#horses are terrible goodbye

[national-hockey-gay]

well. graduation was a let down.

[bakugoushotwife]

kinktober day four: voyeurism kink

>>> guys can you tell i have a choso fantasy or do i need to write another five thousand word fic to prove it i'm sobbing and actually in love with him fr. it took me days to write this bc i was just too feral.

>>> starring: choso kamo x curvy!fem!reader >>> cw: roommate choso, hung like a horse choso, virgin choso, voyeurism clearly, petnames, masturbation, cowgirl, implied multiple rounds, choso whimpers you're so welcome, choso smokes a blunt grow up >>> wc: 4.8k >>> event masterlist

this whole roommate ordeal seemed easy enough. you had a spare room in your condo, yuji had a spare brother that needed a place to stay after graduation. it worked out perfectly, as you weren’t too keen on having a rando move in. though the half-curse was little more than that, really. you had only come in contact with choso briefly, seeing him move through the halls of jujutsu tech in search of the very brother that recommended him to you. he was intimidating, tall and broad with a look of disinterest across his face every time you ran into him. yuji had told you that he wasn’t necessarily unfriendly, just unsure, so you were weary to approach him once he moved into the spare room. you didn’t want to overdo it, you would hate to make him uncomfortable with all these changes he was getting accustomed to. so for the first three months or so, you two would only exchange pleasantries and nod respectfully, two strangers sharing an address and lingering curious stares. then, one morning you offered to make him breakfast, and you two settled into a comfortable friendship after that. 

Nowadays, nearly a year later, the living area was actually used and shared. you watched recommended shows together, introduced each other to your favorite movies, and oftentimes just sat in each other’s presence on the couch; on your phones, playing nintendo switch games, or passing choso’s best attempt at a blunt between you while shit talking your neighbors with your legs in his lap. you even encouraged him to invest in a real gaming setup, where he plays a host of different games for hours while you sit contently in the bean bag chair stationed nearby in his room, reading or crafting or just watching from time to time. the more comfortable he became, the more fun he was to be around. he was no longer shy to ask you to sit with him while he plays or to inquire about your latest book and his smiles and conversations flowed more freely. 

he enjoys your presence. it’s easy to be around you. he wonders why. even with all the progress he had made with you, he was still terribly awkward around new people and his social battery was limited. he never got tired of hanging out with you though, in fact, he craves it always. yuji says that it’s because you’re pretty, which choso can’t disagree with, though his brother’s statement irritates him for no good reason. 

he finds himself wondering if his brother knows you the way he does, silly things about you like which animal crossing character you would reincarnate as or the fact you hate grape flavored anything—it all tastes like cough syrup!--he can hear you say. no, he gets to see the real you, the one you reserve just for him. so yuji can think you’re pretty all he wants, but he’s the one who gets to see your breathtaking smiles in reaction to something he said.

“bro?! still there–or are you too busy being jealous?” yuji snickers, relishing in the match he made. he knew choso would wake up with a babe like you walking around. 

“you’re a child. and a dick.” he huffs, aggravated by his spacey sibling’s acute sense of his feelings. “goodbye.” he taps to end their weekly gaming marathon facetime two hours short out of annoyance, confronted with the silence of his bedroom and his questioning thoughts about you. jealous? as much as he hated to admit it, maybe he was. he couldn't even picture the thought of you being with someone else, try as he might. did that mean he wanted to be that person? your person? he’s so confused, but he knows even if he’s embarrassed he can talk to you about it. you could help him work through his feelings and come to a solution. even if the feelings were about you, he knows you would always be honest with him. he sighs, deciding to make his way to your room down the hall. 

you two didn’t spend a lot of time apart now that the bond had been created, and you were more than alright with that routine, because on fridays, choso holed up in his room for five straight hours to facetime yuji and play video games giving you some much needed time to yourself. you always started with a long and intricate shower, doing all your different exfoliants and masks. then you’d touch up your nails and give yourself a total spa treatment, finishing up by putting on your cutest little panties and releasing some of the pent up sexual frustration for your roommate that you keep under lock and key for the same reasons you were hesitant to cross into friendship territory all those months ago: you don’t want to scare him away. 

so you settle for your own small hands cupping your chest and pinching at your nipples, trying to picture him. It’s choso’s large and veiny hands that run down your sides and spread your legs instead of your own toying with your underwear. you can smell the versace eros cologne he wears wafting through your nose, almost able to hear his gravelly voice in your ear praising you for doing so good. it’s almost embarrassing how easy it is to conjure the image of him sinking between your thighs, lust pooling in his violet eyes. you’re soaked already, feeling the fabric of your panties sticking to your cunt just at your active imagination. you peel them off, hissing as cold air blows across your middle, but your fingers quickly find the heat of your hole, gathering that natural lube to flick your clit with. your eyes are closed—whining helplessly already at the sensation you bring yourself with him in mind. it’s nowhere near the real deal, but the bliss is good enough to lull pants of his name from your mouth, body light as air.

choso doesn’t think anything of your closed door. you told him you keep it closed to let him have his space, not wanting him to feel like you’re watching or eavesdropping on him while he’s on the phone. especially as he got close enough to reach for your door handle, hearing you call his name. you sounded…strained? in all honesty he was worried. so he doesn’t hesitate to push the door open a bit, peeking to check. his heart drops into his stomach at the sight of you naked on your bed. you’re stunning. he’s seen pictures of other women—and yuji showed him a few websites—but your body was second to none. his hand flew to cover his immediate hard on, shocked you hadn’t noticed him yet. fuck, you are gorgeous, one hand squeezing at your breast, the other playing around in that squelching noise he hears between your legs. he fights the urge to moan aloud or announce his presence, and he’s ashamed of himself. he feels like he’s betraying your trust, but his dick keeps growing in his pants at the chants of his name spilling out of your lips. he watches as your legs jerk and your head falls back against your pillow, making him think you were almost done. he had to get out before you saw him or felt his unique energy so close to you. he’s panting as he shuts the door quietly, turning the knob just so it wouldn’t alert you. 

his dick hurts as he makes it just one room down—the bathroom. perfect. he turns the shower on immediately, stripping his clothes off like they were on fire. he had set out to talk to you, to be completely honest about the thoughts he had been having, but seeing you like that did things to him words could not. he’s been horny before, of course, and dealt with that the way single human men do. but this—the desire coursing through his veins—this was different. so different. everything was clear now, he needed you. he stands with his back under the water, whimpering as his dick throbs to the mental image of your glistening pussy and blissed out face. he can’t help but close his fist around the his wide shaft, stuttering out a sigh in relief. he strokes himself to the same rhythm you moved your fingers, imagining how that pace would feel with your wet and warm cunt hugging him in instead of the rough surface of his hand. his other hand keeps him braced on the shower wall, steadying him through the searing heat the promises of your touch seem to be; to think that you were calling for him, thinking of him in the way he thinks of you now felt like a dream. he had to be hearing things, that’s the only excuse the man can summon. water beads down his biceps and chest, and it just makes his dirty deed all that much more so, fucking into his fist until his load is running down the side of the tub, the pearly beads getting swept away in the water and carried down the drain. he tosses his head back in the shower stream, his long black strands sticking to his face and neck as he tries to rinse away his shame. 

that night, choso doesn’t come out of his room to watch a movie with you before bed. you pout, but try not to linger on it too long. maybe yuji took a lot out of him today, or they didn’t have a successful time on and he was moody. either way, you weren’t going to bother him. you hang out on the couch like usual with the hopes that he would emerge soon, but as your bedtime nears and everything remains still, you slink off to your room with a sour mood to end an otherwise normal day.

as the days pass, choso’s behavior gets weirder and weirder. it’s almost as if he’s completely reverted inside his shell he made when he moved in, only emerging to get food when he had hoped you weren’t around. the times in which he did inevitably run into you were dealt in nervous laughter and denials that anything was wrong with him. it didn’t take a genius to figure out that he was lying, hiding something from you even. you were slightly hurt that he didn’t trust you enough to talk to you, instead of going backwards and shutting you out. you wanted to wait it out, but as the days turned into a full week, you feared losing him altogether. 

you stewed over the situation the entire time you were at work. you couldn’t even get anything accomplished because you were too preoccupied wondering what you had done to wound your connection. spending your days alone was maddening. a little over a year ago, you would have relished in the peace and quiet, but now it was unwelcome. you only wanted quiet if it was filled with the subtle sounds of pages turning or the buttons of a controller smashing or shared breathing during the climax of a show. this was haunting, and you knew you had to do something. you left work early, faking a stomach ache in order to get home and corner choso into relenting. no more miss nice roommate. you were tired of letting him be all weird and distant. so you walked in unceremoniously, not necessarily out to scare him. you shake your sandals off by the door and walk towards his room, noting that his door was actually open for once. 

that was only because you weren’t supposed to be home for three and a half more hours, giving choso plenty of time to relive his dirty fantasies of you with the least amount of guilt possible, though he could barely look you in the eye these days. if you weren’t home, he could at least not worry about you catching him in his perverted acts, only dealing with the shame that flows in after he’s came for the millionth time to the image of your legs quivering and mouth parting in pleasure. he didn’t hear you sneak in–didn’t hear you shuffle down the hall to poke your head around the doorframe. he was dead to the outside world, his hips stuttering into his hand, thumb swiping the pre-cum that beaded there around his slit, stroking himself with whimpers of your name tumbling out, his eyes scrunched tight in concentration. 

your jaw was on the floor, never in a million years imagining that he even knew how to touch himself like that, not to mention the prayers of your name on his tongue, mirroring the ones you make for him on fridays. he was massive, it had you covering your mouth in shock. even with his huge hand, it seemed like pumping himself was a tall task. you couldn’t imagine trying to do it yourself, you’re not even sure two hands would do the trick— you must have gasped aloud or something, because suddenly his head snaps toward where you stand in the doorway. 

“y/n–you’re–” his dark eyes are wide, his lips parted in realization that you had really caught him jerking off and mewling your name like a helpless perv. as the guilt starts to creep in, the haze of need and desire clouds his mind. he never lets go of himself, all too aware of your lip between your teeth and your hardened nipples poking through your top—no, you shouldn’t be seeing this, you shouldn’t even be home yet! not to mention how ashamed you should be of your own roommate rutting into his hand.

“...i’m home.” you whisper back, a slight smirk creeping onto your face. despite the red blush spreading across his cheeks, he keeps fucking up into his hand. it’s salacious, and you can feel your body responding to the sight, unsurprisingly. you’ve been picturing him naked for months, and not even your lewd imagination gave him justice. every plane on his body was sculpted and defined, thick veins running down his arms and thighs and cock. he left his hair down, some of the strands tucked behind his ear, some of them hung over his brows and cheekbones. he gulped when he noticed your stare, your eyes locked on the thick cock in his hand, curved with an angry and needy tip. 

“y/n, i’m so so sorr–” he scrambles to sit up, the heavy reality finally sinking in. he was awful, sick in the head, you were going to have him pack his shit immediately, and he’d have to tell all his friends why you had gotten rid of him. 

“need some help?” you spit out, unable to tolerate the pounding in your chest and pussy. his eyes grow impossibly wider, blood rushing in his ears. did he understand you right? he couldn’t possibly. 

“wh-what?” he sputtered, sitting up slightly to try and hide himself from view a bit, as if you hadn’t seen every bit of him already. 

“i asked if you wanted my help. you were saying my name, weren’t you?” you tease gently, stepping further into his room, your hands innocently folded behind your back. now that you know your desire is shared, you felt confident enough to push your relationship further yet again. he nods hesitantly, watching you stalk over to the bed like a lioness about to pounce.

“i–yes, it’s not what you think. i know it looks–” 

“like you were jacking off and thinking about me? is that not…what you were doing?” you hum, pausing by the foot of his bed. you look so cute, he has to believe you know what you’re doing, folding your arms under your voluptuous chest just to taunt him a bit more. you have him backed into a corner, and he either had to admit the truth or come up with a very clever lie. and he is not a gifted liar. 

“i–yeah…” he looks away, feeling the shame weighing down on him now that you had confronted him with the undeniable truth. 

you chuckle warmly. “i do the same thing, ‘cept I’m thinking of you.” you shrug, the smirk growing on your face as realization seeps into his. he didn’t misunderstand you that day or even earlier in this conversation. you want him too. he swallows thickly again, remembering the day that started all of this. 

“i–i know, i saw you, last week.” he chokes out as you take your top off, revealing yourself to him. He’d noticed your lack of bra earlier, but didn’t expect to be blessed with the sight of your body again, especially as you bend at the hips to wiggle out of your pants. Your laughter surprises him again, like he had intentionally made a joke. but it was only because he had solved the mystery that led you to his room in the first place, and that would potentially resolve any secrets you had been keeping from one another. 

“so that’s why you’ve been avoiding me?” you scrunch your nose at him adorably as you crawl onto the bed, his eyes glued to the body that had him locked in his bedroom day and night. “oh choso, i wish you would have interrupted me…i surely woulda let you help me.” you purr, so close to him that he could reach out and touch you now, and he definitely thinks about just grabbing your hips and pulling you down on him, finally feeling that glistening pussy for himself—to hell with his imagination, but your voice interrupts his thoughts again. 

“so, do you want me to help you, baby?” you glance from the hard length in his hands to his deep purple eyes, swirling with something you recognize very well to be deep desire. 

“please–” he whimpered and let his hand fall away from his pelvis, looking to you like a pathetic boy getting his teenage dreams fulfilled. Your grin grows wide, and you lean closer to brush your hand across his toned abdomen. he lets out a pleased little grunt and his cock jumps at the simple touch

“you’ve never been with anyone, have you?” you asked, faces so close he can see every freckle and dimple and scar on your skin. he shakes his head. you peck the tip of his nose. he’s already shivering, the feeling of your body leaning over his was exhilarating. your kiss was so simple and sweet, but it stopped all the thoughts in his brain. he was just malleable now, ready to let you make him feel good, finally shifting from imagination to reality. “need you to talk to me, so i can know where you’re at, cho.” 

“no, no..never.” he shakes his head again, eying you with excitement and nerves all at once. he wants to touch you, and you’ve already stripped naked and kissed him, so surely there was no going back now, so he reaches up and places his hands on your hips—so light like he was afraid to hurt you. 

you grin at both his answer and his courageous touch, nodding your encouragement, “that’s fine, i’ll help you…just do what feels natural–you can go as hard as you want., and tell me if you want to stop.” your eyes blink at him sweet he realizes he would trust you with his life if you asked. 

“okay.” he lets your words wash over him, nodding as he grips your hips a little tighter. he’s more than embraced his fate, his mouth watering a bit at the idea that you were in his bed and offering to make all his fantasies come true. you were expecting him to keep that deer in a headlights look, but when you rake your fingernails across his chest, you watch his eyes darken a bit more. “kiss me?” 

choso looks so cute, you couldn’t deny him if you wanted to. his eyebrow raised with innocence, but his eyes shrouded in arousal. you giggle softly and lean up, sliding your hands over his pecs and shoulders and into those dark locks calling your name. you tug, and he gasps softly. you take that opportunity to cover his parted lips with your own, his head falling back to accommodate you as you fully crawl into his lap. he melts, you feel and taste so impossibly good he’s concerned he may bust over the kiss. your tongue moves so expertly against his, twirling around and sucking on the muscle in a way he didn’t know people employed. then you’re sitting on his abs, and he can feel so much at once. his eyes blow wide in the kiss, and he has to pull away to gasp again and see what you’re doing to him. 

you’re simply sitting, your pretty shining pussy rubbing against his core and his dick teasing the crack of your ass. that must be what’s driving him insane, the warmth and softness providing some but not enough friction. you wiggle your ass a bit to tease him, and he whimpers. the sound is so sweet and low you know you can’t handle playing with the shy little virgin much longer.

“i–is th–that sup’posed to f-feel that go–ngh, good?” he stammers, the hold on your hips bordering bruising. he doesn’t even realize, and you certainly don’t mind, so you only smile and nod down at him, reaching for his chin with your fingers. he makes you look so small without even trying, the broad expanse of his body, wide jaw and thick legs—not to mention the monstrous cock rocking against your behind, your own need soaking his happy trail to the skin beneath. you move his gaze from your sensual movements back to your sultry gaze. yuji was wrong. pretty was such a mild way to describe the woman on his lap. you were more a kin to a goddess, something not fully human like him. 

“i was hoping to give you the full treatment, but i don’t think you’ll mind if i skip to the main event?” you bite your lip, your other hand scraping at his scalp a little bit. no, of course he didn’t mind. sometimes you were so silly. he nods fervently, remembering that he needed to find his voice, to not seem like such a coward when he wanted this so badly. 

“no—please,” he whimpers again, feeling the drip of your liquid on him. it dawns on him then that you’re just as needy, and you still wanted him even though you’d have to teach him what to do. you didn’t seem worried, maybe it was easier than he thought. but all he knows is that his balls are starting to hurt and he had never felt more buzzed in his entire life, sensitive to every move you make. “i need you so bad, oh sh–” 

you scoot back, lifting yourself up a little to align him with your entrance. his whimpers and begs were so fucking amazing, you wish you had it in you to milk it. you make the mental note to keep him begging when you show him what it feels like to have his dick sucked or whimpering when he eats your cunt for the first time. he’s so heavy in your hand, and you can’t even close your fist around him. it makes you shudder, knowing that you’re going to make him fit inside you no matter the stretch. his tip was so red and irritated, oozing pre. you swiped it over his head, humming in amusement as he jerks and whines at the feeling. 

“you’re massive, d’you know that?” you pout, sinking down a few inches. he moans at first, feeling like his cock was fit into a perfect sleeve. it’s unreal, the heat he feels in his gut as you rock further down on him, whining at how huge he was. he watches the pained faces you make halfway down, the concern clear on his face. he didn’t know he was that big—he hadn’t really been comparing, but if it was hurting you, he wondered what he could do. he remembers watching you play with that sensitive spot at the apex of your thighs, using your own slick to glide around. he thinks he could replicate that, so he sticks his fingers in his mouth, spitting a bit to make sure they were just as wet as you were. you take more of him, almost to his base all while panting and bracing yourself on his chest with your eyes screwed shut. he reaches toward you, swiping his fingers around the place he watched you toy with. you gasp out and sit all the way down, the noises you make as he touches you make his eyes widen again. 

“god—i’m so full, baby.” you nod, your hips moving forward automatically, searching for more of that searing feeling he brings to your clit. he surprises you, moving his digits in slow circles as you get accustomed to his size. he chokes slightly when you squeeze him, his eyes zeroed in on your face. 

“are you alright?” he asks softly, feeling your nails dig into his chest as your hips move faster now, any other words he had wanted to say sucked from his brain like he had no thoughts at all, nothing other than that vice-grip of a pussy you have locked around him, bouncing softly and leaving little half-moons in his skin. 

“mhm, just had to stretch a bit t’fit you, are you alright?” you grin as you ask, knowing he would struggle to respond—in the best way possible. he nods eagerly, eyes flickering from where you swallow him up to your soft face of bliss. 

“are you kidding? i’m—” you rock on him a bit faster, the feeling of wet and choking walls rubbing every possible spot had him sputtering, unable to speak. he’s only able to watch you run a hand through your mane, keeping it out of your face and away from your bouncing tits. he’s in heaven. being with a woman, no, being with you, was as all the eternal bliss he cared to know. 

his hips start to move, the hold he has on your hips trailing up to the curves of your waist to better hold you down. he didn’t realize how much more intense he would make this feel for the both of you, grunts and whines spilling from his lips as you begin to cry out and yell. it’s heavenly, the way you let him drive into you, leaning forward with one hand on the headboard and the other tugging his head towards your chest. he contains his pathetic pants by sucking your nipple in his mouth, laving his tongue over it, mind so drunk and hazy he can only be driven by his primal instincts, flat footed on the bed to plow into you from below. 

it’s so perfect. you scream his name way better than he ever imagined, and he doesn’t mind to bear the scratch marks of your passion. you keep squeezing around him, and it drives him crazy. 

“i–i love when you do that—clenching down on me like that, fuck.” He grunts, slowly getting his knees under him while you sloppily keep the pace. he uses the leverage to ease you to your back, though you don’t have the luxury of pillows or a headboard, only the mattress beneath you as choso realizes this positioning lets him piston his hips without you having to do any work at all. you’re wailing, nodding to keep him from worrying about you as you continuously claw at his back and shoulders. 

“choso baby—” you whine in such a way, he knows he’s going to bust in seconds. “you’re gonna make me cum, please–doin’ so good, ngh—ack!” you cry, legs tightening around his waist as he feels a significant increase of your fluids. feeling and watching you cum by his doing was the nail in the coffin—the way your face screwed up in pure pleasure brought him his own, his pelvis stilling against the mounds of your backside, cock twitching against your womb before your vision is blurry, and all you feel is warmth seeping out of you. his load leaked out around him inside you, his cock still pulsating with no signs of dying down. 

he smiles at you a little shyly, his cheeks rosy and eyes hazy with the aftershocks of such a gripping orgasm. he watches your chest heave as you calm down, your eyes fluttering open and a smile spreading across your face as you look up at him. 

“what do i do now? to take care of you?” he asks, absentmindedly stroking the creases where your thighs meet your hips. you giggle and shake your head, knowing it would take multiple rounds for his erection to die down. 

“i show you the full treatment now, baby.” you grin, wiggling your eyebrows. 

choso found himself immersed in exploring himself and your body, discovering several new kinks to enjoy with his sweet little roommate turned lover.

[romanoffsdarling]

Later Never Comes

Pairing: CEO!Silver-Fox!Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader

Summary: Your love for her knew no bounds, but there’s only so long you can hold on— only so many empty promises you can stand— before you finally have to let go. Before you finally realize that later may never become real.

Word Count: 4,779

Warnings: G!P Wanda, legal age gap, brief oral (R receiving), dirty (and slightly possessive) talk, mommy kink, slightly rough sex, neglect, and angst (with a bittersweet ending). 18+, Minors DNI.

