#its not goodbye forever. not when he still thinks he can turn back time

[fioiswriting]

Reunion | Sequel

[Part 1]

Summary : After the Battle Above the Gods Eye, Daemon returned victorious. Aemond was presumed dead, though his body was never found. Three years later, you've mourned your former husband and are ready to move on. But it seems that some ghosts from your past have come back to haunt you, and that the dead aren't really dead after all...

Rating : Explicit 18+, MDNI

Pairing : Aemond x Velaryon/Strong!niece!Reader

TW : unprotected sex, breeding kink, mention of characters death, angst, possessiveness, p in v sex, oral f receiving, dom/sub undertones, mention of war, AU where the Blacks won the war, anxiety, Reader has a child, grief, fluff, pregnancy, not proofread. 

Reader is Rhaenyra and Harwin’s daughter so I imagined her with dark hair like Jace, Luke and Joffrey but feel free to imagine her as you want of course <3

Words count : 9150

Author's note : Hello everyone!! Sorry for the wait, I've been very busy, but here's part two of Reunion (or at least the first part two, let's call it part 2.1 hehe). Thank you again for all you kind comments and the love you've given my fanfic omg!! Spoiler alert: this is the happy alternate ending! But I've got another bittersweet alternative ending planned 😈 If you think the first part was good enough on its own and the sequel may break the vibe, don't force yourself to read!! But if you need a happy ending, here it is <3 The plot still doesn't make any sense, but hey, we're here to have fun so enjoy ❤️

English is still not my first (or second) language, so sorry for the grammar mistakes <3

When you wake up, the first thing you feel is the reassuring embrace of his arms around you. You don't want to move, not even when the sunlight tickles your face through the opening between the wooden shutters, trying to make the moment last endlessly. But the growing anxiety in your stomach chases away the illusion of your fleeting happiness. 

You close your eyes a little tighter. Perhaps if you try again, perhaps if you try harder, the world around you can fade away.

Perhaps you can wake up again, in a different reality.

But it's inevitable. You know that now you're awake, it's only a matter of time before the two of you have to say goodbye forever. Your breathing becomes heavier, and you have to fight the tingling sensation at the corners of your eyes.

Why have the gods decided to be so cruel to you? They grant you one last taste of his skin on your lips before taking it from you, again. 

Haven't you given enough? 

Could they not show you mercy? 

You who had forgotten him, you who had begun to turn a new page, to seek comfort in the arms of the cold, far away from the fire and the ashes, why did you have to touch the poison that would once again stain your soul?

Behind you, Aemond buries his long nose in your hair. His hand absently caresses the skin of your thigh, just where the edge of the linen tunic you put on sometime during the night when you were cold ends. The fabric is pulled up, revealing the outline of your bottom, and you can already feel your uncle hardening between his thighs, but you don't move.

If you move, you'll make everything more real. Tangible.

You'll speed up the process of losing him, of him slipping through your fingers. 

How can you let him go, now that your heart is full again, now that you feel complete in a way you haven't felt for over three years?

How can you let him go, now that your body has retrieve the extension of itself in the arms of the man who was the cause of your torment, your moments of joy, your pain and, paradoxically, your happiness?

"I know you're awake."

You hold your breath and Aemond inhales into your hair. His hand moves down the inside of your thigh, along the hollow that joins it to your groin. He doesn't venture any further. 

His thumb rests there and brushes your skin, trying to arouse the desire in you with gentleness.

Subtly.

 He doesn't want to hurry, he doesn't want to rush you.

Not when he's been harbouring the impossible fantasy of waking up with you in his arms since the day he nearly died.

He presses harder against you, as if he doesn't want to let you go, as if he wants to be one with you again, and you feel him pulsing against your buttocks, under the linen cloth that has been pulled up a little higher. He says nothing, but he is pleading, needy, in his gestures, which is rare for him.

Something has changed, after all, and perhaps something has changed in him too. 

"I am awake, indeed, " you whisper in a voice that is still half asleep. The lump in your throat betrays the feeling of anxiety gradually creeping into your body, and Aemond seems to notice. Under your tunic, his hand moves up along your belly until it nestles against your chest, close to your heart. His thumb draws small circles, once again trying to bring you back to him.

Trying to calm your mind.

"Let us forget for a little longer," he whispers, his clenched jaw resting over your head. "Please." 

