’ve felt all the same feelings he’s garnered over the past couple of years. It still wouldn’t hold the same weight as being understood now — being understood by someone who’s been through the end of the world with him.
Being understood without all the empty words.
“Yeah,” he nods finally, clearing his throat. His cheeks glow red when he realizes he’d forgotten to speak because he was too busy looking at you. “Yeah, exactly— Shit!”
The sides of his fingers sting with a sharp ache. The cig in his hand drops to the ground, half the size of his pinky. There isn’t much left of it now, and that’s why it burns him so. It hits the concrete, more ash than stick. The skin of Steve’s finger blackens as it blazes.
“Oh— Are you okay?” you grimace.
Steve snuffs out the burning cigarette with the toe of his sneaker.
“Yeah, I— I just wasn’t paying attention,” he dismisses with the shake of his head, more so at himself than anything else. It’s the first time he’s had an actual conversation with you, and he’s already embarrassed himself twice. He’ll count himself lucky if you care enough to talk to him again.
“Your go, Scout,” he offers suddenly in a measly attempt to get the attention off of him and his blunder. He wipes the ash from his pointer and middle finger on his jeans. “See if you can out-miserable me.”
You roll your eyes at him, still smiling. “What is this? The trauma olympics?”
“C’mon. I’m kidding,” he assures with a lilt. He reaches out to nudge your arm with his knuckles and, like before, his touch is almost too soft for you to feel it. The act of platonic intimacy takes you momentarily by surprise.
His smile is crooked. His eyes glimmer with honey. “I was kidding,” he repeats.
“It was just that, um— that song,” you answer. It comes out more choked than you expected it to. “They started playing that song.”
Steve’s brows furrow. “What song?” he asks. Not pressing. Only curious.
“That one that… that Eddie played when I…”
“Oh.”
“I used to love that stupid song— I mean, obviously. It sorta saved me from what should’ve been an unavoidable death, so…” You manage to laugh at yourself as you ramble.
Steve can’t find it in himself to do the same.
He’d been terrified when it happened to Max — when the kid he was involuntarily babysitting started to float in midair, nearly succumbing to the curse of a monster that should’ve been make-believe. He was relieved when she fell back down again, but you? He was certain you were a goner. 
You were too high up and Eddie’s guitar was too far away. The beginning notes of I Was Made For Lovin’ You were too grim and Vecna’s claws were in too deep. You were too distant, too banished.
For several agonizing seconds, you were destined to remain a stranger to him.
But here you are now, sharing cigarettes and secrets.
Your eyes squeeze shut as you shake your head at yourself. “But, um, anyway. Yeah. It’s just… Sometimes things will happen, you know? Like I’ll— I’ll hear a song or… I’ll see something that reminds me of him— of Eddie. And it’s just like…”
“…Like you’re in the Upside Down again?” Steve finishes gently for you when he sees that you can’t.
You nod, wordlessly for a moment, until the words catch up with you.
“Like nightmares, but when I’m awake,” you force through a closing throat. “And they’re so real. Like… I can— I can hear him. I can hear him talking to me, and I’m— I’m holding him, and I can feel him breathing, you know? He’s still breathing, but—”
You take a staggering breath in. For a moment, Steve’s scared you’re tumbling headfirst into another panic attack.
His attentive eyes flit between your scrunched up face and the trembling hands you hold out in front of you. You’re cradling something that isn’t there anymore. You look down at your palms with a horror that tells him you understand that, too — that the person you used to hold isn’t able to be held anymore.
“I can feel the… the blood. And it’s just… It’s all over me. And I’m losing him. I’m losing him all over again—”
You hiccup a measly sob when your lungs force you to take a breath you didn’t know you were holding. It puts an end to your rambling. You’re grateful enough for it. You’d already said more than you were planning to — more than you thought you’d say in a lifetime. 
You think you must sound deranged, talking about a corpse like it’s still a warm body you hold every night.
In some ways, it is.
You sniffle and blink back burning tears. Your smile edges on sincerity. “So, what do you think, Harrington? Did I out-miserable you?”
Steve scoffs in the place of a real laugh. “I didn’t have a dog in that fight, did I? What you went through… I mean, I shouldn’t even be complaining.”
“Hey, c’mon,” you scold gently. “We both went through shit. It was all bad, no matter how you look at it. Just because we didn’t go through the same stuff doesn’t mean what happened to you is any less important.”
You just barely catch his cinnamon eyes going glassy before he turns away from you entirely. His stubbled cheeks blotch with varying shades of pink, glowing with an emotion he can’t keep hidden. He looks down at his dirty sneakers because he can’t bare to look at you now.
Understanding, that’s what this is. Understanding without all the empty words.
It’s still hard for him to believe them, though.
In the grand scheme of things, what happened to him wasn’t so terrible. 
He wasn’t under any sort of curse. No one he cared about was irrevocably hurt, either. And he didn’t have to hold someone he loved in his arms while they bled to death — doesn’t have to feel like he’s still holding onto them a year after it all.