Author’s Note: I know I promised a second part to Summertime Sadness and Time To Say (Goodbye), but I couldn’t get this idea out of my head. I hope you can forgive me!

Great love always ends in tragedy.

That’s the saying, right? A stupid one if you had anything to say about it. What’s so great about love if it only ends in heartbreak? If you don’t end up with the person that makes your entire being thrum? If everything that had once been so colorful is suddenly black-and-white due to their absence?

Is the love great due to the story? To the emotions, the events, that occur throughout its long winded saga? Or is it great because it was doomed from the start? Because, even though it’d end one way, two people were still willing to fight the odds, to fight fate, even if they’d never end up winning.

You’re not sure, nor do you care, because there’s no way a love of that kind could be anything except terrible— except bone-chillingly agonizing in the way you’d have to figure out how to move on without it. Figure out how to be without the person that made everything make sense, that made you feel like the person you were always meant to be.

Even if it’s been years since you’ve seen her, years since you’ve felt her lips against yours, an elegantly lithe body pressed to your own, and the sweet scent of sandalwood and lavender mixed perfectly in your nose, you haven’t been able to figure that out. Haven’t been able to get her out of your system, no matter how much you may try.

How could you? When you’ve loved, and been loved by, Wanda Maximoff?

[Past]

“I’m just saying she’s been interested to meet you since she saw our group picture from Fiji.” Your best friend, Agatha, relayed, jovially leading you towards the small, yet upscale, café that Wanda Maximoff— CEO of Scarlet Entertainment— agreed to meet you. “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, sweetie. Especially one that came about due to my own propensity to lose bets with that witch.”

Your brow furrows. “I’m just not sure what exactly this meeting is supposed to be about. I just graduated college, I barely have any experience under my belt.”

“But you have me as a mentor,” she rebukes, a small smirk on her lips. “And that’s all that you need to get into Wanda’s head.”

“Ah, yes.” You roll your eyes, amusement welling within your chest. “How could I forget about your age-old rivalry?”

“Don’t phrase it like that. Makes me sound old.” Agatha bumps her shoulder against yours, eyes narrowed.

“And mentor doesn’t?”

“Nope.” She pops the ‘p’. “That makes me sound wise.”

“And what does wisdom come from again?”

You’re just able to dodge the swat directed at your arm, a bright smile tugging your lips upward, as you finally enter the quaint café— the aromatic smell of coffee, a hint of cinnamon, and something slightly citrusy, hits you all at once. A combination that shouldn’t have worked as well it did.

Once you placed your order— a simple coffee with your usual additions— you turned back to Agatha with an expectant expression. “Anything I should know about this meetings, Ags?”

She shakes her head, tendrils of brown hair escaping the haphazard bun she had thrown them in. “You’re here.” Agatha hands you the drink the barista had just put beside you, a wane smile on her lips. “That’s the important part to achieve for any date.”

Your steps stutter, nearly causing you to trip into a nearby table. “W-What?” Widened eyes meet Agatha’s unaffected one, a certain level of calmness that you found irritating. “What do you mean date? I thought this was a meeting?”

Agatha waves her hand. “Lunch meeting, lunch date. Means the same thing in the end.” She shoulders her purse, clearly not planning on staying any longer than she has to. “You’ll be fine, Y/N. You’re a catch. Maximoff would have to be a bigger idiot than I think she already is if she lets you go.”

Before you’re able to respond, Agatha places a chaste kiss to your cheek, offers one last cheeky wink, and saunters her way out of the café, leaving you completely alone. You’re honestly tempted to just abandon ship and get out of dodge— you weren’t good on dates, let alone blind dates. Something your best friend is well aware of, and would definitely be getting in an earful about this later.

However, before you’re able to make a concrete decision on your exit strategy, a husky voice speaks up from behind you.

“Are you Y/N?”

The most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen stood in front of you when you turned around: long auburn hair, speckled with the beginning signs of gray, paired perfectly with the sharp emerald green of her gaze. An elegantly lithe body, encased in a form-fitting suit, tailored made to enhance every perfect curve, relaxed in a way that almost seemed arrogant— if it was for the confidence that exudes from her very being.

“Yes.” Your brain finally catches up with you, remembering the question she had asked. “Y/N.” You hold out your hand for her to shake. “Y/N L/N, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

A small smile catches full lips, a slender hand grasping your own in a firm shake. “Wanda Maximoff.” Green eyes trail down your body. “And, trust me, the pleasure is all mine.”

The months that followed the blind date went by in a blur. You could honestly say that you’ve never met anyone else like Wanda Maximoff— a woman that personified ice and fire. Watching her work— whether it be as you’re lounged on her large leather sectional, laptop balanced on her lap as slender fingers gently stroke your back, or she’s pacing back and forth with her phone pressed to her ear; voice dripping with barely concealed annoyance, underlined by a calm collectiveness that never failed to make you swoon— was an art form in itself, but being able to see the woman that appeared at the end of the day?

Where an icy facade of professionalism melts into warm smile and gentle eyes. Sharp words being replaced by sweet nothings and gentle humming.

In Wanda’s arms you’ve found a place you never even knew you were missing— home. You had a couple relationships in the past, but none of them made you feel the way Wanda does; all paling in comparison to the beautiful Sokovian.

The one thing you hadn’t expected upon beginning to date the older woman was how insatiable she was— not that you were complaining— but Wanda needed to have you as often as she could. Taking you the bedroom of your apartment, the various rooms in her penthouse, in her office within Scarlet Entertainment, hell even in the back of a limo on the way to an event. Wanda needed to have you and you needed to have her right back.

Another little thing you’ve learned about her? Or, you should say, not so little? The Sokovian sported an extra appendage that had quickly become your new best friend— not that you were going to tell Agatha that— who seemed to want you as much as Wanda did.

Which is how you found yourself where you are now— on your back, thighs clamped around Wanda’s head, as she thoroughly ate you out on the couch of her office.

“Yes.” You arch sharply, a sob being torn from your throat as Wanda’s tongue plunges even deeper into you. Your girlfriend hums happily at the sound, the vibrations sending a shockwave across your clit, and another wave of wetness gushes out of you— something that Wanda is all too happy to lap up. She had told you on more than one occasion, after she spent hours upon hours between your thighs, that you beat out even the finest of wines to her. “Please. I need you.”

With clear reluctance to leave, Wanda pulls back and easily settles on top of you. Lips and chin shining lewdly in the dim lighting of her office, darkened emerald eyes sparkling even brighter.

“You taste great, detka.” She lowers her head, offering her tongue for you to suck on. Giving you a taste of yourself, mixed intoxicatingly with her own natural one. “Could spend hours eating up your perfect pussy, but that’s not what you want, huh?” She jerks her hips, rubbing her cock against your wetness. “You want mommy to be inside you, right? Want her to stretch you out and make you scream?” Another roll of her hips causes you to arch, a breathless gasp leaving you, but Wanda doesn’t relent. “Answer me, detka. Be my good girl and I’ll give you what you crave. What do you want mommy to do?”

“Fuck me.” The cry is practically wrenched from your chest, a deep felt plea for her to just plunge into you and ruin you for anyone else. Not that she hasn’t been able to accomplish that already. “I want you to slam your cock into my pussy and make me yours, mommy. I want your cock to make my pussy its own, to shape me in its image.”

A deep, almost rumbling, snarl erupts from Wanda in response, her hips snapping forward and you’re finally filled; stretched out so fucking perfectly, an obscene slurp echoed across the room the moment Wanda’s hips met your own. She hadn’t made you cum with her mouth, but you had been so close, she had given you a mini orgasm just by entering— a feat that brings a smug smile to Wanda’s lips.

“You feel that, detka.” She takes your hand and brings it down to the slight bulge in your lower abdomen. “That’s my cock ruining you for anyone else. No one will ever be able to fill you the way I do, make you scream yourself hoarse.” Wanda snaps her hips forward after a shallow pull-back, giving out a satisfied hum at the feeling of your slick walls pressed around her. “Your pussy belongs to me, your pleasure belongs to me, and you belong to me.”

Wanda lowers her head, lips pressed firmly to your own, giving you even more of a taste of yourself than before, as her tongue practically fucks your mouth while her cock fucks your pussy. When she detaches her lips from yours, only a thin trail of saliva is left, before she’s far enough away for it to snap.

The sound of flesh slapping against flesh permeates the air, an occasional grunt or moan intercepting it, and you’d be concerned about the noise level if Wanda hadn’t sent Peter, her assistant, home early— having planned to have you like this from the very moment she had invited you over.

“Just like that, mommy. Keep fucking me like that,” you babble, drunk on pleasure as Wanda kept driving her hips forward, one slender finger roughly rubbing your clit in time with each thrust. It’s of no surprise that you find your release quickly after, gushing over Wanda’s cock.

The tight contractions around her cock— as your second orgasm was much more powerful than your first— causes Wanda to groan, hips stuttering in their brutal pace. It’s clear that she was close, sweat slicked brow, causing strands of silver hair to cling to fair skin, but she obviously wanted you to come one last time— to be tossed over the edge with her.

With a shake breath, Wanda roughly brings you to the brink of your third orgasm, not even giving you time to fully get through the second. “One more, detka. You’ve got one more in you for mommy.” She dips her head, lips tenderly brushing across your forehead. “And when you come around mommy’s cock, I’m gonna fill you up like the good girl you are. Would you like that?”

You nod, practically whining. “Yes. Please.”

The older woman snarls once more, clearly affected by the look on your face, and, before you’re even aware of it, you’re crashing over the edge again— a cry of Wanda’s name passing over your lips as you spasm around her. Barely being able to catch Wanda’s own groan in response: “Yes.”

Jets of her cum paint your inner walls white, warming you up. It’s a feeling you don’t think you’ll ever get used to— or want to get used to, if you’re being honest.

Once she’s spent, Wanda gently lowers herself onto your still slightly spasming body, lips pressed softly against your cheek. “You did so good. So perfect for me. My beautiful girl.”

You happily nuzzle into Wanda’s neck, eyes drooping out of contented exhaustion. “I love you.”

You’re too out of it to feel Wanda stiffen in surprise, or to really understand what you had just whispered, but you are aware of Wanda’s arms tightening around you, her lips pressing more firmly against your skin, as she cuddles you closer to her.

And, as you begin to drift off completely, happy in Wanda’s arms, you faintly feel Wanda exhale across the shell of your ear, a shaky breath, uncharacteristic for the older woman, before her soft voice breaks through the silence: “I love you too. More than I ever thought I’d love anyone.”

[A Few Months Later…]

“How many do you want?”

It’s asked softly, one of Wanda’s hand gently running up-and-down your back in a soothing motion. Her lips pressed against the crown of your head, your face nuzzled against the crook of her neck, a place you don’t feel like leaving anytime soon.

“How many what?” You snuggle closer, delighted in the way her arms tighten instinctively. “I want a lot of things, Wands.”

Wanda huffs out a light chuckle. “Children, Y/N. How many children do you want?”

You stiffen in surprise at the question— Wanda hadn’t made it a secret that she didn’t plan on having kids. That she didn’t think she’d make a good mother due to her childhood and her busy lifestyle, but you also know that your girlfriend wouldn’t ask something unless she’s serious about the answer. Something you’ve figured out after all these months together. Regrettably, you pull your face away from the warm nest it had made so you’re able to look at her, and Wanda met your eyes calmly, sharp green softened in a way that’s only ever meant for you.

“What’s this about, Wanda?” You roll your lips, trying to process your next words carefully. “I thought you didn’t want kids?”

Emerald eyes flash warmly. “I didn’t want a lot of things, Y/N.” She easily tugs you back into her arms, lips pressed to your forehead. “But that was all before I met you.”

Touched by her words— and the clear sincerity within them— you decide to just bite the bullet, there wasn’t a point in delaying your answer. Especially if Wanda expected it.

“Two.” A gentle kiss is placed to her collarbone. “I want two boys. Twins.”

She breathes out another chuckle. “Twins, huh?” Maneuvering you both, you’re suddenly pressed against the mattress, Wanda hovering over you, smile still in place, with a familiar hardness nestled between your thighs. “That seems like something we’d have to get just right, correct?”

Even though it’s posed as question, you can tell that Wanda meant it rhetorically. That she already knew the answered you’d both settle on— an answer you always agreed upon.

Wiggling your hips, grinning mischievously at the sharp gasp that leaves Wanda’s lips at the added pressure, you throw your arms loosely around her neck.

“Yes.” You pull her closer, lips millimeters from her own. “I think it’s something we’re going to have practice quite a bit.”

Not needing any more prompting Wanda descends onto you with a ravenous hunger. One that you’re all too happy to match.

You can’t wait to experience your future if this is what’ll be waiting for you there.

The phone is cold against your overheated flesh— a concoction of anger and disappointment courses through you like lava.

“Wanda—” You pinch the bridge of your nose to stem the tide of anger. “This is the eighth time this week alone. What the hell am I supposed to tell the caterers? Again.”

A soft sigh resounds through the speaker. “Just tell them that I won’t be able to make it, Y/N.” The response, in a clearly distracted tone, does little to ease your growing ire. “I know you’ll be able to handle it.”

“I don’t want to handle it, Wanda. This is our wedding, I’d like for you to also have a say in it.” From the time on the clock, you didn’t have much time left to leave the penthouse. Not if you wanted to get to the appointment on time. “I’ve been planning this entire thing by myself, I want your help. I want to hear your opinions. I want you.”

To care goes without words, but you’re certain it rings out just the same. You had been so happy when Wanda had suddenly proposed, seemingly out of the blue. Though wasn’t that the point? Taking you to a rooftop restaurant, which she had rented out, and offered you the rare chance of getting to taste her impeccable cooking; all dishes she had learned from her mother back in Sokovia. It had been a night you’d forever cherish, memories forever ingrained in your heart: the way the stars made the green in Wanda’s eyes sparkle more, the subtle wind allowing you to be surrounded by her comforting scent, the bright smile she had given you when she dropped down to one knee, and the happy laugh that had escaped her when you said yes. It had been a fairytale, everything you had ever wanted.

Until you realized your Disney fairytale was beginning to turn into Brothers Grimm.

“You have me, Y/N.” Wanda lets out another sigh. “Look, I can’t keep talking the investors for the meeting just arrived and I need to get prepared. I promise that I’ll go over everything you discuss later, okay? I love you.”

“Wanda—”

You’re only met with the sound of the dial tone, barely getting the chance to reply before being hung up on, and the familiar aching sense of silence that follows— a hollow sound that distantly reminded you of what your heart has become.

It hadn’t always been like this. The penthouse, upon your first visit, had been cold, lifeless in a way that seemed almost inhuman, but slowly it had livened up— been filled with a sense of warmth and peace. Of love. It had been a place you could go to when you just needed an escape from the rest of the world, when you needed to be surrounded by things that remind you of the woman you love.

Now it’s suffocating in a way that you never wished for it to be.

You’re aware that Wanda is a busy woman— had been aware of it before your first date occurred— but she had always at least tried to be there. Always left you feeling like you were at least on the list of things that mattered, you didn’t necessarily need to be at the direct top; not when she had so many things to content with already. But, you’ve felt like nothing more than an afterthought lately.

Gentle kisses in the morning turned to brief parting words as she made her way quickly out the door.

Soft smiles, and inside jokes, turned to barely there quirks of full lips, and stretched out silences.

The warmth of her hold, the safety you felt from her touch, turned to an icy chill as she left you to the cold air— you don’t even remember when the last time was that you had been together properly. Since you had woken up in her arms.

You didn’t need a lot, you didn’t need all of her time, but you wanted to feel like you still mattered— that everything you have isn’t just another thing Wanda had marked off on her checklist of things to do before she turns 55.

Checking the time, a small curse leaves your lips once you realize that you’re going to be late, and, with one final glance towards the empty penthouse, you make your way out the door— hoping that the growing chill you feel isn’t indicative of a love grown cold.

Silence had become your greatest friend in the weeks that followed. The one thing that you’ve grown to count on as Wanda’s schedule only seemed to get busier and busier— hell, your relationship with her personal assistant had grown to the point that he’s been calling you by your first name now. Instead of the usually nervous ma’am or Ms. L/N.

Wedding appointments had come and gone, all of them spent alone, with Wanda barely perusing the choices that had been made before crashing out of sheer exhaustion. Conversation had grown stilted due to her own growing ire at you consistent worry— although she labeled it as nagging. That she’s been running her business for over thirty years, and she’s been doing fine.

Even now, on New Years Eve, as the clock moved ever closer to midnight, you were completely alone— expansive shadows, that seemed darker somehow, stretched out towards you like ghastly fingers, trying to tear whatever semblance of comfort you’ve found away. You’re not sure what you had been expecting, not even sure if you’d truly believed that Wanda would show herself, but you can’t lie and say that you hadn’t hoped.

Hoped that today, of all days, would be different. That you wouldn’t feel like a stranger, an intruder, within your own life, within your own home.

Fanciful musings and hopes of a lovestruck fool.

The small chirp of an incoming message pulls you from your reverie, a bright smile appearing instantly at the sight of who it’s from, before withering away once you read it: Sorry, I won’t be able to make it home tonight. Going to the Hamptons to meet some new business partners. I promise I’ll make it up to you later. I love you.

You don’t bother to send a message back— what could you possibly say? Yet another promise had been thrown to the wayside by the older woman. Even if it was just a cursory, and unspoken, one being as simple as not leaving your fiancé alone on New Years. Or waiting until the last minute to actually say anything about it.

A soft sigh escapes your lips, an acidic twang settling over your tongue, as bitterness seeps into your bloodstream, poisoning your heart and soul. You knew what you needed to do, have known since this had become your new normal, but hadn’t had the strength, or the courage, to make it a reality. Until now.

Until the heartbreak, the suffering, has become as close of a friend to you as the oppressive silence.

And, as the door to the penthouse gently closed behind you, never to be opened by your hand again, you feel a sense of bone-deep sorrow settle over you. For everything that could have been, for what you had hoped for, and all that you now had to live without. You could just step back inside, hide or destroy the letter, and Wanda would never know. She’d never find out how close you had been to giving up, but you couldn’t find the strength to do so. Could no longer gather up the power to keep fighting for something that’s been lost long ago— no matter how much your heart screams at it not being true.

Tears gather in your eyes as you take another step away from the door, away from the place you’ve lived in for the last two years, and your heart breaks with every step. But, it breaks even more at the knowledge that you were leaving your true home behind too— that doing this would destroy everything you have with Wanda, never to be salvaged. The penthouse may be expensive, and it may be beautiful, but it’d never be home to you like Wanda; it’d never offer you the same feeling of protection like her arms did.

You’ve been shut out of your home for months now, and being left out in the cold has finally frozen your heart enough for you to be able to do this. No matter how much more it was going to hurt once it thaws once more.

Shouldering your duffel bag, the only thing you’ve allowed yourself to bring, you step into the private elevator and press the button for the lobby. Hands tightening around the strap of the bag, trying to ignore the way your ring finger no longer felt the familiar press of metal against it as you do so.

It was time to look forward, to finally make your own laters, the things you had been pushing off, become an actuality.

Even if you wanted nothing more than to have never needed to say goodbye to Wanda Maximoff in the first place.

Losing the ring was one thing, but losing the love of your life?

It’s a wound you’re not sure if you’ll ever be able to recover from.

[Present]

“Mom?” The small voice catches your attention, your eyes focused back in to see bright eyes, twin grins being sported between the pair. “Can we still get hot chocolate?”

Billy and Tommy had come into your life when you needed them to most— a blessing that you’d definitely been searching for after everything imploded with Wanda. And, even if how they were conceived didn’t lend itself to a happy tale, you’d never change a thing. They were your twin miracles. Your beautiful baby boys— even if they were eight years old now.

“I thought you decided to get caramel popcorn instead?” You poke Billy’s side gently, delighted in the giggle the actions caused. “That’s what you both told me at the theater.”

Tommy’s eyes widened dramatically, in full puppy-dog mode. “But that was before you took us past our favorite store.” He points to the small café only a few feet away— one that you frequented with the twins when you could find the time. A place that you hadn’t even realized you’d be leading them towards. “Can we please get hot chocolate.”

The twins chime in unison: “Please.”

You chance a glance towards the café— deliberating your options— but you know that you’re going to cave. After all, the reason you had gone to the movies was to celebrate their stellar report cards. What harm could some extra hot chocolate do?

So, with a faux long-suffering sigh, you relent. “I suppose.”

“Yes!” Twin cheers are your immediate response, brightening the smile on your lips, and you soon find yourself in the quaint café— one that held so many memories for you. Phantoms of your past the whispered in your ear as you placed your order and directed your boys to their usual spot.

Only half-listening to their chatter about the movie you had just seen— some superhero film— you simply bask in the simplicity their joy brought you. Observing their small faces light up, little hands waving around as they discussed various points, and your heart swells with more love than you ever thought you could feel.

“—What did you think, mom?”

Billy’s sudden question tears you from your musings, his widened eyes, alight with excitement, giving you the impression that he really wanted to hear what you thought.

“About the movie?” They both nod. “I thought it was good, bug.”

Tommy pouts. “Yeah, but what did you like most about it? Did you have a favorite scene?”

“I—”

“Order for Y/N.”

Saved by the bell, you think. A wave of relief crashing over you. “You two stay put.” Standing, you ruffle their hair. “I’ll be right back with our drinks.”

At the prospect of their hot chocolate they don’t seem to mind that you didn’t answer their question— though you’d certain Tommy would ask you again. Though you’d have more than enough time to google some things about the movie before then. Small miracles.

Stopping at the counter, you take the tray with the drinks with a smile and a nod in greeting to the server you’ve grown quite fond of.

“Y/N?”

Breath catching in your throat at the husky voice sounding out behind you, the cadence and tone so familiar that your heart still burns from it. Hesitating only slightly, you turn and meet the shimmering emerald eyes you haven’t seen in a little over eight years. Her face still as beautiful as you’d last seen it, if a bit older now.

“Wanda.”