And you know he never begs. 

Aemond takes and doesn't ask.

Aemond believes he is owed everything and never gives in return.

Hearing him beg breaks something inside you, because this is the first time he does so.

Usually it was you, it was always you, begging for peace, begging for more, begging him not to leave you.

Part of him is as desperate as you are; part of him also dreads the moment when you will have to part again. Forever. It's comforting to know that his feelings are sincere, just like yours.

" Make me forget, then." You reply, moving your lower loins back against him, giving him tacit permission to explore your body once more. His fingers move down to your breasts, which he covers softly with his hand, his thumb skimming over a nipple to make it hard. You let out a gasp between your parted lips.

His hand slides lower, his palm flat against your lower belly, his fingertips brushing the light patch of hair at the top of your mound. You feel the familiar warmth growing between your thighs, in your core.

He sighs against the back of your skull, his head tilted forward. His lips search the skin at the nape of your neck, behind the long hair that has become tangled during the night, while his fingers intimately explore the secrets of your body that he knows all too well. The remnants of last night's lovemaking still smear the insides of your thighs and folds, but it doesn't matter; his fingers easily find the little bundle of nerves that they tease until you close your eyes, until your hand grips the damp, shabby sheet that covers the ragged mattress in the inn where you've spent the night.

Just the both of you, in the comfort of anonymity. 

"Let me taste you". His voice, still husky, tickles the back of your neck and you feel him shift behind you. When you feel the warmth of his bare chest, against which you're nestled, leave your back, your body automatically tries to move back against him. You still need him. You still need him to chase away the lump of anxiety in the pit of your stomach and the voices that keep reminding you that you're only postponing the fateful moment. Your hand slips under your white tunic and wraps around his wrist to force him to stay there, to hold his fingers against the source of heat spreading from your core. Your hips are demanding, grinding against his hand. "On your back," he insists, and stands up on his forearms.

With reluctance you turn over. You obey, lying on your back, your hair spilled around your head on the flat, uncomfortable pillow on which you slept badly. The white tunic that serves as your nightgown is pulled up, crumpled, just above your crotch, which it barely conceals. 

Aemond has swung over your body, silvery strands loosening from the braid that holds his hair behind his head and sliding down his shoulders, falling in loose loops on either side of his face, tickling your cheeks.

His lilac-tinted blue eye glows with a predatory gaze, a ray of light catching in the sapphire he hasn't removed from his socket. 

He captures your lips with his own, begging for access. Aemond marks your jaw and throat with light kisses, sucking at your collarbone to make the violets of possessiveness with which he likes to adorn your body bloom. His lips travel down your chest, playing with one of the two small nipples raised by the cool air and by desire, and continue their journey past your navel. 

Your heartbeat quickens as he settles between your legs, spreading your thighs to admire the part of you he covets so eagerly. At the same time you bend your legs, your gaze falling on him, on his unravelled hair, on his eye that locks with yours. He is so close to you, so close to your warm centre, and you know that between your folds the sweet nectar that your uncle longs to taste is already flowing.

But his lips trace the inside of your thighs instead, where the skin is soft and tender, and gradually they reach the hollow that connects them to your most intimate part. He takes a malicious pleasure in building up the tension, in savouring every millimetre of you like a fine delicacy, with only the tip of his lips brushing against your skin.

His thumbs spread the tender flesh of your womanhood and then he places a chaste kiss on the very centre of you. His tongue is shy at first, tracing the slit that connects your entrance to your little knob, collecting the evidence of your desire.

As his tongue wraps around your nub, your hands grip the sheets, knuckles white. 

Aemond drinks from your essence like a thirsty man, his nose buried between your folds, rubbing your pearl.

The tip of his tongue catches what drips from your opening, and then the flat of his tongue tastes your slit, working its way up to the little nub gorged with desire. 

He maintains the same rhythm, revelling in the moans that escape from your half-open lips. Soon his middle finger begins to draw circles against your entrance, the first knuckle sliding inside, then the whole finger. Your head is thrown back and immediately your hand buries itself in his silvery hair, gripping his braid in a messy bun behind the top of his head. Forcing his face against the most intimate part of your body, forcing his lips to work on your wet warmth, you seek more contact. 

Aemond adds a second finger. He can feel you tighten around him as he searches for that particular spot, as his tongue continues to play with your bundle of nerves.