Despite the marred scars on his mind and body, Steve convinces himself that he has no reason to be sad — even though that’s not really how sadness works. Grief isn’t the kind of thing you can just will away, but he beats himself up when he can’t — when the heartache wins.
It’s a never-ending cycle. A loop he’s been stuck in since he was seventeen. A portal he was terrified would never close. 
Now, at least, it feels sort of possible.
“You shouldn’t talk like that, Scout,” he jokes after the urge to weep has passed. He tilts his head to his shoulder and smiles a crooked grin. “I’m gonna start to think you like me.”
Without missing a beat, you retort: “Please, never ever think that. That would completely shatter my reputation.”
You both laugh with the knowing that it’s all just a joke.
You never had much of a reputation because you spent your whole life being invisible. You liked it best that way because never being seen meant nothing was ever expected of you. You’ll happily take someone you went to school with your entire life never knowing your name than any bogus Hawkins High royalty status any day.
Steve, better known by his title of King, wishes now that he’d taken a page out of your book. He learned the power of invisibility far too late.
“Who woulda thought, huh?” the boy sighs, chocolate eyes turned up to the velvet blue sky. “You and me… being friends.”
You arch a brow at him. “Oh, is that what we are now?”
“Oh, yeah,” Steve scoffs like it’s obvious. “They didn’t tell you? You fight monsters together, and you’re bonded for life.”
“Is that so?”
“Absolutely. I mean, why do you think me and Henderson are so close?”
“So you’re saying you would’ve never been friends if it wasn’t for the end of the world?” you reiterate with a challenging squint.
“That’s almost exactly what I’m saying. Yeah,” he nods with his pink lips jutted softly out. “If none of that shit ever happened, I’d still be that raging douchebag I used to be. My life would be… so much different.”
“Worse?” you press.
He thinks for a moment.
Without the whole end-of-the-world thing, he never would’ve met Dustin. He never would’ve gotten closer to Robin. Nancy never would’ve had a reason to break up with him, and he figures he’d have long settled down with her by now. They’d be that miserable couple that somehow manages to make it.
He’d probably still be friends with Tommy Hagan, too, getting drunk at parties he’s too old to be at. He’d still be the King Steve everyone loved and hating every second of it.
Fighting monster after monster changed him for the better. Even with its horror, how could he ever take that back?
He winces at the realization. “Yeah…”
“So you’d do it all over again?” you ask, dumbfounded.
“I think so, yeah.” Steve’s smile is shy as he ducks his gaze, peering at you through his lashes. “I’m a total idiot, right?”
Your brows pinch together as you shake your head. “No. I don’t think so… Actually, I think the end of the world looks pretty good on you, Harrington.”
He knows you don’t mean it how it sounds. He gets the feeling you’re talking less about his appearance and more about why he’s standing out here in the first place — talking to a girl he’s halfway known all his life whose name he didn’t know until she almost died.
For the same reason — the one that’s brought you to him and this alley — he jokes back: “It looks good on you, too, Scout.”
Again, you laugh with the understanding that you’re joking. For the most part, at least. 
You’re both so weathered with grief, looking much older than your years, forced to wear your woe all over. For whatever transformation the trauma might’ve done internally, it hadn’t done anything on the outside than leave scars that won’t fade.
When the laughter subsides, a silence roars to life. 
Not a total one. You can still hear the pounding bass from inside The Velvet Lounge and the muddled chatter of people coming in and out of it. It’s not a totally uncomfortable one either, which is far more than you thought you could ever say about talking to Steve The Hair Harrington. 
But it’s still sort of heavy in its way. Likely with the idea of what the both of you know and of everything you’ve confessed out loud.
Now that it’s all out in the open, Steve’s got no idea how to move on. How is he supposed to joke around now? How does he say anything but sorry to the girl who holds all her grief in her eyes?
“Hey, Scout?” he calls quietly.
Your leftover grin hasn’t yet faded. “Hm?”
“I’m… I’m really sorry.”
The smile ebbs entirely.
“Why are you apologizing?” you ask with the shake of your head, almost flinching at the sudden condolence. “You didn’t… You’re not the one that killed Eddie.”
“I know. I just… I feel like I should— like I should say it, you know?”
“That’s the worst part about all of this, I think. Like… you lose someone, and no one knows how to talk to you anymore,” you confess, a sad smile hinting at the very corners of your lips — so soft it’s barely there. Your gaze falls to your boots again. “Everyone just feels so sorry for you all the time. All anyone ever wants to do is talk about what happened like I don’t have to think about it enough, you know? It just… It makes it impossible to move on.”
Steve winces. He can’t ever say the right thing. “I’m sorry—”
“Stop apologizing,” you tell him, laughing. “I’m not saying that— I’m just… I’m just saying. I think it’d be easier if I didn’t have to stay here. You know, where everything happened. If I could… Like, if I could just go, I think that maybe I could get better.”
“You could,” Steve affirms with a nod.
Your brows furrow. “Get better?”
“Well, yeah,” he shrugs, amber gaze flitting between your glittering eyes and his dirty sneakers. “And… And leave. You know, if you wanted to.” 