[irisintheafterglow]

One-Shots

Gojo Satoru

You Are In Love - "you're my best friend," and you knew what it was

...Ready For It? - knew he was a killer first time that I saw him

Hits Different - it hits different 'cause it's you (or, struggling in a situationship with gojo satoru)

Never Grow Up - meeting megumi for the first time

The Archer - all of my enemies started out friends, can he hold on to you?

invisible string - the first time megumi uses ten shadows

even in my worst times, you see the best in me - being the strongest has its downsides, but at least you're suffering with him

life's no fun without a good scare - you have the brilliant idea of playing hide and seek in a corn maze against the most powerful sorcerer in the world. should be fun, right?

it's all me, just don't go (meet me in the afterglow) - satoru is jealous but refuses to admit it.

every dead end street led you straight to me - former fuckboy gojo has some things to say at the top of a mountain

i hate accidents, except when we went from friends to this! - coworkers to lovers with a healthy amount of teenage eavesdropping

he's the death you chose (you're in terrible danger) - married life with husband!gojo means cleaning up bodies at 2am.

Geto Suguru

The Great War - somewhere in the haze, got a sense I'd been betrayed

Back to December - you gave him all your love and all he gave you was goodbye

say you'll remember me - you were destined to fail from the start, so why does it hurt so badly when he's gone?

dazzling haze, mysterious way about you, dear - need some fluff after reading all the angst above?

tell me that you love me, love me 'til my lips turn blue - being partnered with suguru on a mission takes an unexpected turn

what if all i need is you? - after failed attempts to find a date to a relative's birthday party, your best friend acts as your fake boyfriend.

Nanami Kento

of daisies and collisions - nanami kento felt a little out of his element, with a small bundle of flowers sitting in his lap and brooding in the dark corner of the jazz bar. yet, you play that song he likes again, and nothing else matters.

Blurbs/Drabbles

the stakes are high, the water's rough, but this love is ours - holding satoru and letting him rest, even if it's only for a little bit

it took so long to know someone like you - he doesn't know who he is with you and it scares both of you

bad days and blanket burritos - good ol' satoru bf fluff

Imagines/HCs

And the touch of a hand lit the fuse

how gojo and geto react to their partner being obsessed with them (fluffy !!!)

Gojo Satoru

What, like it's hard? -> law student!gojo

general hcs

when he buys a motorcycle

I'm with the band -> rockstar!gojo

rockstar!gojo meet sexyy

the valentine's day show

quiet moments and teaching you guitar

awards show

Falling for you, on and off the ice -> hockey player!gojo

someone steals your usual rink slot

watching a game

living in winter, i am your summer - he's terrible at figure skating

Kachow -> professional racer!gojo

on the radio

smoke his ass! - pro racer!gojo needs some motivation after a newcomer to the track pisses him off

Geto Suguru

oops? - satoru finds out that you've been seeing his best friend

a quiet moment in the aquarium

napping with you :)

scare actor!suguru

Save a horse, ride a cowboy -> gunslinger!suguru

gunslinger!geto au

big iron - he's not the first to go after the crystal-eyed bandit, but something tells you that this one will keep his promise to buy you a drink when the hunting is done.

Theta Phi Fuckhead -> enemy frat!suguru

ancient grudge, new mutiny

move fast, keep quiet

half the things that haven't happened yet

Series Masterlists

End Game (volleyball captain!gojo x you) COMPLETED

Co-Parenting Megumi with Satoru COMPLETED

I Don't Wanna Live Forever (gojo x you during shibuya) COMPLETED

[thatgirlmj]

During the race today, I knew going in Logan wasn't going to be there racing, but I kept finding myself looking down to see where he was on the board.

And I kept getting sad over it and having to remind myself this is the new norm. No more Logan, no more lil American. No more fun podcast between Alex and Logan. No more driver parade catch-ups with Oscar and Logan. No more rooting for a man from *my* country, no more rooting for *my* underdog.

And I think that's what hurts the most. My underdog was taken from me prematurely. No proper goodbye. Just a post saying that they were firing him mid-season.

This season has been exhausting as a Logan fan and as sad and heartbroken as I will be come December because it will be Carlos' last race in red with the prancing horse, I can't wait for it to be over because I can start to put this terrible—yet exciting—season behind me and rebuild my love for this sport.

Xoxo

[shalotttower]

Cultivating Flowers

Title: Cultivating Flowers

Fandom: Original

Summary: Marquis is a man of many interests, including gardening. Specifically, his new roses.

Word count: 3500+

Characters: OC!Marquis x Reader (female)

Notes: yandere!OC, manipulation, animal cruelty (not detailed, briefly described), seduction.

The first bloom appears two weeks after spring starts and it's the most glorious flower in all Marquis' garden. Gentle apricot color, like your favourite dress. You were saving for months — a whole autumn — and grandfather grumbled and grumbled about the frivolous waste of money, but once you finally put it on, his scolding didn't matter a bit. The dress made you feel like royalty — elegant, graceful, important.

You wonder if this is how Marquis feels all the time.

Gorgeous outfits, a splendid castle, a life of aristocracy and ease where everything is taken care of by servants and every other weekend there's an opulent dinner party full of refined conversations.

Your envy for him is almost as big as your caution.

Marquis Nicolae is rich. Like many rich people he possesses time. And when one has too much, they become terribly, infinitely bored. That's what grandfather told you in one of his drunken rants: people who are rich, castle-rich, private carriage-rich for generations are bored like nobody else, because nothing is scarce to them and so nothing is precious either. Work for them. Take their money. Keep your head low and remember — they don't see us like we see them.

Grandfather doesn't work in the castle anymore. He's got old hands which shake from years of physical labour and fruit brandy, back-aching hunched posture and swollen feet that need rest. Now he stays at home, waiting for you to return with stories and bread rolls baked by the cook.

He used to serve Marquis Nicolae's father, who was twice as rich, but thrice as wicked, according to grandfather's words.

"I was a stableman, your grandmother was a seamstress, God rest her soul. Sewed all my shirts, this one included," he tugs at the fabric with pride. "She did well on it... Look at those stitches."

For a moment he gets lost in muttering and rubs his index finger on an even patch of stitched fabric, as if hoping his touch can conjure a spectre. "Not like now, where clothes fall apart after just three seasons. Quality... Sturdiness," he smacks the table. "People used to think long term. Made their shirts for decades, strong like this."

Grandfather is forgetful these days, he leaps from one topic to another and loses the main line of thought, especially after a few glasses. But you wait.

"When I worked for Lord Cazimir, you see," he says finally. "He had horses, all strong, sleek, looked like jewels. A new horse each two months, said it wasn't right for a gentleman to have one for too long, but by God, I never saw a man treat them worse than him. Not enough sleep, ridden until bones hurt. If the carriage hit a stone, it was the horse's fault, if the reins got tangled it was the horse's fault, not the bloody driver. He had that whip with metal feathers which could cut through an apple. And before he made the last swish, he'd pause. Look the horse in the eyes. That was the scariest thing, how he stared at them, so calmly."

He glances at you, as if fearing an admonishment. For what? You wonder how it felt, caring for something that looked like a jewel time after time, after time, and knowing the goodbye was certain and inevitable, like a turn of a watermill wheel. Did grandfather mourn the horses? Or did he get used to burying their bodies under the soil? Maybe they fed someone later — people who don't have much are resourceful, they don't bury good meat.

You squeeze the water from the sheet in silence.

"None simply lived past two months, that's why he changed them so often."

"Why didn't you quit?"

"And then do what?" Grandfather snorts. "There was little job outside the castle, everyone who didn't have land or livestock worked for Marquis one way or another."

"It must have been difficult."

"Life is difficult," he answers, and you can't disagree.

Life is difficult, that's a fact, and it didn't get better when you started working for Marquis Nicolae yourself. A good thing is that unlike Lord Cazimir from scare stories he doesn't torment horses and rarely pays attention to anybody in a servant uniform. All of you share the same mindset: a quick "Good morning, m'lord" or "Have a pleasant day, m'lord" and then being gone as fast as possible.

Rumors circulate that Marquis never once had a full smile on his face. Charming chuckles when he's in a good mood, courtly lips stretches for ladies, bemused sneers when he's addressed by those who used to be in favour but now are out — yes, but the genuine and full-hearted joy: nobody has witnessed it.

He doesn't seem unhappy though, nor he is too serious. When you see him Marquis Nicolae always looks like he has eternity at hand and there's no hurry to spend it. To you, he is uninterested in anything and sharp about everything at once.

You can't describe him better. Words fail you when trying to fit him into boxes of easy understanding. But after all, it's not your job to fit him anywhere, your job is dusting shelves and scrubbing floors, and, since recent days — taking care of roses.

It's unusual for the castle to have such plants this early in spring. They're imported, said the gardener, from cooler places and prefer winter over the blooming season of May and June. That's why Marquis commissioned a greenhouse construction weeks prior, to have beautiful flowers which can bloom regardless of the weather. It took an entire month of hard work, people hired from nearby towns and a promise of good money. You watched them build from the kitchen window where you were helping with meals.

Roses arrived next. Seven bushes filled with buds ready to open up any day. And oh they did. Soft apricot colors covered stems like dewdrops, beautiful enough to make one gasp.

One morning you bring your rag and a bucket to the greenhouse a bit earlier to enjoy the fragrance before breakfast is served. Nice things like these are not for maids like you — the petal scent and the gentle touch of leaves — they're for ladies in beautiful dresses who have time and luxury to appreciate them, but nobody will know anyway if you stop to lean down close enough for your nose to almost bury itself in velvety softness. It's a small indulgence which can hardly hurt anyone. Nobody will know if you pretend to be a lady just for a minute.

"They're quite extraordinary, aren't they."

You freeze, nose in the middle of the rose bush.

"I- Yes", you straighten up and curtsy. "They are most beautiful, m'lord."

Marquis' figure, backlit by the morning sun, casts a shadow which stretches far beyond your own feet.

"Do you know why I chose it?" he asks. "This breed."

He's dressed in a dark waistcoat with delicate embroidery on the collar and doesn't have a single hair out of place, not a strand too thick, not a strand too thin; as flawless as a painting which hang on the walls of his library, but not as solemn. Those paintings seem to measure everyone around them. Marquis Nicolae looks more approachable in appearance, and that's where the approachability ends. His eyes, burgundy brown colour you've never seen before, measure people too, in value rather than worthlessness.

You shake your head, "No, m'lord."

"Because," Marquis continues without minding your answer at all, "it's pretty."

His lips stretch in a courtly smile of a gentleman who is amused by his own joke. You don't understand it but smile in return anyway, because you must. Because this is how the world works — nobles are amused and maids fake understanding so the amusement can persist a little longer.

"Go on," he says. "They are meant to be smelled after all."

You nod and curtsy again.

Later he will be served tea at the ornate greenhouse table while you scrub the floors until your fingers ache. Marquis' focus will shift towards letters, and this is how it's supposed to be. Him reading correspondence, you being invisible like dust under the shelves you clean. It feels better when he doesn't look at you with those eyes of his. They pierce through everything they see.

There's something wrong about him. But you can't tell what yet.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Life is monotonous, especially in a place like this, even banquets and events have that homogeneous taste, because there's at least one every three weeks, not speaking of brunches which rotate regularly depending on who's currently in Marquis' favour. You serve dishes full of rich fragrances that make your mouth water but can't ever dream of trying them. Meat dripping with wine sauce, roasted chicken breasts wrapped in crispy bacon and glazed with honey syrup. Fresh fruits coated in powdered sugar. Sometimes in the evening when everyone is asleep you mouth the names of those meals: "Beef Bourguignon," "Veal Piccata", "Chicken Florentine". Those foreign words are hard to pronounce — Beef Boo-gee-nyon, Veel Pick-kata — you do it quietly and mostly in your head so grandfather doesn't hear and scoff about wasting time on useless things.

"You're not starving," he would say. "There's bread, there's soup, you don't need those. Be happy, girl. We used to eat potatoes for months straight during famines."

You've never been hungry enough to know what famine tastes like but suspect that the flavor must be something similar to the dull feeling between the busy hours of work, which gnaws at you and makes your thoughts drift to the lunch break.

Sometimes, in a particularly sour mood he adds, "Don't stuff your head with fancy nonsense you can't have, it's only gonna make you bitter."

True.

You're a maid. A girl. A nobody.

And this is how it's supposed to be.

How to tell grandfather that you don't wish to be fancy? Just to try once the roast duck stuffed with grapes and apples, or fresh sardines baked in butter sauce, which smell heavenly as they're carried up the stairs to Marquis Nicolae's salon where guests are gathered.

How to tell him that it's not about food, not really.

It's about knowing what an apricot rose smells like early in the morning while others sleep. How velvety its petals feel when touched. Delicate things like these you're not supposed to have, but do anyway, because a moment stolen out of monotony pulls you from beneath the apron. You, yourself, not just a pair of hands with tired fingers, exist briefly when roses bloom in Marquis' greenhouse and a little piece of yesterday's cake is smuggled into your pocket.

You understand why he's wary. Grandfather's right: with longing comes bitterness. But you're careful not to overdo it. There's only one stolen minute of appreciation each day, not more, so you remember who you are — someone meant to be seen rarely and unnoticed most of the time — and return behind the apron.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Spring goes on.

Daylight stretches a little longer. Ground gets a little warmer. Marquis Nicolae often spends time in his private study after breakfast, then at noon — in the greenhouse. He strolls there among the greenery or sits by one of the tables with a book. Reading seems to be an activity he favors, and unlike some other gentlemen who grow tired within pages Marquis can stay completely still for hours without once getting restless.

You know because you watch him from the corner of your eye.

What kind of books he likes to read if they manage to keep him entertained for such lengthy periods, what titles do those leather spines hide, which stories are good enough for a gentleman like Marquis? He always seems so politely disinterested. You wonder if there are books that can make even him laugh.

Sometimes he asks you questions which startle you.

"Have you read 'The Castle of the Lady'? It's a novel."

You shake your head. "No m'lord. I can't read."

His eyebrows raise. Not in astonishment, Marquis Nicolae has a face of a man who rarely encounters surprises, his reactions are akin to mild interest bordering on curiosity, as if he enjoys discovering something new, something that doesn't fit into his existing assumptions.

"Can't?" he repeats.

You shift uncomfortably under his gaze, "No, m'lord. Never learnt."

"Who raised you?"

"My grandfather. He's a stableman... was. Now retired".

"I see," he returns to his book.

You fidget with a rag in your hands, why does he care to ask such question? What difference does it make whether you read or don't? It's not that uncommon. Most servants only know the basics, letters which form their names and the ones that stand for numbers. You don't really need the skill. What for?

"You may continue," he adds.

So you do.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

"Are you the only child?"

"Yes, m'lord."

"Your mother? Father?"

"My mother passed away giving birth to me, and father was a soldier, so he died in a war."

"What a shame," Marquis says, but it sounds like a comment on bad weather.

You're standing with fresh linens in his opulent bedchamber. It's spacious: tall windows and furniture made of rare wood. Old, like the walls of Albastru castle itself. A maid's life story is neither interesting nor important enough to pursue it, at least not in the place like this. Marquis Nicolae is bored, that's the most reasonable explanation to the current arrangement. He's looking for entertainment, but what entertainment can come at your expense, you're unsure.

Grandfather warned you not to draw too much attention, but it's not exactly your fault. Marquis' schedule is well known — he spends evenings in the salon and retires long past midnight. The chamber should've been empty. You should've been able to change his bedding, clean the fireplace and leave without as much as a sound.

Yet here he is, in a high armchair by the fireplace.

And here you are, in front of him, waiting for a dismissal that doesn't come.

On a small coffee table there're squares with simple pictures — a dog, a cat, an apple, made of thin wood with letters engraved in black ink. You step from one foot to the other, the lemon-scented sheets hide the way your fingers twitch.

Marquis traces a square with a rose.

"Sit down," he says and motions to the other chair.

"Your linens, m'lord-"

"They can wait."

No, they can't, you think. The bedding needs to be done, the fireplace cleaned, carpets swept, wilted flowers removed — there's so much to do to linger, and it's already getting late. If you're not able to finish on time-

But Marquis Nicolae didn't give you permission to leave.

You sit and put the linens on your lap.

Grandfather would say that Marquis enjoys the sight of your discomfort behind that courtly smile of his, but he doesn't look amused, he looks the usual. Calm and slightly disinterested. Sharp, despite being relaxed.

"If you figure out what letters stand from this," he points at the apple picture square, "to this one," then moves his finger to the picture with a goat, "you'll get a treat."

"M'lord?" you frown.

There must be something wrong with your hearing, but no, Marquis leans back and crosses his long legs. "A treat."

Treats are for children, treats are for dogs, treats are for horses who are obedient and look like jewels. You stare at him, puzzled, but try not to let it show; nobles have strange hobbies sometimes: races which cost thousands of gold coins for one bet alone, hunting dangerous animals, forcing their servants into duels to pass time. This must be one of those, an entertainment beyond your comprehension.

Still, time is moving forward and the complexity of your situation is becoming more apparent with every passing second; you've never felt particularly powerful — why would you? — but now you're acutely aware of how fragile one's position is when it depends on someone else's whims.

You take the first picture.

An apple. Letter A. Then a ball — B. Cat... So that's what they look like written down.

Marquis' eyes follow your fingers as they slide across the wooden squares, you feel his gaze like a touch, even though there's a coffee table distance between you and a bit more. You quietly mouth each word and letter by habit, unaware of this little detail. His eyebrows raise, this time with a hint of amusement which you don't see, too focused on your predicament.

Dog — D.

The clock is ticking.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

"Well?" Marquis asks later when shadows cross the room. The sun is gone, the fire in the fireplace burns lower but bright enough to illuminate the space. Sitting like this has given you a headache which makes thinking harder.

"I have them figured out m'lord", you say carefully.

"Tell me then."

"This is A," you slide the apple towards him across the table. It feels a little silly. "This is B."

The way you say them isn't quite accurate. It's "bee" instead of "b" and "dee" instead of "d", but he doesn't tell you that. Your voice goes quieter with each following letter, perhaps because you're nervous or maybe simply tired — who knows what time it is by now? Ah, quarter to ten. He watches you struggle with spelling and pronunciation until finally there they are. All squares from Apple to Goat, in order just like he arranged them.

"What about this one?" Nicolae points to the playing cat.

"It starts with 'K', m'lord."

You're quite sure, not that much variation is left after all, and say it with the most conviction you can muster so he would finally be satisfied and end this odd game. Your head hurts and stomach grumbles with hunger — there was no time for the lunchbreak today —both physical and mental exhaustion blur together.

Grandfather must be worried sick by now, he hates when you're late without telling anything beforehand.

Then Marquis covers his mouth, and for the first time since you entered Albastru castle, laughs.

Not chuckles. Not smiles without smiling. Laughs that his shoulders shake, that his eyes crinkle at the corners. You stare bewildered, not knowing what to do. Laugh yourself? Smile politely? Say "m'lord" again?

Marquis' laughter dies down eventually and he collects himself, straightening his waistcoat which doesn't require any adjusting in the first place, he's perfect as always.

"No, that's C."

Your cheeks flush red, how were you supposed to know? It would seem that a gentleman such as Marquis Nicolae should know better than mocking someone's lack of education, but apparently he finds it amusing. You lower your gaze and look away.

"How are you called?" he asks.

After a pause your name rolls off your tongue; small in his bedchamber, it barely leaves an echo.

"Well, I said a treat, didn't I?"

You don't want any treats, or to spend here even a minute longer; Marquis rises and walks towards his desk.

"Come here."

Reluctantly you stand up and follow him. The linens are left on the chair in a crumpled pile, they need ironing now. There's nothing to do other than obeying so you stop next to him where he opens one of the drawers. Inside you can see something wrapped in white paper with a thin ribbon bow around it. He takes the item out and pulls the ribbon off. Delicate scent fills the air, the little cakes, you know their name from the cook ─ macarons ─ bloom inside the wrapping.

Marquis Nicolae picks one up with two fingers and brings it to your lips.

The macarons smell sweet like almonds and look beautiful like roses in his greenhouse. They're not for maids, you think, no, this is...he shouldn't be doing that.

Your mouth waters anyway.

His eyes don't leave your face, "Do you want it or not?"

You do.

"Then take a bite."

The dessert melts in your mouth instantly. Its texture is soft, like petals, like everything else luxurious you've never had but imagined countless times. A little chewy, a bit crunchy, it's the most delicious thing you've tried, better than a piece of cake taken from the kitchen pantry, better than honeyed walnut bread.

"Another one?"

Marquis Nicolae feeds you two more, before you realize what exactly is happening — a bite by a small bite your dignity dissolves into his hand. You swallow the last morsel and quickly step back; you've forgotten yourself, forgot who you were and where, and now there's sweetness lingering on your tongue, while Marquise' fingertips smell faintly of apricot.

What have you done?

He looks amused again.

"Thank you, m'lord," you curtsy, then turn around to gather the discarded sheets.

"Clean the fireplace and change the linens. Then you might be free."

"Yes, m'lord."

It's a dismissal at last.

Marquis sits down and reaches for a book — he's done with you it seems — so you hurry to complete the assigned tasks. The fireplace isn't too dirty fortunately, just some ashes and coal leftovers. Next, the sheets, then the flowers.

Before you close the door and rush down the empty hall he speaks again, "If you still remember them all by tomorrow evening, you'll have another treat."

[hearted-anon]

Pillow fights!

Words: 1287 Note: For @seungsluvv T/w: None, it's raining cats and dogs ain't it? Lee(s): Know, Seungmin Ler(s): Minho, Seungmin

"Come here, Kim Seungmin!" Minho screeched as they both ran around in endless circles in the bedroom, akin to animals chasing their tail. Lee Know gripped the fluffy pillow tight in his hands, darting after the bolting puppy that had his own pillow too. To Chan's sleepy thinking, courtesy of his overworking behaviour that got his fair share of punishment, he decided to put Seungmin and Minho in the same room, which turned into a massive pillow fight. 