As he devours what is his, utterly his.

His fingers, the ones that aren't buried inside you, close around the flesh of your hip in a possessive grip. "Come for me," he whispers against your womanhood, his eyes lifted to you. "I know you can do it."

Your breathing becomes more erratic, faster too. You tighten the grip of your fingers in his hair, your thighs pressing either side of his face, and he collects the sweet taste of your release on his tongue with a hum. 

You feel like you're floating. The waves of warmth still wash over you, less and less intense, your breast rising and falling as you catch your breath. 

Your hand tucks a lock of his hair back behind his ear as Aemond lifts his face towards you, and you rest your hand against his cheek. His parted lips still glisten with your desire smeared across the lower part of his face. He stares at you without moving, his deep, regular breathing the only sound to break the silence that has followed your release. You stay like that for a moment, his gaze burning into yours. At any moment he might pounce on you. At any moment he might close the tiny distance separating your mouths and press his lips against yours like the starving man he is.

It's you who makes the first move. You taste yourself on his lips and your tongue entwines with his in a fiery, demanding kiss.

Straightening up, Aemond creeps between your legs, his hand on the underside of your thighs, holding them apart. He is still completely naked from the night before, he has not bothered to get dressed after your lovemaking, so you can catch a glimpse of his erect manhood, slightly curved. He wraps his hand around to guide it towards your still sensitive wet entrance.

He slides into you easily, in one slow movement. The haste of the night before, the urgency of the reunion, has given way to the tenderness and laziness of the early morning, and Aemond rocks inside you slowly. His hips undulate, punctuated by long, deep thrusts, in an illusion of domesticity. 

But the damp sheets, rough against your skin, the discomfort of the hard mattress beneath your back, remind you that your lovemaking is anything but domestic.

For Aemond is still the enemy, for Aemond is supposed to be dead.

For your family is probably looking for you at this very moment, worried that you have not returned home for the night.

But you push those thoughts away. The weight of your uncle's body on top of yours soothes the knot that forms in the pit of your stomach at the thought of time slipping away, at the thought of having to leave him again, at the thought of this being the last time you will taste his lips, his skin.

Aemond is gentle, and that is rare enough to be worth mentioning. He has never been so gentle, so soft, in the limited time that you have been married.

Between you, there had been the devouring, consuming passion, the power play that in your submission had granted you dominance.

Between you it had been raw and devastating more than gentle and tender.

His fingers run the length of your body to your core, combining his slow, deep thrusts with the movement of his fingers against your clit.

There are only few words exchanged between you, as if you were both afraid to break the grace of the moment.

His panting, noisy breath echoes in the silence, skimming the skin of your throat, then mingling with yours as the shadow of his lips brushes against yours. He rests his forehead against yours, your hand cupping his cheek, sliding behind his neck, and you are transported into a cocoon of intimacy where nothing else exists around you.

There is only his body against yours, warm and reassuring.

There is only him inside you and the slow movement of his hips.

There is only your breathing, blending in the space that separates your mouths.

"Do you know how much I've missed you?" He whispers against your lips as you close your thighs around him. "How much I dreamed of this tight little cunt?" You swallow his words. Your hips meet his as he pushes against you. He is reaching deep inside you. Despite the intimacy of the moment, his body oozes power and darkness, and you can't help but be drawn to that side of him that complements yours so well. 

You can't stop your body from aching for him. 

"You could have been my queen," he says as his movements grow stronger. He won't last long, but neither will you. He's inside you, where you like to feel him, and your walls clench around his member. "And I would have set the whole world on fire for you." He thrusts. "Burned it to the ground" He thrusts again. "All for you." And again.

The old wood of the bed creaks with each of his movements.

You seek out his lips, just to brush them against yours. 

Without sealing the kiss.

"And I would have accepted," you answer with a whimper. "I would have been your queen, qybor." In another life, you think you would.

In another life, in another universe, you would have been his queen.

A grunt escapes his lips and lands in the hollow of your ear. Aemond straightens on his bent elbow, right next to your head, and he plunges into you one last time, with more power, more vigour, just as his new position allows.

You close your eyes. 

A second wave of warmth is about to engulf your body.

And you wait for it, you welcome it.

"Look at me when I come inside you," he growls hoarsely as his seed pours deep inside you, into the most intimate part of your body. "Look at me as I fill you up."