The thought alone makes you laugh. “By myself? With no car? Barely any money?”
“You wouldn’t have to go alone,” he promises.
“Yeah?” you scoff, still grinning like it’s all a joke to you. “And who would want to run away with a girl with a broken heart?”
He answers without thinking and with a lopsided smile. “The boy with nothing to lose.”
Your smile fades with the heavy weight of his offer.
It isn’t just about running away. It’s about running away together — two people with nothing in common besides a mutual hatred for a dark wizard from the underworld, ditching a town that hasn’t done shit for them, and pretending like nothing’s ever hurt them.
And at first, you’re shocked. Who wouldn’t be with such an offer thrown at their feet? But then, and more than anything else, you’re confused. Why would Steve want to run away? you think to yourself. Why would he want to run away with you? 
When the bolt blue finally dissipates, you’re left with a simmering feeling of disbelief.
Steve shouldn’t want this, and he shouldn’t want it with you.
“You’re drunk,” you conclude, smiling because it’s a joke again.
“Yeah. Maybe,” Steve shrugs with his gaze pointed to the sky. The stars are hidden beneath layers of light and pollution. They’re out there somewhere, but he can’t see them — not from where he is now. He looks back to you, a sheepish smile playing on his pink mouth. “But… I’m not.”
“Would you seriously want to leave?” you squint. With me, you keep to yourself, unsaid.
“I’ve, uh— I’ve been wanting to for a while, actually. Even before all of… this,” he confesses, waving his hand out into the ether. He grins in reminiscence, but not the fond kind. “My dad— he’s just been dogging me about work and college and everything, you know? I think he wants me to be the same big shot business douchebag that he is, and I get it, but…”
You lean closer to him, brows furrowed. “But what?” you press.
Steve exhales a sad laugh. “I really don’t wanna end up like my dad,” he admits — a thought he kept like a thorn in his side finally said out loud. “And I’m scared that, if I stay here, I will.”
“So you’ve just been looking for a way out. All this time?” you wonder aloud. While I thought you were on top of the world, you were wanting out of it.
Steve shrugs, then nods.
“And a girl with nothing to lose?” you joke.
“Yeah,” he chuckles softly to himself. “That, too.”
You turn away from him again, deep in thought. Steve mourns your gaze — its attentiveness more than anything, the way you look at him and seem to understand him without saying a goddamn word. He didn’t think that was possible before now.
You think to yourself for a moment. Mostly because it’s something you know you should think about before you do it.
How will you pay your way? Where will you go? What will you do when you get there? 
What will your parents say when they notice you’re gone? How long will it take before they do? 
Who’ll feed the stray cats outside the trailer park? 
Who’ll leave flowers at Eddie’s grave once a month and clean it when it’s ultimately vandalized by assholes who still think he was a mass murderer sent from Hell to do Satan’s bidding?
There’s a lot of questions you don’t have answers for.
What little you do know, though, you’re certain of.
You know there’s nothing left for you in Hawkins.
You don’t have much family — especially not since Eddie — and your friends aren’t really your friends. Sure, Nancy invites you out from time to time, but she’d never call you to dish about secrets and shared trauma in this way. Sometimes you think they only include you because your boyfriend died, and they all saw what it did to you.
And you also know that there’s nothing holding you back but grief. To absolve yourself from it all, to finally move the fuck on, you’re going to have to leave it all behind. It’s not like you’d be missing much anyway. 
You’re still a ghost because you live in a soul-sucking town full of people who only want to talk to you when it’s to remind you that the only person you’ve ever loved is dead.
Nothing has brought you back to life quite like this boy and his secrets and offer to run away.
You think you’d been an idiot to walk away from it. From him.
“Fuck it.”
Steve almost flinches at how feverishly you turn to face him again. 
His brows raise to his hairline, honey eyes going wide at the abrupt nature of your sudden reply. “…Fuck it?” he echoes, not nearly as confident as you’d said it — just grateful that you’d said it at all.
For a boy who always expects rejection, your innate acceptance of him and his previously kept secrets makes his chest swell with so much warmth that it’s started to burn him. He can feel his ribcage turning to ash and his heart melting as he speaks.
“Fuck it,” you nod, more serious than he’s ever seen you.
You turn to face him fully, something you’d been too timid to do just minutes ago. You’re more sure now — of him, of this. The proximity between your bodies forces you to tilt your head up to look at him. Similarly, his chin falls to his chest to peer at you.
Tucked away in this alley, you’re made of shadows and shades of gold. The lamplight still flickers over your heads. The brick still shakes with the drumming, muffled bass. You don’t realize until now that you can feel your heart beating again.
“Let’s do it,” you shrug with a blast of hopeful anticipation swelling in your chest, more optimistic than you’ve been in a year. “Nothing to lose, right?”
Steve grins.
“Nothing to lose,” he repeats, reminding himself of the fact when reality starts to set in on him. Even if he fails, even if it all goes wrong and he’s waking up in his childhood bed a week from now, he can’t get any lower than rock bottom. Besides, now he’s got you to fall back on, right?
“Fuck it.”
★。/ | \。★
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