"Get away from me hyung!" Came the reply of the running vocalist, who threw basically everything that was soft, wouldn't hurt anyone but would definitely disrupt his balance of chasing him down. Gasps and grunts came from Lino as he struggled with the amount of pillows thrown at him, although most were dodged from his fast reflexes that were thought to be inhumane. 

"I'm going to catch you- ARGH!" The cat let out a cry when he was toppled onto the pile of pillows he finally got past, just to be knocked down back into them. Seungmin tackled him as hard as he could, using his fluffy shield to protect them both from the pain of their strength. Straddling his waist, Seungmin lifted the pillow above his head, as if wielding a silver sword in his hands, ready to emerge victorious in this battle with rose red blood staining his weapon, a confident smile on his face. 

“Get ready to say goodbye, hyun- GAHAHAHA!” The younger’s once prideful words were cut short as fingers shot to his hips in an instant, kneading the hollows aggressively as the older panted heavily. Seungmin let up with a deafening squeal, his arms crashing down with his pillow that bounced off the floor reluctantly, tugging at the cat’s fingers. He howled in laughter as Minho regained his strength, eyes darkening with vengeance that screamed revenge.

“You thought I’d lose? Lee Minho, losing?” Lee Know scoffed, his voice heavy in sass as his hands worked happily to defeat his mini self. If anything, their only weakness was knowing each other inside out, including how to bring them down from their high horse. The younger nodded rather aggressively, swallowing down another breath in an attempt to regain his strength to no avail. That was a terrible mistake on the puppy’s behalf, another howl emitted as a finger thrusted into his navel, slipping sneakily under his shirt to wiggle and scratch all over in the soft skin.

“NOHOHO! WOHOHORST SPOHOTS ARE CHEHEHEATING! YOHOHOU CHEHEATER!” Seungmin shook his head rapidly at the sensations that quickly took over his lower tummy, digging his heels into the soft pillows that provided no ground to relieve all the shocking sensations. Lino simply chuckled slowly, smiling mischievously as none of the sensations that the younger wanted to stop, stopped. He pondered if this was revenge for forcing Lee Know to admit dogs were better than cats previously, having been quite the ‘cheater’ last time, now revenge being served to him quite coldly. The puppy panicked internally through his hysterics, he had to act fast, not wanting to surrender to Minho in the slightest, he would dig his grave which he was currently doing before that happened.

“Cheating? You call your hyung a cheater?!” Lino finally sounded in feigned anger, narrowing his eyes into slits which paused Seungmin’s thinking. Within a split second, a ring in Minho’s ears vibrated from the sheer scream that the younger one let out when a raspberry was placed below his belly button, his finger still occupying that space. The puppy kicked out through his howling, head tossed back onto the pillows that provided no comfort to him. 

“AHAHAHAHA! STAHAHAP STOHOP STOP!” Seungmin pleaded breathlessly, unable to think straight through the roughness of the torture he was put through. His thoughts clouded through the electrifying sensations, his hair sprawled out over the floor through his thrashing. Minho didn’t let up, determined on hearing his trumpets of victory, and would not stop until he heard it. Although in a blurry haze, Seungmin’s hands mustered up the last of his strength to dig harshly into Lino’s waistline, as roughly as he could through his desperation.

“YOHOHOU LITTLE-! ARGHAHAHAHA!” Lee Know fell backwards with a squeal of his own, the tables finally turned in Seungmin’s favour and to Minho’s dismay. Gasping for air heavily, the younger was quick to throw himself back onto the cat, squishing his nimble fingers into the cat’s v-line without an ounce of regret. His fingers trembled, his face still an incredible bright red from what he was put through, now hungry for his revenge.

“Little what? You’ve had your fun hyung, unless you can’t handle what you dish out? What a shame.” It was quite bold of Seungmin to taunt so teasingly, considering that he was put in the same vulnerable position mere moments ago, laughing his little head off. But he was going to take his revenge, in every way possible, and no matter what. Lee Know could only cackle to his heart’s content, clawing at the younger’s hands to get them off his pudgy skin to no avail.

“YOHOHOU SHUHUCK! LEHEHET GOHOHO!” Minho squealed out, getting more and more desperate with each passing second that the unrelenting fingers stayed put on his waistline, kneading and massaging roughly into the skin that drove him absolutely insane. His smile lines were prominent through his boisterous laughter, his jaw open slightly to let out all the cackles he needed to.

“Hmm…admit defeat..” Seungmin hummed thoughtfully, which wasn’t really that thoughtful considering he replied almost immediately, almost sarcastically thinking to give the older the hope of being let go. The puppy grinned down at the cat who was in ticklish hell, his eyes crinkling up as his smile spread apart his teeth slightly, creating an open mouthed smile that was made to melt anyone’s heart that even saw it. Seungmin was no different, sighing in adoration as Lee Know squealed for mercy when his fingers hit the middle of the sensitive line of skin, slamming his head onto the floor, narrowly avoiding the wood and landing onto the pillow.

“NO! NEHEHEVER!” Minho screeched, his arms lifting up Seungmin’s fingers for a split moment to breathe, before eventually tackling the puppy on the floor. Out of energy, they both stared at each other for a moment, in an almost uncomfortable silence that would make anyone shiver. But as one said, ‘disturb the normal, comfort the weird’, as the next moment both of them bursted into soft giggling, tossing playful insults about their smiles and flushed cheeks and ears. Pillows were thrown, attacks were made, eventually both of them laying in the middle of the room, panting with tears of mirth streaming down their faces as they laid still on the shared mattress.

“Thahahat was soho fun…” The younger breathed out slowly, earning a hum of agreement from the one beside him. He squeaked when arms wrapped around him comfortably, warm breath hitting his scalp as Lino buried his face into Seungmin’s scalp, taking in the scent of his shampoo. Their eyes lidded next to each other, the aircon that circulated throughout the room calming their nerves after the war had finally ended. Breath stilling, pillows and blankets engulfed them in a safe and warm embrace, the once loud shrieks and squeals were replaced with quiet breathing, the two troublemakers cuddling up next to each other as if their life depended on it, as if the moment they let go they’d sink into a pit of darkness that separated the two forever.

Of course they didn’t wake up like that, of course they pushed each other away the next minute, after all, only they knew each other inside out…

[maimingaffairs]

anon i am so sorry… my post got deleted somehow so i had to repost 🤨 anyways this is terrible because i wrote it at 3 am but at least it’s proofread!

warnings: SMUT (18+ only!)

word count: 2.6k

Oblivious (aleksander morozova x AFAB!reader)

-

Aleksander had always had a soft spot for the good things in the world. The beautiful things.

You were both.

From the moment he met you, he knew you were.

The two of you had met when you arrived in Os Alta after running away from Ketterdam. Being a known Healer had been getting dangerous, and the wrong crowds often sought your services out.

The first time he’d met you personally was a spectacle, really. You’d been brought in to heal a deep cut on the back of Vasily Lantsov’s head because he had slipped drunkenly down the stairs. Aleksander was almost always present when his Grisha were needed in The Grand Palace, and he stood back and watched as you healed Vasily with ease. It hadn’t even been a moment later before the young prince started to flirt with you.

You awkwardly took a step away from him, which he in turn took one towards you. You had laughed nervously and before you could take another step back, he had grabbed onto your kefta and tried to pull you towards him. You jumped backwards quickly and the kefta came loose from his fingers and you fell backwards, catching yourself at an odd angle on your elbows.

Aleksander was quick to come help you up and he bid Vasily goodbye sharply before he whisked you out of the room and back to the Little Palace. You hadn’t spoken a word, in fact, you trembled under the hand that The General had laid on your upper back to guide you. He noticed your trembling after a moment and the second you two had reached the solace of the Little Palace, you turned to him and clasped your hands together nervously.

Keep reading

“Oh, General, I am so terribly sorry. I didn’t mean to make a scene in front of the prince, I just was nervous and-“

He cut you off by holding a hand up and he gave you a gentle smile.

“Everyone knows Vasily doesn’t know personal boundaries. It was not your fault, y/n.” He responded and you instantly calmed down, relieved to not be in trouble with the most powerful Grisha in Ravka.

Since then, Aleksander had been curious of the clumsy, nervous little Healer that had been brought to him, and he made a point to get to know you better.

After a year of being at The Little Palace, you and The General had gotten very close, and you considered him to be your best friend.

He however, considered you to be more. He hadn’t found himself so taken with a single person for nearly four hundred years, and the worst part was you didn’t even seem to realize it.

He tried to make it known to you, but he wasn’t quite sure how at first, so he’d do little things. For example, one night after you’d been caught in the rain out riding with him, he came to your quarters and swaddled your shivering form in his warmest cloak. Or another time when he took you on a walk out to the forest and he’d plucked flowers from the ground and tucked them in your hair.

Eventually it grew into more. He’d shower you with compliments often. He became much touchier with you, embracing you for long periods of time, giving you little cheek and forehead kisses when he greeted you or bid you goodbye.

He’d even revealed his name to you one night while the two of you laid in his bed. You liked coming to his room late at night, and he’d entertain you by messing with his shadows above your head. You’d watch them intently as if they were the most fascinating thing in the world while he watched you with the same passion.

But you still didn’t seem to get it.

It had been about two weeks since you’d seen Aleksander, and he had just returned from a little trip to the frontlines to check up on everything and bring more troops to the Second Army. When he arrived at the Palace, you excitedly greeted him on his horse and he wrapped both arms around you, almost tackling you to the ground.

“Take me with you next time! I about died of boredom here. I can’t keep mending David’s paper cuts, it’s so mundane.” You complained playfully.

“Take you with me? And have you distract me? Keep dreaming, pretty.” He commented and you sighed dramatically and fell backwards, knowing he’d catch you.

He did, of course and he pulled you up straight again and then grabbed your hand, leading you towards the Little Palace.

“Perhaps you’d like to accompany me to dinner with the King this evening?” He asked slowly and looked down at you.

You glanced up at him with your eyebrow raised and you shook your head, “I’m not saying no. But is that the kind of thing you do with friends? I mean, I feel like it’s an opportunity wasted on me. You could take David or Genya. The King likes them more, anyway.” You stated.

He nearly rolled his eyes. Friends. How oblivious could one person be?

“Perhaps. But I wanted you to come. Because you are important to me, and there’s no one else I’d rather spend my time with, truth be told.” He explained and pushed open the door to the palace. You both walked inside hand in hand and you glanced up at Aleksander with a bright smile.

“I’ll go then. If I’m that important, how could I miss it?”

You had no idea.

-

The dinner had gone well. Aleksander convinced you eagerly to wear a black kefta that matched his own, and then upon seeing you in it, his heart utterly melted. It was hard to keep his focus on anything other than you at dinner, and that was for certain.  

The walk back to The Little Palace was a quiet one. You had your head leaned against his arm while the two of you walked and he glanced down at you with a small smile.

“Would you care to join me back in my chambers  for a little while?” He asked and you looked up at him.

Your eyes pierced his own and the urge to kiss you right there in the hall was inexplicable. He had to tear his eyes away from yours while he walked you the rest of the way to his room. Once inside, he closed the doors behind both of you and he turned to you.

“Did you have an enjoyable night?” He asked softly and you walked around his war table, dragging your finger along the edge.

“Mhm. It was nice, thank you, Aleksander.” You said sweetly and looked back at him over your shoulder.

Your eyes caught his once again and you gave him a soft smile, “You look nice.” You commented and then turned your attention back to the war table. You touched the model of The Fold in front of you and you let out a giggle.

“Considering how much time you spend hovering over this, I’d expect a more lifelike model.” You teased and twisted a bit of your hair around your finger.

“Well. That’s the best we did.” He teased back and approached you, sending a tendril of shadow through the air to tap your nose. You scrunched your nose up cutely and reached up to run your fingers through the cold shadow wisps in front of your face.

“I love it when you do that. Your shadows are so… lovely.” You hummed, and with that, he sent more little tendrils of shadow your way, loving the way you giggled, stared at them in awe, and reached out to touch them as if they were fragile.

You had never been one to shy away from his shadows. Perhaps you were one of the only ones like that, too. He kept his eyes on you while you dragged your finger through the shadowy air before you, and he suddenly couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t take the aching feeling in his chest when he looked at you, the burning desire to have you as his own, the indisputable and undeniable fact that he was in love with you.

He found himself moving forward at alarming speed and he grabbed your face in his hands desperately. He stared down at you wildly and the gaze you returned was bewildered and confused.

“Did I do something wrong?” You asked, your voice so little and nervous.

He shook his head and he pulled your face closer to his so that he could kiss between your eyes.

“No. But I need you to listen to me.” He said eagerly and you gave him a little nod, allowing him to continue.

“Y/n. You are one of the most oblivious people I’ve met in my life. How much more obvious can I be?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Aleksander.” You replied nervously and your eyes raked his face.

“I am in love with you, for the love of the Saints, y/n. I am so in love with you, it brings me to my knees. For months now, I have only fallen harder and harder for you, and you just don’t seem to even notice. You sleep in my bed, I hold your hand, I’m glued to your side whenever I’m here, I take you to events, I show you off when you wear black… I don’t understand how you don’t get it! I am in love with you, so painstakingly in love.”

You blinked a few times up at him and then you let out a mirthful little giggle.

“Oh, oh my. Aleksander, why didn’t you say something sooner?” You asked and raised your eyebrows up at him.

Your reaction clearly wasn’t the one he was expecting and he stared down at you with wide eyes, his hands still holding your face gently.

“You should have just told me, because then I would’ve told you that I’m so, so in love with you.” You said with another little laugh.

Aleksander didn’t even have time to feel relieved and elated about your reply before you were standing on your toes and dragging him down to you by his shirt to plant a warm kiss on his lips.

Your kiss now wasn’t like any of the times he’d ever imagined kissing you. It was so much better.  He kissed you back with a sweetness that was almost tangible between your lips and your hands found his neatly combed hair.

He broke the kiss breathlessly and he stared down at you in the dim light of his bedroom. You bit down on your bottom lip as you looked up at him and he shook his head.

“You’re intoxicating.” Was all he said before he dove back down and kissed you again, this time backing you up against the table before he lifted you up onto it. He stood with your legs on either side of his thighs and he placed a sloppy kiss on either corner of your lips before he kissed down your chin and up along your jawline.

You let out a breathy moan when his lips brushed across the spot just between your ear and jaw, and he closed his eyes tightly. He sucked on the skin over that spot and pulled back once he was satisfied with the blossom of broken capillaries just underneath your skin, creating a mark that would stay for the next few coming days. You reached up and pushed his kefta off of his shoulders as he began to kiss down the side of your neck sloppily and you shivered.

“Aleksander.” You whispered and he pulled back slowly to look down at you questioningly.

You glanced up into his eyes and then you let out a little whine.

“Take off your shirt please.” You said softly, your cheeks heating up.

He let out a little chuckle at your request but he didn’t argue as he took off his layers of tops. While he was undressing himself, you rid yourself of your own kefta and you slipped down off of the table and turned around in front of him to show him the buttons of your dress.

“I’ll need help with this too.” You said shyly and he wasted absolutely no time, moving in and unbuttoning your dress as quickly as he could. When he pushed it off of your shoulders, he brought his hands around to rest on your bare torso, drawing your back up against his chest tightly.

Your dress hung loosely at your waist and you wiggled a bit against him to get the skirts to fall to the floor. You stepped out of them and then you took his hands and brought them up to your lips. You placed slow kisses on each of his fingertips and he let out a long sigh, your lips feeling like the softest silks in the world to him.

He gently pulled one hand away from your grip while you kissed the other and he reached down to gently slip his fingers down into your underwear. He rested his chin down against your shoulder and he very slowly dragged his middle finger in two little circles around your clit. You gasped against his fingertips and you froze, your body moving backwards against his even more.

He repeated the same motion a few more times before you grabbed his wrist and shook your head.

“Oh, please don’t tease me. Please.” You whispered and he let out a little chuckle. Normally he’d be more inclined to make you beg for him, but he’d save that for another day.

He spun you around and reached behind you carelessly and swept all the models of landmarks and such off of his war table and he hoisted you back up onto it.

He quickly reached up and pulled your underwear down until they were around your knees and you could easily kick them off, and he pushed your legs apart, standing in between them. You leaned back against the table on your elbows and looked up at him, letting out a needy whine.

“Aleksander, please.” You breathed and he brought his hand up to your cunt.

He looked up into your eyes for a while before he inched his fingers upwards through your folds, gathering your slick on his fingertips. You leaned your head backwards and let out a little sigh of relief and he took this as encouragement to press his thumb down against your clit. You let out a little mewl at the new contact and he had never heard such a pretty sound before. He started slowly, his thumb gently circling your clit.

“Look at you, being such a good, patient little thing.” He murmured appreciatively. He glanced down at his hand on your core and he continued to move his thumb against your sensitive bundle of nerves.

After a moment of this, he brought his free hand up and he pushed your legs open further before he traced his pointer finger around your entrance. You wiggled your hips down closer to his hand, feeling utterly empty and Aleksander only clicked his tongue and murmured something about having patience up at you.

A few agonizing moments went by of him running his finger along your entrance, when without warning, he pushed it inside of you. You clenched around his finger and you let out a little moan, waiting for him to move again. He steadily continued the movement over your clit as he curled the finger inside of you up a few times and you raised your hips off of the table.

“Oh, please. More.” You begged and lifted your head to stare down at him. He simply gave you a wink before he pulled his finger out of you. You didn’t even have time to be disappointed before he was plunging two fingers inside of you, pumping them in and out of you steadily. You moaned again, this time much more breathlessly and he quickened his pace on your clit along with his fingers inside of you. Within moments, he had you gasping and whining, chasing a release that was so close.

You sat and pleaded quietly with him to go faster and when he finally obliged, you snapped. You let out a sharp gasp and then moaned loudly. He didn’t even need your moans to know you were cumming, because you tightened impossibly around his fingers and he hummed.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Good job.” He murmured and continued to fuck you with his fingers through your orgasm. When you’d finally calmed  yourself, he slowly pulled his fingers out of you and brought them up to your lips.

You opened your eyes to see his fingers in front of your face and you opened your mouth obediently and took them inside.

“Good, taste yourself, angel.” He breathed and then pulled his fingers away from your mouth only to put them in his own. He licked them clean before he gently grabbed you by the thighs and held your legs on either side of his hips and lifted you off of the table.

The hardness in his pants brushed up against your newly sensitive core and you gasped, earning yet another chuckle from Aleksander. He carried you into his bedroom and then gently tossed you down on his bed. He stood over you as you stared up at him with eyes glazed over with need and he kicked his boots off and yanked his pants off along with his underwear.

He looked down at you and stroked himself a few times before he leaned over your body and brushed the tip of his cock against your entrance a few times.

“If I knew this is how it would end, I would’ve confessed my love for you sooner.” He teased with a breathy laugh.

You smiled blissfully up at the man above you and you reached up to wrap your arms around his neck. You pulled him down for a slow kiss, and he slipped himself inside of you, earning a gasp. You distractedly stopped kissing him and he pulled away from your lips slightly as he slowly slid himself into you fully. Once you’d taken all of him, he stayed still for a moment, giving you time to adjust.

You tossed your head back and then you tapped the back of his neck, “Aleksander, I do adore you, but I need you to move.”

He did as you asked and he slowly pulled out before plunging himself back inside of you, a lewd, wet sound echoing off of the walls.

He let out a low groan and he closed his eyes, leaning his head down so that his forehead touched yours.

“You feel so good, my love. Taking me so well.” He grunted and easily found an initially slow pace that the both of you enjoyed.

You pressed your fingertips into his shoulder blades and you let out a few soft moans in the form of his name. You pressed your lips to his ear and you let out a whimper against it.

“Faster, please.” You whispered and he had no choice but to increase the pace of which his cock was pumping in and out of you at, just to earn a few more sweet moans from you.

It wasn’t long before all that was audible in the room was the sound of skin slapping together and your high pitched moans, mixing with his low praises. Your second climax approached you quickly, and Aleksander deduced this by the way you were clenching around his cock. He grabbed onto one of your legs tightly and hoisted it up around his waist and he thrust in particularly sharply, and he hit a spot deep inside of you that had you screaming his name and digging your nails into his back.

“Come on, my love. Cum for me. You’ve done so well, let me reward you.” He whispered and you dragged your nails down his back, whimpering and moaning simultaneously.

He continued with his sharp thrusts up into you, hitting that spot within you each time, and after just a few more quick strokes, you tightened your leg around his waist and threw your head back as your second orgasm of the night washed over your entire body in waves. You clung to him shakily as he continued to fuck you, chasing his own high. It wasn’t long after you had came that he finished as well, releasing inside of you. He stayed still over you for a few moments while you panted and slowly calmed down, and finally he pulled out of you and rolled onto his back, pulling you on top of him.

“Have you really been hinting at being in love with me for months now?” You asked after moments of post-coital silence.

Aleksander rolled his eyes and snorted, pulling you tightly down against his chest.

“I have. And I was just about to give up.”

“Nah. You could never give up on me.” You said with a little giggle and Aleksander smiled and placed a few kisses against your cheek.

“Oh, milaya. I know.”

[sadhornydemons]

Rapid-Spoiler-Season-Speculation: Full Moon Edition

Following the lead, but hopefully not completely on the coattails of many great theories, I'll throw my ideas into the wind and hopefully only end up half wrong.

Stolas's bed curtains can be seen, this appears to be his magic displaying the day's info.

Stolas still has his bandaged arm. Cue panic, then duet song.

Afterwards, IMP returns from a mission, Loona has the book.

Time is 10 minutes until 6pm, clock out time! At least for Blitz who has removed his jacket.

Get in bitch, we're going shopping at the Asmodues private reserve safe, emphasis on privates.

(Fizz, unless Stolas is in full demon mode, that thing will murder his cloaca and not in a good way)

Meanwhile, waiting, worrying.

(Blitz, isn't not gonna fit!)

"Stolas, you don't have to turn on that red light." ♪

And as everyone and their second cousin predicted, Blitz freaks out. As to how long the talk went, or what exactly was stated, we'll have to wait and see. But we get a taste of Blitz cursing Stolas out.

Stolas is roughly still in the same place, as the earlier scene, as he gives what seems to be a closing goodbye. Although dialogue can easily be mixed in a trailer.

And at some point we get this moment of Blitz, with a sad expression(?), seemingly reaching for Stolas in what appears to be inside.

Then being teleported outside (by magic)?

Also referenced in a fantasy sequence here:

Did Blitz say some very terrible things to Stolas before the full details of the Asmodean crystal and Stola's intentions for their relationship were made clear to him? And then regretfully try to make amends? That's full speculation on my part, but considering what we get in what appears to be a follow up scene between these two:

The most common theory I've seen and can still believe myself is that this scene will take place in the Apology Tour, but I think it's actually taking place in Full Moon. This entire episode will probably be focused on these two and the preceded scenes (even with missing parts) aren't enough to fill a full (and heavily anticipated) one.

On a commentary note, and not to pick sides, but Blitzø Buckzo, what DID you do?! That bird didn't balk when you were torching his beloved Loo Loo Land to the ground and now he looks like he's 2 seconds away from releasing the hellhounds on your ass.

But on a positive note, he's at least outside, drinking wine and reading a romance novel. Not knocking down absinthe with the houseplants or burning all of Blitz's horse drawings in effigy. It's more of the 'My lovelife is in the shitter, Gabriella' vs 'He'll never love me and I'll die alone next the ice cubes' mood of earlier. But either way, dude looks PISSED.

A mocking angry bow. Blitz has a smile, but maybe it's just because they're talking instead of Stolas ignoring him.

(book is still in hand) "Do you have any kind of remorse for what you do?" matches the mouth movements. Yeah, I'm pretty sure this is directed at Blitz. Unless Stella happened to drop by at a bad time to pick up her mail (what happened?!!)

Judging by the sky, it now appears to be morning.

(note the roof and curtains behind Stolas, they're now under/inside a fancy canopied tent) Owl is still angry.

Blitz has kicked back his feet, making himself at home. Stolas's pose is familiar but possibly still mocking, based on his earlier expression. Does Blitz want to solve their problem the usual way and Stolas may not bite this time?

End of my speculated/confirmed sceencaps from this episode, save maybe for this:

Granted, this could be a scene from any of the Blitzø-Conga-Line-Trauma-Storyarc of this season, but I'm thinking it may end this particular one. Leaving Stoltiz in a not great, but possibly getting things out into the open place.

Leading into the Apology Tour!

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Have You No Idea That You’re In Deep? [Chapter 8: Starfall] [Series Finale]

Aemond is a fearless, enigmatic prince and the most renowned dragonrider of the Greens. You are a daughter of House Mormont and a lady-in-waiting to Princess Helaena. You can’t ignore each other, even though you probably should. In fact, you might have found a love worth killing for.

A/N: Hello all! At long last, here is the conclusion of this series. Thank you for all the love that this fic has received; I am truly thrilled beyond words to read each and every one of your thoughts, rants, outbursts, compliments, complaints, and analyses. My first idea for a story is always the ending, so I’ve had parts of this finale written in my Word Doc since before I published the first chapter. Still, it feels very surreal to have finally finished it. I hope it is worth the wait. 💜

Song inspiration: “Do I Wanna Know?” by Arctic Monkeys.

Chapter warnings: Language, violence, death and destruction, ANGST, dad!Aemond, Aegon-related chaos, prophesies for days, a tiny bit of sexual content, dragons, drama, lots of shouting, if you have not read Fire & Blood then you should know that there are SOME spoilers/allusions involving certain characters (but not that many).

Word count: 10.5k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @crispmarshmallow @tclegane @daddysfavoritesexkitten @poohxlove @imagine-all-the-imagines @nsainmoonchild @skythighs @bratfleck @thesadvampire @yor72 @xcharlottemikaelsonx @loverandqueenofdragons @omgsuperstarg @endless-ineffabilities @devynsshitposts @vencuyot @ladylannisterxo @cranberryjulce @abcdefghi-lmnopqrstuvwxyz @liathelioness @mirandastuckinthe80s @haezen @fairaardirascenarios @darkened-writer @weepingfashionwritingplaid @signyvenetia @crossingallmine @burningcoffeetimetravel @yummycastiel @lol-im-done @lovemissyhoneybee @nomugglesallowed @witchmoon @yoshiplushie @torchbearerkyle @sweetashoneyhoney @quartzs-posts @lauraneedstochill @nctma15 @queenofshinigamis @rapoficeandfire @hinata7346 @curiouser-an-curiouser @meadowofsinfulthoughts @imjustboredso @unabashedlyswimmingtimemachine @myspotofcraziness @bregarc @mikariell95 @doingfondue @justconfusedperiod @mommyslittlewarcriminal @graykageyama @elsolario​

“Goodbye, Papa,” you whisper for your daughter who cannot yet speak, your cheek pressed to Laurel’s. You wave her tiny hand as Aemond and Vhagar vanish into a horizon that’s darkening like a bruise: gold, blue, violet, black, punctuated by rising stars. Encroaching thunder growls like a dragon. Lightning flashes as raindrops begin to fall from the sky. “Goodbye. Good luck. We’ll see you again soon.”

You retreat back inside the Red Keep and accompany Helaena and the children to Alicent’s rooms. As Jaehaera and Maelor play agreeably on the floor with woodcarvings of animals—and Jaehaerys mutilates a horse figurine with a toy mallet, targeting one leg at a time—you trade with the old queen: you give her a very drowsy Laurel, and she hands you her embroidery. The pattern is a simple white watchtower, but you’re so distracted thinking about Aemond and Storm’s End that you promptly botch it and tangle the threads beyond repair.

“I’m so sorry,” you tell Alicent, mortified, showing her the rubble. “I should have known better than to try…I’m afraid I lack Helaena’s talents…”

“Don’t worry about it, dear,” Alicent says. She beams down at Laurel as she rocks her. Helaena is absorbed with embroidering a strikingly lifelike water strider. Sir Criston is ostensibly polishing his sword at the table, but in truth listening to Alicent; he studies her words and moods and gestures the same way maesters study poisons and cures. “You must be terribly preoccupied this evening.”

“I am,” you admit. There’s no point in trying to hide it. Your hands are trembling and useless.

Still gazing at Laurel—her dreamy half-closed eyes, her silver lashes, her vulnerable smallness—Alicent speaks to you in a voice that is wistful and far away. “There was once a time when Rhaenyra suggested a match to resolve the question of succession. Jace would marry Helaena, and thus our bloodlines would be knitted back together and both branches of the family spared. I refused her. I’m not even entirely sure why I did. Now I wonder if I was wrong to reject her offer. Perhaps I could have stopped this.”

“You must not blame yourself. The realm has always balked at Rhaenyra’s claim to the Iron Throne. I don’t believe anything short of her surrender could prevent war.”

“You have no idea what it was like,” Alicent says. Now she looks at you with dark eyes that glint with deep, wounded bitterness. “Watching Rhaenyra indulge every whim, flout every tradition, taste every desire, while I…while I…” She pinches her eyes shut, trying to forget. “I have been standing on this precipice since I was eighteen years old, yet I have discovered that it is something else entirely to plunge headfirst into it.”

You place your hand lightly on her forearm. From across the room, Sir Criston lays down his sword and considers approaching. “You will not face this alone.”

“Aemond says you are a woman who admires ferocity. You must think that we can win if you’ve thrown your lot in with us. Perhaps that is why you support the Greens, why you came to King’s Landing to serve us to begin with. Because you have judged us to be the victors.”

That would be perfectly logical, but it’s wrong. “I support the Greens because I love you. All of you.”

Alicent’s face breaks into a sad smile. “I’m very glad that you are Aemond’s wife. Even though I was rather horrified at first.”

“I have been known to have that effect on people.”

“You don’t know what he was like before,” Alicent says. “The only way he knew to redeem himself was through violence. I think you saved him from becoming a monster.” She returns Laurel to you. The baby is sound asleep. “You both saved him.”

Sir Criston, having sheathed his sword, wanders over to invent some pretext to converse with Alicent: something about Aegon’s new council, something about the terms sent to Rhaenyra. She is still mulling it over, this last chance at peace; yet even if she is inclined to accept the concessions—an unconditional pardon, Dragonstone for Rhaenyra and Jace, Driftmark for Luke, recognized legitimacy for Harwin Strong’s sons, places at court for Daemon’s—her husband will advise her against it. Aemond was right when he said that Rhaenyra isn’t suicidal. You aren’t so sure about Daemon.

As you depart to put Laurel to bed, you pause by Helaena and praise her embroidery. It is exactly what you have come to expect from her: intricate, gorgeous, and yet unnerving somehow. Her water strider is made of gold-and-ruby flames, and the wave it dances on is adorned with the reflection of a crescent moon. You recall what she said at King Viserys’ last dinner, so softly that hardly anyone noticed: Beware the beast beneath the boards. “Meleys in the Dragonpit,” you say. “You knew it was going to happen.”

Helaena’s reply is halting and dazed. “I can sometimes see what—pieces of it, anyway, fragments of it, like shards of glass left in the frame of a broken window—but not when or how.”

“That must be maddening.”

“Oh, it is,” she agrees, and resumes her stitching. On the floor, Jaehaerys starts dragging a screeching Maelor around by his white hair. Sir Criston separates them, then lectures Jaehaerys about the importance of princely behavior. Jaehaerys kicks him in the steel-plated shin.

“I suppose we could share grandchildren one day,” you tell Helaena. “Laurel might marry Maelor.” Otto Hightower has already suggested it, and you aren’t necessarily opposed, assuming the two grow up to be genuinely fond of each other. Maelor is a shy, benevolent sort of child, just like his mother; he’s no Jaehaerys, that’s for certain. Aemond always says the same thing about Laurel, without further explanation, without hesitation: She will be whatever she wants to be. This seems to be in blatant conflict with his self-sacrificial sense of duty, of advancement. Then again, so is his love for you.

But Helaena shakes her head, very slowly, her gaze still tangled in the threads of her embroidery. “No, she won’t,” the new queen murmurs.

You take Laurel back to her bedroom and lay her in the cradle, and you stand there for a long time with your hands on the railing. A mobile of cloth insects—a gift from Helaena—twirls lazily above your head. The room is hushed. The window looks out on Blackwater Bay, where rain falls and lightning splits the indigo sky like fractured bones; the island you and Aemond call Bearstone is visible only as an outline on the horizon that blacks out some of the stars. The only way he knew to redeem himself was through violence, Alicent had said, and that’s true, isn’t it? You wonder what Borros Baratheon’s answer will be. You wonder what kind of man will return to you if Aemond spends weeks, months, years away at war.

Beside your sleeping daughter is the dragon egg Aemond chose for her: white, silver-flecked, as large and armored as Laurel is fragile and diminutive. She often reaches for it, marvels at it, beats her little fist against it as if trying to crack the shell. The egg came from Dreamfyre’s clutch, and the Greens have already begun referring to the one-day dragon by a name that honors both its Targaryen and Mormont affiliations: Frostfyre.

You leave Laurel in the care of her wetnurses and handmaidens and sit by the fireplace in the chambers you share with Aemond, trying to lose yourself in a book about the geography of Westeros. Flamelight dances across the pages as you turn them. Your mind keeps wandering: south to Storm’s End, north to Bear Island, into the future, into the past.

There is a knock against your doorframe. Aegon leans there in gold and green, smirking, pleasantly tipsy but far from drunk. “Hi,” he says.

“Hi.”

He waltzes inside, flourishing the wine cup in his hand. “Are you utterly tormented? Are you inconsolable? Have you chewed your fingers down to the bone?”

“Not yet. But this book isn’t helping as much as I’d hoped.”

“That’s because it’s a book.”

“Perhaps I should try whores.”

Aegon cackles and throws himself down into the plush reading chair across from you. He props his boots on the footstool and crosses them one over the other. “Can you believe that this is my fourth cup of wine today? Not fourteenth. Fourth.”

“I’m very proud of you,” you say, and you mean it.

“It’s the strangest thing. I train with Sir Criston and I attend council meetings and I make my public appearances…and before I know it each day is gone. I set my cup down on tables or bannisters and then I forget all about it.” He glances to the bed, noting the dusty pale-pink remnants of the protection spells you’ve cast there. “What happens when all the bears relocate from the kingswood? What happens when Balerion runs out of teeth?”

“I’ll start pulling yours.”

He is amused, but there is something dismal about his expression as well. His face is less puffy, more serious. The reflections of flares and embers glow in his eyes. “I don’t know why you would want to protect me,” he says, remembering the night before his coronation. “If I die, Jaehaerys is next in line to the throne, but he’ll be a child for the next decade. Aemond could be regent. The task would suit him. It would please him, I believe. It is a role he was built for. The gods used entirely different bricks when they made me. Your life would be simpler without me in it.”

“Simpler, perhaps. But not better.”

He smiles; and this time it is shadowless and pure. “Where the fuck did you come from?”

“Bear Island,” you reply; and you both burst into laughter as you sit together in the crackling firelight. Outside, rain drums against the windows and the wind howls as the storm intensifies. “Also, I think Jaehaerys might be deranged.”

“Yes, well you have to watch out for firstborns, you know. They are often incorrigible.”

“Personally, I have a weakness for second sons.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“What happens if Rhaenyra won’t accept the terms?” you ask quietly, looking at Aegon. “What happens if there is war?”

“There won’t be.”

“But if there is?”

Aegon shrugs, unconcerned. “Then we’ll win. We have the support of the Westerlands and the Reach, and probably Storm’s End too. We have Sir Criston, the best swordsman in Westeros. We have Sunfyre, Dreamfyre, Tessarion, and Vhagar, who easily counts as two or three ordinary dragons put together. We have my supernaturally manipulative grandsire. We have you. And, of course, we have Aemond.”

“I fear losing him,” you confess. “I hate how much I fear it. It makes me feel pathetic. I didn’t used to be like this. But now I’m filled to the brim with dread.”

“Are you worried that he’ll march off to battle and fall into the soothing arms of some other enchanting, adulterous Northerner? That’s quite impossible, I assure you. He’s never been one inclined towards romance. What liaisons transpired before you—and there weren’t many, believe me, I judged him plenty for that—were…” He ponders how to phrase it. “More educational than impassioned.”

“No,” you say, smiling wanly. “I’m worried that he’ll come home a different man than he left. I’m worried that he’ll succumb to his blind hatred for the Blacks and be poisoned by it.”

“I don’t think that will happen. He won’t allow himself to lose his way. His love for you and the baby is too great.”

“Will you show me?” you ask, holding up your book. There is a map of Westeros on the page, mountains and rivers and borderlines carved like knife wounds in flesh. “If there is fighting, where it will happen?”

“Sure,” Aegon replies. He has attended enough council meetings to know their schemes by now. He gets up and rests his elbows on the back of your chair, hovering over you to point out the pertinent locations. He is very close; you can smell wine on him, and perfume scented like pomegranates, and soap and sun. There are ink stains on his hands. His silvery hair brushes against your cheek. “Control of the Riverlands would be essential. It is the closest thing Westeros has to a center point, and we would need it to have ready access to the surrounding regions. Its rivers carry trade goods. Its lords have many men and horses at their disposal. Its flat, fertile soil is good for feeding soldiers. And killing them.” He grins. “We would need a foothold there. Maidenpool or High Heart, perhaps. More likely Harrenhal. That’s Lord Larys Strong’s castle, conveniently.”

“It would be an uncommon sensation for him. Being useful, I mean.”

Aegon’s index finger travels around the map. “Battles would pepper the Riverlands and the parts of the Crownlands likely to support Rhaenyra. Duskendale, Rosby, Rook’s Rest. We’d stay out of the Vale. Men can’t fight on the sides of mountains. We aren’t goats.”

But your gaze has snagged somewhere else. In the belly of the Riverlands, there lies the largest lake in Westeros: vast and crystalline blue and with an island at the center known as the Isle of Faces, a legendary and unconquerable mystery that turns all sailors away with fierce winds and flocks of squawking ravens. “I’ve been there,” you say. “The God’s Eye. We stopped to swim and picnic on its shores when my family brought me south to marry Axel Hightower. It is a place of magic, of deep, ageless power. I’d like to go back someday. I’d like to try to visit the Isle of Faces.”

“Aemond can take you, when all this is over. He can land Vhagar right in the middle of that fabled, forbidden little island. And then burn it to ash if you’re unimpressed.” He plucks the book out of your hands and snaps it shut. “Now let’s desist with the geography lesson and do some gambling instead.”

You play cards for several hours—thunder booming, lightning striking ever-closer, Aegon unashamedly robbing you of your coins as you fumble along without much strategy, distracted and nervy—until you tell the king that you’re going to bed. You’re a liar. You bathe and slip into your nightgown and then sit and stare at the dying cinders in the hearth, pulsing like fireflies: garnet, jasper, carnelian, tiger’s eye. When you begin to nod off at last, your vision blurs and the pinprick infernos become distant and indistinct, like stars. They form constellations you can only decipher pieces of: a claw here, a wing there, eyes and blades and teeth. You jolt awake when you hear the bedroom door creak open. The fire rekindles with the gust of cool new air. You know exactly who it is. You recognize his footsteps.

“You’re back already—?”

His face stops you. Everything about him stops you. He’s drenched to the skin and shivering, staring at the wall. His hair is in disarray. Wet, silver twists hang loose and wild; his tie has come undone and he hasn’t even noticed. Water drips from his coat and forms reflective pools around his boots. You can see firelight dancing there. Helaena’s words whisper through your skull like cold wind: He comes home late, covered in rain.

“What?” you say, standing. “What happened?”

Aemond is silent. Lightning illuminates the room in stark, white-blue rage.

You take his hands, and he allows this but won’t look at you. Every angle of his body is wrong: his shoulders, his spine, his jaw. You’ve never seen him like this before. Perhaps nobody has. What could it be? What could it POSSIBLY be? “Did the Baratheons deny you?”

“No, they are with us. Daeron will marry Floris.”

“Then what…?”

At last, his gaze meets yours. His words are slow and heavy, so heavy. His eye—blue like clear skies, like the ocean, like veins beneath paper-thin skin—is more than just stunned. It is afraid. “Luke was there too.”

You don’t understand. “…At Storm’s End?”

“Yes.”

There’s blood on him, you realize now; not much, but enough. There’s a smudge on his right temple, a stain on his throat, flecks in his hair. “Alone?”

“Yes,” Aemond says again.

Just Luke. Not Jace, not Rhaenyra, not Rhaenys, not Daemon…just timid little Luke Strong. You take a step back, dropping his hands. Your stomach plummets; cold sweat slicks across your pores. You are suddenly terrified to know more. You don’t want to ask, but you have to. “What happened, Aemond?”

You call him by his name, and you never call him by his name. Your husband does not seem to have caught this. His fingers go unconsciously to the bear-hilt dagger he still wears at his belt. “Luke was sent to compel Lord Borros to honor his father’s long-past commitment to Rhaenyra. He was so pitiful, so weak, he brought nothing but his mother’s admonishment. Borros turned him away. And then, I…I…” Now his fingertips ghost over his scar. “I stopped him. I threw him your dagger. And I told him to put out his eye.”

Timid little Luke Strong, alone in Storm’s End…small and afraid and outmatched just like Aemond had been all those years ago on Driftmark when he was maimed. “You…?”

“As payment for mine.” He smirks, a ghoulish little half-smile with no humor at all. “I told him that I planned to make a gift of it to you.”

And there is something gut-wrenching about this, it hits you harder than you could have anticipated: that the same man who gave you tenderness and devotion and whispers and faith and a child was going to give you another child’s eye. A debt is still owed. A debt will always be owed. “But he didn’t do it.” If he had, Aemond would now be radiant, victorious. Instead, he is horrified.

“No,” Aemond says. “He refused. And when he left on Arrax…I followed him.”

Your voice is hoarse, brittle. “You killed that boy?”

“I did not give the order,” he insists fiercely. “I meant only to frighten him, to shame him, but Vhagar…she…she…” He shakes his head, like casting out bad dreams. “I tried to stop her.”

Surely there can be no greater betrayal than this: his dragon, his first conquest, his path to redemption. And he will never be able to admit it to anyone but you. Helaena’s warning is a specter hissing through fanged teeth from the shadows of this room: Be cautious with her. She will not always listen. “Vhagar against Arrax, that is no battle, that is murder. The realm will see this as murder.”

“I know.” His reply is helpless.

You reach for him. “Aemond…”

“Do not comfort me,” he flares. “I am not worthy of it. It is you and our daughter who I have endangered.”

“We can win,” you say quickly, desperately. “There will be war now but we can win it, the Greens have the Reach and the Westerlands and Storm’s End, and half of the Crownlands too, we have wealth and armies and dragons and magic, and we already hold the capital, we need only to defend it—”

“I have to send you away.”

Every frenzied thought in your mind falls silent. “What? Where?”

“Starfall.”

Dorne? Some remote, desert castle in a land I’ve never known? You watch each other in the firelight. “No,” you reply simply.

“This will destroy Rhaenyra. She will want me destroyed in return. And Daemon knows exactly how to do it.”

“No,” you repeat, furious. “I’m not going anywhere, we don’t run from battles, I don’t run from battles—!”

Aemond grabs your wrists and holds them against his chest, gently but stubbornly. “Listen,” he says. “I will have to leave King’s Landing to fight this war. And Daemon will come for you. He knows what you mean to me, what you are to me, he knows. He will do it himself, or he will send someone to do it for him, or he will do it if the Blacks sack the city, but no matter how it happens he will not stop until your blood is spilled. He will not honor your status as a noncombatant. And he won’t just kill you. He will do excruciating, unforgivable things to you, because that is how he can hurt me best. The way he looked at you…here, in the Red Keep, as Viserys lay dying…that was the first time I ever saw you as what you truly are.”

“A burden?” you fling at him like a blade.

“No, Moonstone.” He releases your wrists and clasps your face with his hands. “A weakness.”

The fight bleeds out of you. Not so long ago, it was not believed that Aemond One-Eye had any fears, any weaknesses at all. “I don’t want to leave you. Any of you.”

“It won’t be for long.”

“I can’t go to Dorne. They don’t have any heart trees there. The Old Gods won’t be able to hear me.”

“You cannot stay here,” he swears. “I cannot leave you in plain sight and undefended.”

“Then send me back to Bear Island instead,” you plead frantically.

“No. The North is likely to side with Rhaenyra, and Daemon would know to look for you there.” He strokes your hair, your cheek, the pendant that swings from your neck. “Dorne will remain neutral, and Starfall is on the Summer Sea. You can get there by ship, easily and inconspicuously. I cannot fly you. Vhagar could be sighted, and everyone knows who she belongs to. And I…I…” His eye goes vacant, haunted. “I don’t know if I can trust her.”

A shudder claws down your spine. I’ve ridden that dragon. My daughter has touched that dragon. “So you’ll ride off to battle against Syrax and Meleys and Caraxes and I’ll…just…what, stare out a window and wait for you to show up and rescue me? Wake up every day wondering if you’re still alive? If Aegon and Sir Criston and Otto are still alive? I’ll read books and play cards and embroider pillowcases and go on meaningless fucking strolls through the gardens? I’ll be useless, I’ll be worse than useless because I could have helped you if I had stayed, I will—”

“You will survive.” He smiles faintly. “The maesters of Starfall will offer you and Laurel shelter. They will keep you secret. They will keep you informed of how the war progresses. And if…somehow…the Greens are on the losing side…then they will help you start over someplace where you will never be found.”

You think of all the letters he’s exchanged with Dornish maesters over the past ten months, letters you’ve never pried much into, ravens loosed and received. “How long have you been considering this?”

“Since I met you. Just in case.”

You try to imagine it—hot blaring sun, bobbing ships, the ocean, castle walls—and perhaps Starfall won’t feel so very far from King’s Landing after all. Perhaps it will be a respite, not an exile. Perhaps you will be back in the Red Keep with every living soul you’ve ever loved before the year is finished. Even if I can’t bear to do it for me, I can do it for Laurel. I will have her. I can protect her.

Aemond touches his forehead to yours, and only now are you aware of the tears streaking down his flawless right cheek. “I am so fucking sorry,” he says, his voice breaking.

“I’ll go to Starfall. If that’s what you need, if that’s what’s best for our daughter, I’ll do it.”

“There’s one last thing.” He takes your dagger from his belt and lays it in your outstretched palm. You think, without wanting to: If Luke had mutilated himself with this blade, he’d still be alive. Aemond lifts your chin to kiss you, an act so delicate and insurmountably heavy it could shatter. “Keep this with you.”

~~~~~~~~~

He introduces her to each type of blossom, skimming a kaleidoscope of petals across her miniature fingers: roses, wisteria, jasmine, calla lilies, orchids, chrysanthemums, red poppies. He is cautious not to let her get too firm a grip, lest she decides to eat one. He insists on doing everything. He never wants a break from her. Soon you’ll both be gone, sailing into the horizon on some nondescript ship bound for Dorne. He knows his time is running out. Laurel devours him with those enormous, knowing eyes. She clutches clumsily at the petals with great interest, perhaps in part because he’s the one offering them. She gets upset when he tries to carry her through the cool, dark trellis archway grown thick with greenery; she wonders where the sun has gone.

At last he returns to sit beside you on the edge of the fountain. A pair of white stone dragons exhale gushes of clear water like flames. The gardens are quiet and still. It is late-afternoon on a magnificently warm and golden day, but the Red Keep feels abandoned. Bees and butterflies and beetles wheel in the air. You can hear waves crashing against jagged black rocks, windchimes jangling in the breeze, the distant snarls of dragons.

“She might be walking by the time we see you again,” you tell Aemond. You smile, hoping to lift his spirits; but he doesn’t smile back.

He presses his lips to Laurel’s silver hair. Someday soon, it will be long enough to braid. “She might have a dragon waiting for her.” Frostfyre’s egg will remain in King’s Landing, of course; it will be left in the care of the Dragonkeepers in case the beast hatches during the war.

“You will get to teach her how to ride. How to speak High Valyrian.”

Now he does smile, with hope and optimism and pride. “And you will teach her magic.”

There is the sound of dainty heels clicking against the cobblestones. Helaena appears, carrying a praying mantis in her palm like a beacon. “You are required in the Great Hall,” she says.

You and Aemond look at each other, mystified. “Why?” he asks Helaena.

“Everyone is waiting.” And then she turns and leaves.

You and Aemond follow after Helaena, struggling to keep up. You lift the hem of your dress—black with accents of silver, your dagger secured by a belt patterned with silver bears—to avoid puddles and ascend steps; Aemond carries Laurel against his chest. She peers over his shoulder, eyes alert, cheeks chubby and with dimples like her father’s. You will have to be mindful in Dorne to ensure her skin isn’t burned by the sun. As you near the Great Hall, you can hear muffled music and voices and clanks of cups and silverware.

“Oh, gods,” Aemond groans, realizing too late.

You begin: “What—?”

The guards open the doors. Inside the Great Hall, there is a raucous feast in progress: dancing, drinking, gorging, whoring, wolfing down enough pleasures to last until the war is done. Everyone knows that time is disappearing like a starving crescent moon. Everyone knows the blood will soon begin flowing. The royal family has a table above all the chaos: Otto, Alicent, and Sir Criston are seated there with grim faces. Aegon is laughing hysterically about something that no one else seems to appreciate. Helaena scurries across the room to take her rightful place in the empty chair beside him.

“Ah, the guest of honor!” Aegon booms when he sees you and your husband, tottering to his feet and raising his cup of wine. He is grinning hugely beneath glazed, groggy eyes. He’s not just drunk. He’s ruined. “A toast to my brother, Aemond, the champion in the very first engagement of the war. To the prince, to Vhagar, and to a hasty victory!”

There are dutiful cheers, but when the nobles of Westeros turn to Aemond their faces are not congratulatory; they are wary, mistrustful, repulsed. Even the most fervent supporters of the Greens have trouble stomaching the murder of a child. Aemond’s own face is stone; he is seething, of course, but he hides it well. You take Laurel from him so he can meander through the hall accepting obligatory compliments from the guests: sword-wielding men, blanching women, reticent daughters who are for the first time relieved that it was not one of them he chose to wed. As you make your way to the royal family’s table, you swim in a sea of noxious whispers.

“…Nothing left, I heard…not a single piece…just a head of the other dragon…the boy must have been swallowed…”

“You saw Rhaenyra’s son when he was here, didn’t you? Nothing but a scared little runt…”

“…More like an execution than a battle…”

“Look, not even Aemond’s Mormont wife can summon up enthusiasm for this travesty. When was the last time she wore black to a feast? She’s always in that strange pearlescent color…”

“…Vhagar is five times the dragon Arrax was…”

“I have it on good authority that Rhaenyra was considering terms before what happened at Storm’s End, and now it will be a bloodbath…now all our sons will be expected to bleed…”

“…There is no decency in this…”

“Aemond One-Eye, they call him. Maybe they ought to change it to Aemond the Kinslayer.”

There was a moment—at Aegon’s coronation, at the beginning of the end—when there was a chance for the people to meet Aemond, to witness his gifts, to learn to love him. Now that chance is as dead as Lucerys Velaryon.

You greet Alicent and Otto, then tell them that you’ll return after you’ve put Laurel to bed. It is not customary for young children to attend feasts, nor do you wish to frighten her with all of the unfamiliar sights and scents and sounds…although, and perhaps you should have anticipated this, Laurel doesn’t seem frightened at all.

“Nonsense!” Alicent says, rather ferociously, and gleefully lifts the baby out of your arms. She and Otto pass Laurel back and forth: snuggling her, tickling her, showing her off to mostly-indifferent courtiers. Your adopted family knows that this is one of their last chances to see her before your departure to Dorne. They have been informed of Aemond’s plan—Alicent, Otto, and Sir Criston—and contrary to being outraged (as you had been) they are in agreement that it is a wise course of action. Helaena was not explicitly told, but seems aware of it nonetheless; this morning she was offering you advice about packing lots of light, breathable fabrics. No one has told Aegon yet. Aemond doesn’t want to be the one to do it. You aren’t sure how.

You pick at your food and sip your wine and try to keep your expression as neutral as possible. There is no winning here. If you appear joyful, you are celebrating the murder of a child; if you are morose, you are betraying your husband. In truth, you are neither, and you are both, and you are everything in between. As Aemond traverses the Great Hall, he keeps you on his good side as much as he can. He glances at you—over and over again like the cyclical phases of the moon— storing up visions to be conjured when he is on the field of battle and you are in Starfall, not even a whisper, not even words on a page. He will not be able to visit you until the war is over. He will not be able to send you letters that could be intercepted.

“Should we go see the Iron Throne?” Otto asks in a high, squeaky voice as he struts around with Laurel. “Yes, let’s go see the Iron Throne. Once upon a time, there was a man called Aegon the Conqueror, and you happen to have some of his blood in you. You have his hair too, but that’s a separate story. We can talk about the trials and tribulations of hair later. Now, Aegon was born in…”

A very different Aegon saunters over to you, wine cup in hand. You ignore him.

“You look tense,” he says, swaying. He begins ineptly massaging your shoulders.

“You look wasted.” You swat him away.

“Dance with me, Moonstone,” he begs, plopping down in Aemond’s chair, swigging the last of his wine and then refilling it. “I am soon to be sent off to war. I could be killed, or worse, mortally wounded and rendered incapable of debauchery at the level which I aspire to.”

“No thanks.”

“Why, do you have other plans? Will you be sneaking off to any dusty stairwells? Do you need someone to guard the doorway for you and protect what scraps remain of your honor?”

“I don’t think I’m in the mood tonight.”

“I’m always in the mood,” he says, grinning. “What do you think, did little Luke Strong go down smooth, or are there still bits of him caught in Vhagar’s teeth?”

You see it in a nauseating flash like lightning: that same boy who cowered beside his mother and attempted to defend Jace and loved Rhaena Targaryen reduced to a jumble of blood and bones. That’s really all we are. Beneath the names and the banners and the faiths and the magic, that’s all any of us are. “You’re being cruel.”

“I’m being supportive,” Aegon counters.

You glower at him, half-angry, half-disappointed. The disappointment feels worse. “Why did you have to do this?”

He is genuinely confused. “Do what?”

“This.” You gesture to the feast, the crowds, the tentative praises offered to Aemond like girls climbing—numbly and obediently—into the beds of old men.

Aegon slurs as he speaks. “Look, whether it was the honorable thing to do or not, whether it was the wise thing to do, the Strong boy is dead and nothing can change that. We cannot apologize for it, we cannot disregard it. All that’s left to do is celebrate it.” He clangs his cup against yours. Wine splatters on the tablecloth. “There is one less Black. There is one less dragon for them to burn us alive with. And I have made Aemond a war hero.”

“You have made all of us profoundly uncomfortable.”

Pain rushes into his face like blood to flushed cheeks: true, repentant, defenseless pain. “That was not my intention,” he says softly.

“No, I see that now.” I don’t have much time left with Aegon. I don’t have much time left with any of them. “I’m sorry. And as my act of contrition I will dance with you.”

Aegon smiles again and leads you down into the crowd. You and the king are an island in a sea of depravity. To your right, some Lannister is practically undressing a more-than-enthusiastic Swyft girl. To your left, a Costayne lord has passed out on the floor; people step around him as they twirl and stumble. Aegon grasps your waist—chastely, careful not to offend—with his right hand and weaves his fingers through yours with his left. The music is quick and plucky, almost restless, almost perilous.

“I know I’ve been excessive tonight,” he admits, meaning the wine. “I hope you are not too angry with me. It’s just that I am acutely aware it will be my last chance for a while.”

This is true: there are armies massing, plans being drawn up, new weapons and armor being hammered into existence. Your ship leaves tomorrow. “I forgive you. Your brother will too, although it will take him longer.”

Aemond has at last arrived at the royal family’s table. He has somehow wrestled Laurel away from Otto and has her clutched to his chest as he confers with Sir Criston. Still, he is watching you. “So you remain opposed to the prospect of my untimely demise,” Aegon teases.

“Quite vehemently.”

“And I will continue to have the benefit of your gruesome, illicit spells until all the Blacks’ heads are secured on spikes outside the Red Keep.”

You hesitate. Aegon’s ungainly steps slow. The crowd around you is rowdy and oblivious.

“What’s the matter, witch? Have you embraced a non-heathen religion? Have you renounced the ways of your hairy, half-human, cave-dwelling forefathers?”

“It’s not that,” you say. “I would want nothing more than to help you…if I was able to. If I was staying in King’s Landing.”

He stops completely: a sudden lurch, an inebriated wobble. “What are you talking about?”

“I’ll be going tomorrow.”

He rips his hands away from you. “Going where?” he demands. His eyes are sharp with betrayal.

“Aegon…”

“Going where?”

You answer in a whisper, pained and sorry. “Starfall.”

He whirls and storms out of the Great Hall, tripping occasionally, pushing himself off walls when he careens into them. In the chaos of lust and gluttony, few guests even notice. You chase Aegon out into the hallway. He is moving with truly impressive speed for a man in his condition.

“Aegon, wait!” you call after him.

“Whose idea was this?” he hurls back, still racing through empty corridors. “Aemond’s, right? It couldn’t have been yours. I can’t believe that. You wouldn’t run.”

“Please, just let me explain—”

“Explain what, that you’re abandoning me—?!”

Aemond comes soaring out of a hallway, grabs Aegon, pins him roughly to the wall.

“You can’t send her away!” Aegon pleads, struggling. There are tears spilling down his cheeks. He slaps clumsily at his brother’s face, inflicting no damage whatsoever.

“And who will protect her if she stays?” Aemond says, his voice low and serrated and dark like volcanic glass. “I will be needed in battle, you will be needed in battle, Sir Criston will be leading the infantry, so tell me, who will be here to stand between her and Daemon when he comes to King’s Landing with fire and blood?”

Aegon stops fighting. His white-blond hair shags over his eyes. He is savagely bitter, glaring, hateful. “This is all your fault.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“Why did you do it then?!” Aegon shouts. “Nobody told you to kill the Strong boy, nobody told you to make this war inevitable and incur the eternal wrath of the Blacks, so why the fuck did you do it?!”

Aemond doesn’t reply, but the truth speaks through the collapsing lines of his face, his shoulders, his spirit. His hands fall away from the king. His rain-blue gaze drops to the floor.

“It wasn’t on purpose,” Aegon realizes with hushed shock, with horror. And then, much louder: “It wasn’t on purpose?!”

“No one can know,” Aemond says.

“Oh gods, oh gods…” Aegon rubs his wet, ruddy face with both hands. “Seven hells, how does that happen?!”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s done.”

“You’re telling me that you possess the largest, most lethal dragon on the planet and you can’t control her?! Someone explain to me how I’m still the family disappointment when I ride Sunfyre around the Crownlands all the time and I’ve never accidentally killed someone!”

Aemond says nothing, but he looks miserable, he looks broken.

“And now you send her away,” Aegon pitches at him. “You take her away from us, from me, not because of anything I did but because you made a mistake, because you fucked up—!”

“It’s not your decision to make.”

“I am the king, every decision is my decision to make—!”

You flee from them as they slice at each other with venomous accusations, blades aimed at hearts and jugulars. You run beneath the torchlight, beneath the fading sounds of music and shouts and the crumbling realities of the world. Nothing will ever be the same again. That thread of fate disappeared down Vhagar’s void-black, scorching throat. We’re not supposed to be attacking each other. We’re supposed to be winning the war.

You know that Laurel’s bedroom will be deserted. You take shelter there, supporting yourself with the railing of her crib, empty except for Frostfyre’s egg. Through forge-hot tears, you stare out the window at the starless blur where Bearstone must be. You have not been there in the three days since Aemond returned from Storm’s End. He doesn’t want you to ride Vhagar. He doesn’t want you anywhere near her. Everything’s falling apart. How can I stop this? How can I stitch us all back together?

You wish there was a way to turn back time. You wish you had known to cast a protection spell for Lucerys Velaryon.

In the window’s glass, you catch a reflection of movement behind you in the dimly-lit bedroom. You catch the flicker of moonlight on metal.

Someone is in here with me. Someone with a blade.

You spin. A man is stepping out of the shadows, broad and black-haired and bearded. For a second, you can only gape at him with slow, stupid bewilderment. This doesn’t feel possible. This doesn’t feel real.

How…?

And then you know. Aegon uses the hidden passageways that crisscross the Red Keep like arteries; and, once upon a time, so had Daemon Targaryen. And this is the man he’s sent to kill you.

Aemond was right, you think, and realize that until now you had never truly believed him.

“Where’s the baby?” the man rasps, only half-illuminated. His dagger glints in the moonshine. “You’re supposed to have a baby with you.”

You reach for your bear-hilt dagger. He lunges for you. The second intruder, the one you still hadn’t known was there, crawls out from under Laurel’s crib and grabs your ankles. You scream like clashing swords, like a gutted animal as they grapple with you and slam you to the floor. You pull your dagger free and stab half-blindly at the larger man’s face as hands clamp over your eyes, your lips. He shrieks when your blade pierces his cheek, nicks his tongue, fills his mouth with blood. He pins your wrist to the floor and coughs up scarlet globs, spits them on you, calls you a bitch and a whore. You bite the hands that cover your face. You try to scream through their murderous fingers and palms. One of them rips your moonstone pendant off your neck, snapping the chain. The men are tearing pieces of your dress away. They are cutting the laces with their daggers. They are talking about what they plan to do to you.

Daemon wants this. Daemon told them to do this.

In his distraction, the larger man’s grip around your wrist loosens: only for a second, but that’s enough. You wrench your hand free and bury your dagger in his eye, all the way to the hilt. He howls and rocks backward, blood and remnants of his eye gushing down his face.

“Just kill the bitch!” he roars at his companion. “Just fucking kill her—!”

The bedroom door bangs open, and through the smaller man’s fingers you can see Aemond and Aegon burst inside. You hear Aemond drawing his sword. You hear the men Daemon sent struggling with him. Aegon drags you to the other side of the room and crouches over you, steadying himself by pressing a hand to the wall, wine and sweat oozing from his pores.

“No no no no!” the smaller man screeches as Aemond’s sword comes whistling down. The man’s skull is suddenly no longer attached to spine; his head rolls away with thick, sickening thuds. His blade still dripping with blood, Aemond turns to the larger man and slits his throat before he can beg for mercy. The bedroom falls into an abrupt silence.

“That is why she has to leave King’s Landing,” Aemond says, pointing to the would-be assassins’ corpses, still breathing heavily. Aegon just gawks in blank, speechless horror. Then Aemond sheaths his sword and gathers you into his arms. You dissolve into tears of fear, exhaustion, pain, shock.

“They were asking about Laurel,” you sob. “They, they, they were sent to kill her too—”

“Shh, she is safe, my love, she is safe. She is with Mother and Otto.”

“I didn’t believe it,” Aegon exhales, sinking to the floor. “I really didn’t…I didn’t think…”

“Double the guard on Mother and Helaena. They go nowhere alone.”

“Yes,” Aegon agrees immediately.

“And my wife sets sail for Starfall tomorrow.”

“Yes,” Aegon says again. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said those things. I’m so sorry.”

“Aegon.” You reach for him, and he comes to you and Aemond on his hands and knees. The three of you sit on the floor together in the bloodied, moonlit quiet. You tuck the king’s hair behind his ear, whisk a tear from his cheek with your thumb, smile with soft, kind sorrow. “I’ll miss you too.”

~~~~~~~~~~

In Blackwater Bay, there is a ship with no destination.

It is small, inconspicuous, loaded with enough supplies for a handful of passengers and a skeleton crew. It is decorated with no banners. It carries no nets for fishing, no treasures for selling, no soldiers for transporting. In times of conflict, it is rare for such a seemingly available vessel to not be requisitioned for the war effort. Not even its captain knows where it is headed. When people—fisherman, traders, passersby—inquire about his purpose, he smirks slyly and replies: “I’m going wherever the wind blows me.”

Most accept this unfulfilling explanation with some mild bafflement, continue on with their business, and promptly let the exchange slip out of their mind like sand through the gaps between fingers. Some pester the captain with further questions until he waves them off. Some chatter innocuously with him about the weather or the sea or who he believes will triumph in the impending war for the Iron Throne. But when several Gold Cloaks from the City Watch happen by, something about this captain and his enigmatic ship catches in their minds like a thorn in flesh. Something about him reminds them of signs they’ve been told to look for.

And just as nearly a year before when Aemond Targaryen publicly announced his scandalous marriage to a willful, insignificant, already-wed daughter of House Mormont, a raven carrying this news finds its way from King’s Landing to the rocky, salt-lashed shores of Dragonstone.

~~~~~~~~~~

Laurel is asleep in a crib in the corner of the bedroom you share with Aemond. Neither of you will allow her out of your sight. The feast has ended, the guests have been sent home to prepare for combat, the castle has been searched from top to bottom, from the godswood to the Great Hall to the weblike design of secret passageways. There are no other intruders. You are safe. There are guards stationed outside the bedroom door, guards beneath the windows, guards pacing the gardens. Aemond is sitting up in bed and mending your pendant with a pair of pliers and spare links of silver obtained from the maesters. His long hair falls over his bare shoulders and chest. His eyepatch hangs from a knob on the dresser. His forehead is wrinkled and determined.

You climb into bed beside him, candlelight painting you both with a brush made of heat, rage, lust, devastation, rebirth. “Can I ask you something, Silver?”

“Anything.”

You graze his face—you’re so fucking beautiful—with the backs of your fingers, first his good side, and then his ragged scar. “Why a sapphire?”

“Because of Symeon Star-Eyes.”

“I regret to remind you that you have married an uncultured Northerner.”

He smiles, still working on the damaged chain. “He was a knight during the Age of Heroes. He was blinded when he lost both of his eyes, so he replaced them with sapphires. That’s how the singers tell the story, anyway.”

You can picture it with aching clarity: Aemond as a small, lonely, tormented boy consuming book after book about ancient warriors and legendary beasts. He kept every piece of lore he learned about them like secrets, like jewels, like bricks to build himself with. “And he never stopped fighting.”

“And he never stopped fighting.” Aemond finishes the chain and lifts it over your head. The moonstone pendant returns to rest exactly where it belongs. Then your husband tilts your chin, turns your face one way and then the other, his gaze wandering over the bruises and crimson scrapes left by Daemon’s would-be assassins, troubled and pensive. And then he kisses you, his lips gentle.

“I don’t blame you,” you say, resting your forehead against his. “I want to make sure you know that. I don’t blame you for what happened to Luke, or what happened today, or what will happen tomorrow.”

“I just can’t believe I did it. I can’t believe I was that stupid.”

“You weren’t stupid. You were hurt, you were angry.”

“When I was chasing him through the storm…when he was so weak and helpless and I was so powerful…” His eye goes vague and far away. About six years away, you believe. “It was like I was carving out every part of myself that had ever been afraid, ever been harmed: by Luke and Jace, by Rhaenyra, by the world, by my father. It was like I was destroying that child who was once so friendless and overlooked and unchosen.”

“You can’t destroy him, Aemond. He’s you.”

He stares into nothingness. “You would have been safer as Axel Hightower’s wife.”

“I would choose you again. And again, and again.”

“Would you?”

“Always.”

Your lips meet his, delectably slow at first and then faster, bolder, more hungry. He matches your fire with his own. His hands steal beneath your nightgown. Your fingers knot in his hair. His mouth smiles into yours as you straddle him, nip playfully at his lips and tongue, reach down to feel how hard he is.

“Now,” you murmur. “Give me one last good memory to take with me to Starfall.”

~~~~~~~~~~

In the garden, Helaena braids daisies into your hair and introduces you to a walking stick that you pretend not to be repulsed by; you even let it creep up the downy-soft underside of your forearm. In her chambers, Alicent gives you a warm, rather desperate embrace that feels like it goes on forever…and then she offers you a package wrapped in green silk. It is a book she requested from the Citadel about the history of Bear Island. “I thought it might keep you occupied on the journey,” she explains, almost self-consciously. “Perhaps you could even read it to the baby if she is restless.” And in the shadow of the heart tree in the godswood, King Aegon—dreadfully hungover, more racoon-eyed than ever—lounges with you sipping wine and talking about anything except the fact that you’re leaving. At last, it can’t be avoided.

“I don’t feel bad for you, just so you know,” he quips.

You grin. “No?”

“No. You’re going to be sunning yourself on a beach in beautiful, debaucherous Dorne. What’s there to pity? You’ll probably have a dozen paramours by the time Aemond returns for you. You’ll have forgotten all about us. You’ll be clinging to the castle walls begging Aemond to leave you there. He’ll have to pry your fingers free one by one. Now Daeron, that’s someone deserving of sympathy. He’s being dragged out of Oldtown to help us burn cities and butcher men and his great reward, if he survives, will be marrying Floris Baratheon, the realm’s most eligible donkey. His children won’t get dragon eggs. They’ll get bits and bridles.”

You laugh, then peer up at the clouds. “Daeron. I can’t wait to finally meet him one day.”

“You’ll like him. He’s the best of us, clever and kind and unruined. He’s the good one.”

Now you look at Aegon. Both he and Aemond slept with the protection spells you cast for them under their beds last night. It is the last magic you will perform until the war is over. It is the last advantage you can give them. “You’re all the good one.”

It is not until after nightfall when Aemond walks you out to the waiting ship. He wants no witnesses, no rumors. He carries Laurel all the way there; he has to blink the tears from his eye when he surrenders her to the wetnurse. You will take two wetnurses and three handmaidens to Starfall. The ship is stocked with provisions for a trip of several weeks. The captain, an ardent Green, has not been told the destination in advance, nor of your identity; he has been told only that he will be abundantly rewarded, that he will never need to work a day in his life again, that his five children won’t either. Everyone else goes aboard. You and Aemond linger together on the dock under more stars than could ever be named. He is solemn; he is intensely quiet.

“Fear not, husband,” you say. “You cannot rid yourself of me. I am yours for life.”

“For life,” he echoes, kissing you, filling himself with you like you’re the air in his lungs, the marrow in his bones.

Your fingers brush the bear-hilt dagger at your belt, which you will take to Starfall at his insistence. “I wish I had something more to give you, a piece of me to carry through the war.”

“You have given me enough, Moonstone. You have given me everything.”

“Wait.” You lift off your pendant and stand on your tiptoes to hang it around his neck; you watch the gemstone, gleaming in the moonlight, settle on his chest by his heart. “I’m coming back,” you tell him, smiling, tears like constellations in your eyes.

Aemond admires the pendant with reverent incredulity, and then he kisses you again: one last time, his hands on your face, you tugging him closer by the collar of his coat, the wind whipping through you both. “Not soon enough. Tomorrow wouldn’t be soon enough.”

You board the ship. He returns alone to the Red Keep, his head down, his arms crossed, his mind presumably lost in the nebulous future.

The captain greets you warmly, and you give him the name of the location you are to be taken too. He nods and confers with the navigator before guiding the ship out into Blackwater Bay. You venture below deck to check on Laurel. She is sleeping peacefully in her cabin, loyally attended by her wetnurses and handmaidens. You study her for a long time—your skin, Aemond’s hair, one tiny balled fist propped against her cheek—before ascending the stairs to watch the firelight of King’s Landing fade into the past.

Sails crack in the wind above you, waves break against the hull below. The moon is obscured by indigo clouds; the night is dark and cool and placid. As you pass Bearstone—rendered nothing more than a murky, inconsequential pool of earth in an endless sea—you think of all the moments you shared there with Aemond, all those sun-drenched afternoons and whispered promises and swims in the sea, all those letters he scrawled to Dornish maesters as you laid dozing beside him, still naked, blissfully content, trusting and oblivious. You will have each other like that again, certainly. You and Laurel will survive the war, and Aemond will win it, and a night will come when the stars shine down on your reunion, flesh and words and soul.

Like knuckles, like a stone, Helaena’s words hit you. If they were solid, they could crack ribs. They are so loud you can hear them, her voice as clear as the lines on your own palms.

Because there is a great deal of fire in your future.

The wind tears viciously at your hair, your eyes, your cheeks. The flames of the ship’s lanterns bend and flicker, never extinguished but always imperiled.

The sea is calling for you.

You lean over the railing at the stern of the ship, contemplating the ocean: the eternal secrets below, the voyages above. This is the same sea that touches the Vale and Dragonstone and Storm’s End. This is the same water that Lucerys Velaryon was killed over.

Stay away from the fire.

You look at the lanterns again. No, that’s not what she meant. You pace frantically around the deck as the Red Keep becomes just a haze in the distance, searching for the source of Helaena’s prophesies. You pry open barrels and crates with your dagger, upturn buckets, study the weblike rigging. You hunt like a wolf, like a killer.

I want to help you.

Help why, Helaena? Help how?

He waits in the lagoon, coiled, red.

Your steps die. There is only one lagoon you know of in King’s Landing. You turn towards Bearstone. There is movement there, but indistinct in the darkness. There is a flapping, a shrill clicking. It grows louder. It approaches, it retreats, it vanishes. And suddenly, randomly, it occurs to you that despite all those protection spells you breathed to life under the heart tree, you never thought to cast one for yourself.

Moon on the water, fire in the sky, moon on the water…

The clouds are heaved away from the moon. Silvery light cascades down, dances on the waves, brightens the night. A shape passes high over the ship, blindingly swift and unreadable. Somewhere, there is a sound that could be laughter.

It comes from the sky.

You stare fixedly up into the night. It is a bottomless inky sea, one on top of the other. Your heartbeat is thunder in your ears. Your fingernails bite wounds into your palms. You hear it again: wings, distant cackling, clicking shrieks. And—too late for it to matter—you understand.

~~~~~~~~~~

Aemond’s hand closes around your moonstone pendant as he watches from the window in Laurel’s bedroom. On the dresser hangs his eyepatch. On his face is a smile, just a hint of one. He has ensured your safety, your survival; he has secured his peace offering from the gods. He can envision himself arriving in Starfall in six months or nine months or a year, you barreling out of the castle to meet him, Laurel no longer an infant but a little girl; perhaps she will be walking, babbling, grinning with tiny white teeth. Perhaps she will recognize him.

The ship, its lanterns dots of captive light, is barely visible by the time it sails past the island he now calls Bearstone. It will soon drop over the horizon like a falling star. Aemond half-turns from the window when something wrenches him back: a flicker of motion, an interruption in the moonlight. He leans closer to the glass. Dimly, he can glimpse his own reflection in it.

It is only when Caraxes unleashes his flames that Aemond can see him in the night sky, wings outstretched, blood-red contorted body hovering above the ship. The vessel does not merely burn. It explodes, it is eviscerated, it ceases to exist entirely.

“No!” It is not a scream but a rupturing, a splitting open and hollowing out of the man he could have been in a different world. It is the end. It is the beginning. It is a fire that burns his humanity to ash.

Vhagar, he thinks, the first word he can discern from the clamoring inferno of wrath, grief, madness. Fire and blood. He is faintly aware of gasps and screams spreading like a plague through the Red Keep. Someone is wailing like they are being slaughtered, their organs dismantled piece by piece; his mother, he believes.

He bolts from the room. He is halfway down the hall when Aegon crashes into him, catches him around the waist, knocks him with great difficulty to the floor and fights to keep him there.

“No!” Aemond screams, pulling away. “Let me go, let me go—!”

“Stop it, Aemond, stop!”

And then Sir Criston appears, and Otto, and Alicent; they join the king in restraining Aemond. It takes all four of them to hold him down.

“Let me go!” His voice is raw and mindless, more animal than man. He struggles so forcefully they fear his bones will snap. Aegon grabs his face with both hands.

“Look at me, look, Aemond, look at me!” Aegon pleads. The king is sobbing, panting, frantic. Aemond’s right eye lands on him. His sapphire gleams with cold, soulless fire. “You cannot catch Daemon, he is already headed back to Dragonstone, he—”

Aemond screams again and tries to free himself. They manage to hold on to him. Helaena has materialized in the hallway like a ghost; she is shellshocked, almost catatonic. She says nothing. Her eyes leak constant, soundless tears.

“You cannot catch him,” Aegon repeats patiently, like he’s speaking to a child. “Vhagar cannot catch him, even if you had left the second it happened. Not even Sunfyre can catch him. If we go after him now, he will lead us into a trap on Dragonstone. He has surely planned for that. He is hoping for that. He—”

Aemond claws at the floor, trying to drag himself out of his family’s arms, but a part of him knows it is hopeless. His fingernails leave white lines on the wood, and then ruby ones when his nails tear out. Aemond is not aware of this. He howls and roars and finally collapses. Alicent, weeping freely, strokes his hair. Sir Criston watches her, longing with everything he’s made of to fix this. It cannot be fixed; it is not just shattered pieces, it is ash, it is dust. Otto’s face is a wasteland: desolate, brutal, a million years old.

“Look at me!” Aegon demands, still gripping Aemond’s face, still sobbing. “Aemond, you cannot kill him if you’re already dead. That’s what you want, isn’t it? You want vengeance. You want fire and blood. You want to kill them.”

“Yes,” Aemond chokes out. That’s all he wants. Nothing else exists.

“And I will help you do it,” Aegon vows. “But we cannot do it now. We have to prepare. We have to do this right, or we will not live to see vengeance. Wait for me, Aemond, and I will help you. You can have Daemon, but I want Rhaenyra. And I swear to you in front of all the gods that we will burn them alive.”

Aemond is beyond words, but Aegon can read them in his eye: Yes, I understand, I yield. The last of Aemond’s ferocity vanishes. Sobs pour from his throat. Aegon embraces him. So do Alicent and Sir Criston and Otto and finally Helaena. They cling to each other, bound to the world by a multitude of glimmering strings like a spider’s thread and yet alone. The moonlight floods in. The future, dark, merciless, bathed in dragonfire, dawns like a sun.

And every second of every minute of every day for the next year—as Aemond wages war at Rook’s Rest and Harrenhal, as he burns the Riverlands, as he inspires immeasurable horror and agony and hatred, as he abandons strategy for blind revenge, as he flies to meet Daemon and Caraxes in battle above the God’s Eye—it is still there around his neck: the moonstone pendant, the silver chain.

[billyhargrovesupsidedownshadow]

A little nonsensical Single father!Billy Harringrove piece, 968 words, no warnings, G

-------------------

Billy rubs a hand over his face. Fuck, he's tired.

"Why are you bringing someone over? You're a father!" Jen's voice is so insanely annoying, Billy can just barely hold himself from wincing. Exactly how drunk was he six years ago to deal with it, was beyond him.

He glances, frowning with worry, in the direction of his living room. It is suspiciously quiet. Sarah isn't running back, shrieking from seeing an unfamiliar man in her home, and Steve isn't trying to politely leave forever because oh, maybe Billy forgot to mention that he has a kid.

A kid who chose the first fucking mommy-weekend in five years when Billy had someone over to throw a tantrum about how she wants to be back at daddy's.

Like hell he will listen to all of his friends telling him he needs to meet people ever again. Fuck all of them. This is what meeting people leads to: children or childhood trauma.

"Jen, you fuck around all the fucking time, one night I invite someone over, and that's it, I'm a terrible father?"

"Don't swear in front of my child!" She whisper-yells at him.

He can't believe he's being slut-shamed in his own house, when he hasn't even done anything. Because as soon as they got to the fun part, Jen was banging on his door. Not the kind of banging Billy hoped for today, but definitely the only kind he's getting.

He squeezed his eyes shut. That's what he gets for taking a risk. A mess.

"Okay, alright, I'm not, bye, Jen, you brought Sarah over as she asked, now you can go."

"You can't have some man over with my child in the house!"

"Right, I'm not, bye, Jen," he ends up closing the door in her face, hoping that this will be the end of it for now. He knows he's going to hear all about it next weekend anyway.

He waits a couple of minutes to check that she isn't trying to break his door down again. Definitely not stalling before he has to go into the living room.

And Steve is actually so hot and nice and generally good. And loaded. Like who the fuck else brings his car over to a mechanic just to check over clearly nothing four times in a month. Their receptionist, Argyle, said that Steve came over only when Billy was in. Billy looked at the little bi flag on the BMW's dash for a long time before actually deciding to try his luck and asking Steve out.

And now Billy has to awkwardly explain how he managed to fail to mention that he has a kid over five dates and wave Steve goodbye forever. And he was starting to actually like the guy. Thinking that maybe life was looking up. That maybe he will have someone to come home to when Sarah is at her mom's.

But of course not. Not in his life.

He breathes out and walks into the room, the only light coming from the street lamps outside and the floor lamp leaning over the couch he was just making out with Steve on fifteen minutes ago.

"And you know all the breeds?" Steve asks in a very serious tone, looking at the book about horses that Sarah has on her lap sitting on the couch next to him.

"Yes! Daddy reads me all about them! And we go watch them at the stadium when there are competitions!" She answers, excitedly.

Billy leans against the doorframe, a bit dumbfounded.

Steve looks up at him and smiles, then turns back to Sarah.

"You can tell me all more about them next time, okay? I have to go now," he stands up.

"To feed your doggies?" Sarah asks, all understanding, brows furrowed.

"I hope my friend fed them, but I should go check in case she forgot. It was very nice meeting you, Sarah," he offers her his hand for a formal handshake and she giggles.

"Bye, Steve!" She yells as Steve walks by Billy to the hall.

They stand there, awkwardly, for a moment.

"You have dogs? I haven't seen any hair or damage in the car," Billy blurts out, like this is the most important thing right now.

"Yes, I have six. They aren't allowed into the Beemer, I have a minivan for them. Yes, I have two cars all for myself," he says before Billy has a chance to ask, while putting his shoes and a jacket on.

Then he looks at Billy again.

Billy just stares back, not knowing what to say. Steve looks pretty chill after the whole encounter, but Billy isn't about to allow himself to hope that they were still on for later.

Steve leans in a presses a small kiss to Billy's lips.

"Call me," he says, serious, making sure Billy's looking into his pretties fucking brown eyes ever. "Bye, Sarah!" He yells again, getting another "Bye!" in response. "Bye, Billy, see you next time," he says and finally smiles, opening the door.

"Yeah, next time," Billy manages to croak out eventually, his voice unexpectedly coarse. "I'll call you!" He adds as an afterthought when Steve is already walking to the elevator of Billy's building.

Steve waves at him.

Billy closes the door and leans against it.

Fuck.

"Daddy, is Steve your new friend?" Asks Sarah, coming to him and looking up at him with his own blue eyes.

"Yeah," he says.

She nods.

"That's good, you need more friends, and Steve's nice, he listened all about the horses! Can you make me a sandwich? I'm hungry!" She says all in one breath and skips to the kitchen.

Billy breathes out and follows her, fighting back a smile.

They are still on. Maybe he actually did luck out this time.

[avocado-writing]

i absolutely ADORE the little universe you've made for the light the dark and the spaces in between and i don't really have any specific requests, all i'm requesting is whatever work in that universe that you've already come up with or if you do get an idea for something for my favourite throuple this is an excuse to post it hihi

Notes: first of all, fav throuple? 🥹 I’m asking for your hand in marriage. Second of all I got an ask about reader being nonbinary in this series but this fic explicitly discusses them being AFAB (but GNC, could be read as trans or not). set in TLTDATSIB verse, ish, the time period is a bit wonky (14thC ish) — consider this an au where reader follows aziraphale to France after their initial meeting, finds Crowley there too and everyone is pointing at each other like that Spider-Man meme going !! Immortal!!!

words: 2k

rating: T (sex references, mild peril)

pairing: crowley x reader x aziraphale

tags: TLTDATSIB, polyamory, Fem/Masc!Crowley, Fem/Masc!Aziraphale, GNC!Reader, historical, jousting

“Are you sure? It’s terribly dangerous.”

“Aziraphale,” you sigh, “I don’t do it because it’s safe.”

“Well why do it at all?” she whines, grabbing onto your hand beseechingly. Crowley looks up from where she’s been admiring her reflection in your armour. You turn to her for support, instead she shrugs. 

“I don’t know. For glory? For honour? To prove that I can?”

Aziraphale glares at Crowley to join in but is met with the same reaction. It seems that Crowley is determined to stay neutral in this scenario. How annoying. Just like a demon to find the most awkward solution for both parties.

You tie the linens around your chest a little tighter. Under your full plate it should be difficult to tell the shape of your body but you don’t want to take any chances. Aziraphale pouts and you sigh, turning back to her to take her hand in earnest.

“My darling, I’m not like either of you. When they look at me, they will only ever see one thing. I can’t change my body around and be whoever I want to be. I have to take these measures to be viewed as anything other than what I was when I came squawling from my mother.”

You cup her cheek and she nuzzles into your touch. 

“Besides,” you add, wickedly, “am I not good at wielding a lance?”

You grin, thinking back to the three of you laying together last night. Aziraphale harrumphs and Crowley laughs at her.

“They’ll be fine, angel,” she finally pipes up. Aziraphale doesn’t seem certain but finally relents, letting Crowley adjust her surcoat and take her hand.

“Good luck,” Crowley says, but the smile on her face suggests she doesn’t think you’ll need it. You give her a wink.

“With my two ladies cheering from the crowd, how could I lose?”

You give them both a kiss goodbye before Crowley finally wrestles the angel away, likely to get her a drink and a pep-talk before the tourney starts. As they leave, your squire begins to enter, his face turning beet red as Crowley ruffles his hair.

“Hello, Oliver. Make sure our good knight doesn’t fall from his horse, will you?” she says as she goes. Oliver tries to form a sentence, fails, and winces as Crowley sways away. 

A tiny slip of a lad, you took on Oliver not only for his immense courage despite his small stature, but because you both shared a secret - one which you uncovered when accidentally walking in on him changing. You’d recognise a bound chest anywhere. You thought no less of him for it, and told him he needed not beg for your silence: you’d keep it gladly.

“Sire, I’m here to help you finish dressing,” he states, when he finally manages to get a handle over his own tongue. 

“Well timed, Oliver. Help me with this breastplate.”

He heaves and helps with the leather straps, buckling you in place. You’re swelteringly hot. Ah well, time for that to get even worse when you ride out into the sun. You take a moment to check yourself over, only noticing Oliver’s quietness when he fails to point out one of your pauldrons is loose. You furrow your brow and turn to him.

“What’s on your mind, lad?”

“Might… Might I ask a question, sire?”

“Me saying no has never stopped you before,” you jest, but when you see him scuff his foot against the floor, you drop down to be able to look him in the eye. “What’s the matter, Oliver?”

“Your ladies… you’ll fight for them both, yes? For their honour as one?”

“Yes, I will.” You don’t go into great detail about your relationship but you trust Oliver with the truth. He sees Aziraphale and Crowley clucking around you like hens before a joust all the time anyway, and the boy isn’t a fool. He can do the arithmetic of it.  

“And they’re happy with that arrangement?”

You laugh a little, but put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Those two love each other as much as they love me. My life would not be a happy one without them both in it, and they feel the same.”

Sacrilege, but really, little in this room would be considered holy by the church. And besides, you have an angel as one of the willing participants of your relationship. You think it’s probably fine.

Oliver nods. He seems to understand, but still appears like something else is weighing on his mind. You really do smother your smile this time.

“Oliver,” you tell him, gently, “I also think that you might be a bit young for Lady Crowley.”

He blushes.

🗡️

You can barely see with your helmet on, so you keep it under your arm for the time being. You cut the figure of a man well enough anyway so for the moment there’s no need to worry about your face being on show. In fact, you’ve gained a reputation for being quite handsome.

Handsome but very spoken for. Apparently there was a lady discussing giving you her favour to joust, and Crowley spilt wine all over her skirts. Then again, she did the same when a knight rode up to ask to fight for Aziraphale’s honour, and suddenly found that his helmet crest had inexplicably burst into flames. 

Crowley knows how to mark her territory.

You run a hand over your horse’s nose, humming a soothing little note as she nickers and whinnies.

“I know it’s hot, girl. Let’s give them a show and then we’ll both get out of this damned armour.”

You saddle up, letting Oliver pass you your helmet and your shield. You ride as a freelancer so neither of them are burdened with some noble’s crest; instead you ride under your own: a pair of wings, one white, one black. A little nod to the two who matter the most to you.

You ride onto the field as horns herald the start of the joust. You know a few of the knights competing, and are well aware of your first opponent - Kenelm the agile, a man you’ve faced several times over and are at equals wins against. He nods at you from his steed, hailing the crowd as he’s announced. You look across the seating, and see Aziraphale and Crowley in the front row. Where they always are, whenever you compete. With an ineffable inevitability.

“And, riding under his own banner, Sir Kerkylas of Andros!”

Even with her glasses on you know Crowley is rolling her eyes at your chosen pseudonym. You ride up to the pair of them, grinning.

“Be careful,” Aziraphale begs for the umpteenth time. She passes you her favour: a little ring, golden, set with a pair of wings on it. 

“I will be,” you say, kissing her hand, then quieter: “You do remember that I can’t die?”

“Yes, but we don’t know if dismembering will do you any good!”

Crowley reaches over to present you her token, a pin embellished with a silver snake. You stow both in your saddlebag. 

“I’ll buy you a drink if you take the helmet clean off his head,” she whispers. 

“You’re on,” you agree. Crowley reaches out to caress your face, then stops and retreats abruptly.

“Better not lay that on too heavily. I think I might kill your squire.”

A glance over your shoulder reveals that Oliver looks like he might combust. Taking mercy on the poor boy, you nod your goodbyes to the two of them and ride up to greet Kenelm.

“Ken! Didn’t think I’d see you back in the saddle so soon after that humiliating defeat in Dover.”

Kenelm rolls his eyes but holds his tongue.

“Ah, Kerk. Sorry, didn’t see it was you. I was blinded by the pomp of your armour. I forget that you need to compensate for something.”

Ha, if only he knew. 

Despite the ribbing the two of you exchange a smile.

“Good luck, Ken. And remember, aim the lance at me. Poor Cynisca was dreadfully irritable after last time, when it seemed you were trying to skewer her flank.”

He grimaces at being reminded of the faux pas before putting his helmet on and readying himself. You trot to your side of the tilt where Oliver is heaving up your lance. 

“You’ll win,” he says confidently, “Kenelm always rides worse the earlier it is in the day. If you can get a solid enough hit in, it’s over, one round.”

“I hope that your faith in me isn’t misplaced, Oliver.”

You helmet up, resigning yourself to see what little of the world you can through the frog-lip, and clutch your lance. It’s heavy but you’re used to it by now. 

An expectant silence settles over the crowd. Aziraphale buries her face in Crowley’s shoulder.

“Oh, I can’t look–!”

The flag is waved, and you charge.

🗡️

You reflect on how Crowley never bought you that drink. She insisted that knocking a man clean off his horse didn’t count as taking his helmet off. A technicality, flimsy at best - but Aziraphale was too relieved at your victory to argue either side. You went on to place second at that particular tourney, the fire of it inciting you to ride to victory in your next. 

You stopped for a while after that. It was doing Aziraphale in a little, and you loved him too much to keep his nerves that frayed.

But, nowadays, reenactments are becoming somewhat of a fad. Usually you find them a little gauche, and it’s more than a bit uncomfortable to relive some aspects of your past, but you never truly lost your love for jousting. So you allow yourself a little vice in it. Your heart aches whenever you’re reminded of Oliver, but you kept tabs on his family, and his descendants are doing quite well. One of them lives in London and works for a charity helping LGBT youth. It seems fitting. 

Plus, Aziraphale is a lot calmer about you jousting this way. 

“Are you alright?” you ask the man you just took off his horse. He looks a little winded and gladly takes your help getting up.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Think it’s just my pride that’s bruised. You’re really good at this!”

You beam.

“I’ve had practice.”

You exchange socials so that he can follow up with any questions he might have, then turn to take your horse back to the tent the organisers have set up for you. Aziraphale and Crowley are waiting. Your angel has an ice-cream for you, which he passes over before tucking into his own.

“Who was he?” Crowley sniffs, peering over your shoulder. You roll your eyes.

“Just some kid interested in the sport. Stop being jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” he says, jealously.

“You did marvellously, my love,” Aziraphale interjects. You smile at him.

“Thank you, darling. I can be a fiend with a lance when I want to be. Even if I am a little out of practice.”

“Hmm, not out of practice as of last night,” Crowley says and Aziraphale chokes on his soft-serve. It’s good to know that even after seven hundred years, your sense of humour hasn’t changed a jot.

“Oh, and,” you say, reaching into your bag, “your favours. Returned to you after they brought me luck.”

Aziraphale slips his ring back on, Crowley affixes the pin to his jacket. Your hands linger on each other’s, as they usually do.

“Let’s go get a drink.”

“You didn’t remove his helmet, so I’m not buying.”

“Oh, you utter bastard.”

-

taglist: @angiestopit@dazed-soul@smile-eywa@staygoldsquatchling02@underratedboogeyman@specter-soltare@candlewitch-cryptic@cool-ontherun-world@emilynissangtr@willbedecided@cool-iguana@bdffkierenwalker @ilyatan @civil-groupie@foolishprincipalitee

[slytherhys]

Noctis Florere

Vampire AU - An Elriel Short Story

AN: Happy Halloween! 🎃

AO3

Chapter One: Bad Omens

In a village like Velaris, where the winters were deadly, and the nights deadlier still, there was no such thing as being too cautious.

Every afternoon, as the streets went from gold to cobalt, the echoes of locks clicking into place could be heard ringing through the village – such a definite sound, legend says, that it could too be heard across the Illyrian Mountains. As soon as the sun set, there was no window left open, no door left unlocked. To keep the cold away, of course, but something else as well. 

As it was, everyone in the kingdom of Prythian knew just how strange Velaris was – they heard the tales of people going missing under mysterious circumstances, of houses that seemed to move during the night. They heard whispers of how no animal seemed to ever cross the village's borders, other than the occasional bat or two. It was why no visitor ever lingered for too long, why their carriages seemed to pick up speed as soon as the rusty brass sign announced the name of the town (Velaris, city of starlight). Why their gazes turned unfocused, their horses restless, no one really knew - some said it was fear, some said it was something older than fear itself. It was why no one ever moved to Velaris – you were simply born here, and then you never left.

That is until, merely 6 years ago, the Archeron sisters came. Their carriage – an old wooden coach that seemed a few miles away from collapsing on itself, pulled by a stubborn, stocky horse they tenderly called father– stopped in front of a small cottage just shy of the city limits.

Their arrival had been odd enough to raise some eyebrows, but that they had arrived just as the sun fled from the sky, clear-faced and a spring in their steps, had driven even the more sceptical into lightening three extra candles. 

That night, not even the bravest dared look outside their windows. Nothing good ever graces the streets of Velaris at sundown, they would say, and so they ignored the wind that seemed just a bit more incessant against their windows, the noises that went beyond the arrival of three young girls. They simply turned off their lights, muttered three quick prayers to the Mother and rushed the youngest children to bed. 

There was simply no need to show bad luck a curious eye. Not when it could stare back.

That the youngest Archeron sister – a pretty little thing with stars in her eyes and a talent for the arts – disappeared no longer than a fortnight later didn't come as a surprise. The people knew what had lurked in the shadows as the young girls made Velaris their new home. They knew it was just a matter of time until one of them would be taken away, gone as if she never were in the first place. She hadn't made a sound - not a scream, not a gasp - but everyone knew exactly who had gotten to her.

The older sister, however, ignored such tales. Only a few days later - the amount of time it had taken her to gather enough supplies to face the cold of the mountains - Nesta Archeron left home, a too-large wool cape around her shoulders, a too-heavy burlap sack on her back, and a determined look on her beautiful face. A quiet conversation had taken place between her and sister, Elain Archeron, which had ended in a hushed goodbye and a resentful agreement. What they had discussed had stayed between them and that cursed horse that always seemed to be paying entirely too much attention.

Don’t know how that girl thinks she’ll survive, the villagers had said as they watched her leave, bitter words hidden beneath soft voices, not when they crawl the streets at night. Elain Archeron had heard their whispers, but she hadn't need to ask who they were. She knew - just as everybody knew - exactly what lived in the mountains.

The Wicked - the only name the Velarians ever allowed themselves to utter when talking about the terrible creatures that lived in the Mountains of Illyrian– the very same creatures they claimed had stolen Feyre Archeron, the ones they believed would take Nesta Archeron as well. With their keen sight and their sharp fangs, there was little that could defeat an Illyrian - they were honed by centuries of survival, predators in the purest form. And as the weeks went by and no one word ever came about the sisters' whereabouts, the villagers grew sure of what it meant, even if Elain Archeron refused to accept it.

Still, no matter how cursed – how marked – the sisters seemed to be, what with their night travels and their eerie disappearances, nothing so stop the people of Velaris from asking Elain Archeron to tend their gardens. 

The more cynical ones would say it was pity – the poor thing had lost both her sisters in a matter of days (something Elain still refuted ardently, that pitiful child) and all she had left was a rude horse and a small cottage to tend to. But the wisest ones - the people that were too smart to shrug it all off as superstitions - knew talent when they saw it, and there was no one more talented that Elain Archeron at keeping the Illyrian bastards away from their homes.

They hadn’t questioned how she knew, how she had learned such things, but it mattered little when, in just a matter of months, every single house in Velaris was surrounded by rosemary, thyme and just enough bushes of lavender. Purples and greens and pinks covered every garden in a lush display that ought to mock the vampires lurking in the shadows - and mock they did, for their wings weren't heard as often, for curses and hisses could be heard during the night, as if they kept trying to cross into places they weren't welcome in. Their fragrances, the people gathered, seemed to keep those damned fangs away from their backyards. 

And so, Elain Archeron – sisterless, innocent, as lovely as she was lonely – became revered in the village of Velaris. Ivy seemed to grow in every corner, the sickeningly sweet smell of the flowers tainting even the foulest booths of the market. No one left their homes after dark – no one was stupid enough to - but now they seemed to breathe a little easier. To sleep a little more deeply.  

Such was the relief, the glee, that no one ever remembered to ask why, exactly, the Archeron cottage seemed so different from all the others - instead of rosemary,  there were evening primroses, blooming only from sundown to sunrise. Instead of thyme, thistles, their prickles as sharp as teeth. And instead of lavender - sweet, innocent lavender - poppies, as scarlet as fresh blood. You need only to open an ancient tome on Botany to find out exactly what they did - who they summoned.

Which explained why, when the people of Velaris seemed to finally lay down to sleep, the door of the Archeron cottage would open and Elain would emerge - ever so lovely - her hands bare, her smile innocent, her voice as sweet as dew as she hummed an old tune about lost souls and tended to her little garden. And she smiled even as the thistles bit into her skin, and she hummed even as the air behind her seemed to stir. 

Yes, Elain was well respected for knowing how to keep the beasts that haunted the streets of Velaris far away, but had they ever wondered if maybe - just maybe - she knew exactly how to call to them as well? 

Elain raised her head slightly when she felt the air around her go still, a curious tilt to her head as she felt a presence behind her. Still, she remained silent, the blood slowly dripping down her fingers, waiting for him to talk first.

And he did. He always did. 

"Miss Archeron," A deep voice rumbled, dark as midnight and just as promising. Elain still didn't dare move. "I believe you called for me?"

[emilylawsons]

Hi friend! Adding another one for the kiss prompt list: “in case we don’t make it back” kiss for Tess/Joel please? 🤲🏼❤

Okay, I am terrible for letting this prompt sit here for months—literal months. (Also I’m still thinking about the ask you sent me this morning, but rest assured I saw it.)

Anyway, I got inspired and decided to give this a go and hopefully make you smile.

Hope you’re having a great weekend, and I hope you enjoy this. ❤️

-x-x-x-

The attack is unlike anything they’ve ever seen on Jackson. A group of raiders manage to take out an entire patrol and nearly make it past the gates. An entire section of wall needs to be reinforced, and most of the raiders manage to escape.

Tommy and a few other scouts manage to track them to a camp several miles away. They will attack again, and they have the ammo and man power to succeed if they aren’t snuffed out sooner.

The situation is delicate, but can lead to a haul of resources if they’re smart.

Joel rises at dawn the morning they plan to strike, leaving Tess asleep in their bed. Ellie stayed the night at Dina’s, so there’s no danger in her intervening. They’d both tried to talk him out of joining the attack.

But this is for them. This is for their safety, for their wellbeing.

Quietly, Joel dresses and gathers his gear, praying his wife doesn’t wake. He’d hidden his bag in the back of their downstairs closet while Tess was on duty in the gardens yesterday. It doesn’t take much for him to dig it back out.

However, as he hauls the strap of the backpack over his shoulder and clicks the closet door shut, he hears someone clear their throat and turns to find Tess.

Fully dressed. Her own backpack hanging on her shoulders.

“You goin’ somewhere?” he asks.

Her arms are folded across her chest, and she has that disapproving, judgmental furrow in her brow.

“I was gonna ask you the same thing,” she counters.

“Got a last minute patrol.”

She groans. “Dammit, Joel. We agreed on this. You said you weren’t gonna fuck around with this one.”

“We’re in danger, Tess!” he growls. “Ellie is in danger. We’re about to lose our livelihoods, and you think I’m just gonna sit around?”

“I wish you would.”

Blood boiling, he steps into her space. “You really wanna go back?” he asks her. “You really wanna go back to not knowing if we’re gonna wake up the next day? Not knowing where our next meal is comin’ from?”

“Of course not—”

“Then I’m doing this.”

He turns around to leave, but she grabs his wrist, yanking him back. “I know you’re doing this,” she tells him. “I know I can’t stop you. But you know what I can do?”

“What?”

She grasps the straps of her bag. “I’m going with you.”

“Like hell.”

He tries to push past her, but she stops him with a hand on his chest. “You think you can stop me anymore than I can stop you?”

“Look, Tess, just please—”

“No!” she bellows. “Hell no. You and I both know we’re the only people each other trusts to protect us. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it together. Like it’s always been.”

Her eyes pierce his, challenging him to fight her. There’s no way she’s going to budge on this, and she’ll get herself killed to prove a goddamn point.

“Fuck.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fine then.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Grunting, he trudges out the door, muttering, “We’re gonna be late.”

By the time they arrive at the stables, everyone is already loaded up and ready. Tommy gives him some shit about running behind but can’t say much when he’s stopping to say his goodbyes to Maria and Gabe.

Outside, he and Tess lead their horses and get them saddled. He helps her strap on her gear, patting the horse as he watches her adjust the stirrups. Watches her holster her pistol and strap her rifle to her back.

It strikes him how calm she is, as though they’re not about to face a group of well-armed bandits out for everything they’ve got. As thought they’re not both likely to die today.

It’s why he loves her.

She appears to be having trouble when she moves on to fixing the bridle, so he steps in.

“Here, let me—”

“I can do it.” She bats him away, and he doesn’t fight her.

He does, however, place his hands on her shoulders. Maybe she doesn’t need his help, but he needs to touch her; needs to feel her whole and solid before they embark on this potential suicide mission.

While he believes their luck has served them this long, it strikes him that today could be the day it runs out. And if this is all they’ve got left, he just needs to remember this. Remember her.

She finishes tbe bridle and melts into his touch. “What, Joel?”

With their two horses shielding them from the rest of the group, he spins her around, sweeping her up into his arms. And with everything in him, he crushes his lips to hers, savoring the taste of her until they’re both breathless.

“What was that for?” she asks when the finally separate.

His palm rests on her cheek, and he feels his heart clench when she tilts her head to press her lips to it.

He shakes his head. “Just needed it.”

She brushes her lips, softly this time, against his before mounting her horse. He follows her lead, trotting his own horse in stride with hers.

Maybe he’ll die today. Maybe he won’t. But whatever happens, she’s next to him. More than twenty years in, she’s still here. Still his.

As they pass Dina’s place, he thinks of Ellie, probably still sound asleep. Blissfully unaware of what they’re doing and strong enough to make it without them if they don’t come back.

And if they do make it back, they’re both his to hold. To protect.

That, he decides, is enough.

[anonymoushouseplantfan]

Have you read this part of the book, Plant?! I'm screaming. Harry is recounting the Whole Foods pap walk as told to him by Meghan. The lies! Meghan sounds unhinged & like a pathological liar with this description lol At least, make the story believable, M🙄

In the actual pap photos, no one was around her or chasing her lol It looked like no one even knew who she was.

“Still, despite the mounting stress, the terrible pressure, we managed to protect our essential bond, never snapping at each other during those few days. As we came to the final hours of her visit, we were solid, happy, and Meg announced she wanted to make me a special goodbye lunch.There was nothing in my fridge, as usual. But there was a Whole Foods down the street. I gave her directions, the safest route, past the Palace guards, turn right, towards Kensington Palace Gardens, down to Kensington High Street, there’s a police barrier, take a right and you’ll see Whole Foods. It’s massive, you can’t miss it.I had an engagement but I’d be home soon.Baseball cap, jacket, head down, side gate. You’ll be fine, I promise.Two hours later, when I got home, I found her inconsolable. Sobbing. Shaking.What is it? What’s happened?She could barely get the story out.She’d dressed just as I’d advised, and she’d run happily, anonymously, up and down the supermarket aisles. But as she rode the escalator a man approached. Excuse me, do you know where the exit is?Oh, yes, I think it’s just up here to the left[…]”

“He whipped out his phone and followed her to the deli counter, snapping away while she looked at the turkey. F the turkey, she thought, hurrying to the checkouts. He followed her there too.She got into the queue. Before her were rows and rows of magazines and newspapers, and on all of them, under the most shocking and disgusting headlines…was her. The other customers noticed as well. They looked at the magazines, looked at her, and now they too pulled out their phones, like zombies.Meg caught two cashiers sharing a horrible smile. After paying for her groceries, she walked outside, straight into a group of four men with their iPhones aimed at her. She kept her head down, rushed up Kensington High Street. She was nearly home when a horse-drawn carriage came rolling out of Kensington Palace Gardens. Some sort of parade: the Palace gate was blocked. She was forced back along the main road, where the four men picked up the scent again, and chased her all the way to the main gate, screaming her name.”

That was wild. “The four men picked up the scent again…” good lord.

[mosneakers]

As planned, Coraleye and Tycho spend their last night of their trip riding horseback, with Oddball and Peachy Dream guiding them through the rolling hills of Chestnut Ridge.

Though undeniably romantic, the air is thick with an undercurrent of melancholia. Not only is tonight is their last night this quaint little town they've lovingly called home during their stay, but Tycho also struggles with the weight of the guilt and secrets he reluctantly harbors from her. All he can hope for now, is that she doesn't pick up on this tension.

The sun begins to set, and a few fireworks can be heard blasting off in the distance marking the celebrations of the night. Oddball appears a little skittish, but he looks to Peachy Dream to set his nerves at ease. Coraleye: Remember last 4th of Summer? We've come a long way since then, haven't we darling?

Tycho: Ugh, how can I forget? I'm ashamed of how consumed with jealousy I was back then. But jealousy aside, it was a beautiful night. I remember wanting you so badly. Coraleye: [Slight smile] Well, now you have me. Tycho: [Affectionate sigh] Now I have you.

Coraleye possibly interprets his sigh in the wrong way, but takes his inflection in jest as a small mischievous grin forms over her lips.

Coraleye: [sarcastically] Wow, don't sound TOO terribly excited about it... [Canters off with Peachy Dream to find another spot]

Tycho: Wait! Slow down! Tycho guides Oddball to follow, but he's already doing so without direction, trailing Peachy Dream's every move.

Tycho: Really! I am excited. Beyond excited... I'm... bewildered! Coraleye: [Laughs] Bewildered!

Tycho: Yes, absolutely. I question how I got so lucky every day, Cor. And honestly... [Takes a deep breath] it makes me a little sad, because I can say with almost perfect certainty that I won't be so lucky to celebrate next year with you.

Coraleye: [Confused chuckle] What? That's silly, why would you say something like that? Are you planning on breaking up with me or something? Tycho: What? No, never! I just... I guess you and I have a unique relationship, that doesn't seem logically sustainable, and everyday I feel like I'm waiting to lose you. And yes, it's my fault, but still.

Coraleye doesn't respond. Tycho panics for a split second but then realizes she must be under the assumption he's referring to her unique requirements for marriage, and how he doesn't qualify.

Finally she looks at him and flashes a smile. Her hair billows in the wind and the fireworks erupt behind her, like a perfect dazzling backdrop for a potential final goodbye.

Coraleye: Stop thinking about the future. Maybe you're right. Maybe something horrible will happen between us and our worlds will come crashing down around us. That's kinda how these things go, anyway. But if there's nothing that can be done about it, and we're sure about that- let's just enjoy each other like we'll go on forever. Because I know our love will anyway.

Tycho is quiet for a moment. He feels his stomach flip, but then nods in agreement. Tycho: Damn, I just want to kiss you so bad right now, but we're on these horses. Coraleye: Nothing worthwhile ever comes easy, babe. [beckons Tycho with finger gesture]

While still mounted on horseback, Tycho leans in to kiss Coraleye, and nearly falls off his horse.

Coraleye: Oop! Careful, clumsy. [Laughter]

Tycho: I hope you're trying to kill me. Coraleye: You're not that lucky, my love.