Your eyes lock with his, fiery as ever. A final moan escapes between your lips and you seal them to your uncle's in a feverish, wet kiss. You hold him in your arms for a moment longer, as if to allow yourself the luxury of illusion for a brief instant. 

You delay the fateful moment a little longer, fighting the minutes that inevitably slip through your fingers.

"Stay inside me just a little longer," you whisper, burying your head in the hollow of his neck where you can feel the rapid rhythm of his pulse. His arms close around you, holding you tight against him, and you hear him purr against the hair on the crown of your head. He rocks you gently.

The silence welcomes you both into its embrace and you savour it like a treasure. Your body aches in the sweetest way, your insides throbbing around his softening manhood. 

And around you, nothing exists anymore.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** 

"I've changed, you know." His hoarse voice vibrates against you, but you refuse to meet his eyes. You keep them closed. 

You're not sure if Aemond has really changed. Aemond is ruthless, cold, brutal, calculating, merciless. Cruel. You're not sure if Aemond can ever change, but he shows unusual tenderness, and maybe, just maybe, you allow yourself to doubt. You indulge in the illusion. 

Perhaps Vhagar's death has broken something in him. 

Perhaps it's true, perhaps he's not the same man anymore.

He's not sorry for what he has done. He never will be. He's too proud, even if you can catch the glimmer of remorse that colours his icy eyes when he is not looking at you.

Does he think of your little brother? Is he haunted by the memory of him, as you have been for so many years?

Does he think of the innocents he killed without flinching, the blood he spilled in the Riverlands that now stains the burned grass? 

Is his sanity slowly being eaten away by the atrocities he has committed with his own hands? 

He has changed. You are not sure if he's changed for the better or for the worse, but he has indeed.

Daemon has changed too. So has Rhaenyra. So has Jace.

You too have changed.

For war changes people, war makes them weary and wary, it shatters something in the body that will never be the same again. It hollows out the roundness of the cheeks, it deepens the dark circles under the eyes, it fades the sparkle of childhood that remains in the eyes.

Aemond seems to be waiting for an answer, but the words remain stuck in your throat. I know, you want to whisper, I know, but suddenly you've forgotten how to speak. His thumb draws the soft line of the underside of your breast.

The future terrifies you more than ever. You had made peace with your past, you had come to a conclusion that, even if it pained you, had given you some respite. 

Seeing your uncle alive had reawakened your demons. 

Spending the night in the embrace of his arms had revived everything you had buried deep, deep down. 

The past had returned, creeping towards you, gnawing at the corners of your heart and at what remained of your sense of stability and certainty. 

Now you are plunged into doubt. 

Just as you were a little over three years ago, when you were informed of his death, when you had to learn to live with the choice that had never really been given to you.

Just as three years ago, when you noticed a familiar lilac-tinged blue in Rhaegar's eyes.

Like when you had to live with the memories that haunted you, that were slowly eating away at what little sanity you had left.

Like when you finally decided to leave for the North.

Aemond seems to sense your anguish, because his fingers get lost in your hair. 

"What are we going to do now?" 

Finally, you dare to utter the inevitable words that have been hanging on the tip of your tongue since you woke up, words you've swallowed so many times this morning. You immediately blame yourself. 

Saying them only makes them more real.

They tear at something in the imaginary cocoon you've built for yourselves. You bury your face against his skin, breathe in his scent, as if you never want to forget him.

For you know how fleeting memories can be.

You remember how his face faded with each passing day.

You don't know if you'll ever be able to experience it a second time.

"We could leave," Aemond replies, as his fingers venture to your jaw, caressing the line of your cheeks with the back of his knuckles. 

He's so pragmatic, as always.

Even in this situation.

Even now.

It makes you want to shake him.

"We could run away," he says again. His gaze, fixed in the distance, falls on you at the same moment. "To Essos. Pentos. No one would know who we are." You close your eyes, and let his hoarse voice lull you into silence. "To start our own family, the three of us."

You know he is not serious. Even though he looks at you with such insistence, with that flame that flickers in the centre of his iris.

You relish his fantasy, this impossible dream. 

But you can't leave your family; Essos is not Winterfell. There, they knew where to find you. They knew you were safe. They knew you were sheltered between the walls of the northern castle, under the heavy furs, under the protection of Cregan Stark.

Essos is the unknown.

You cannot let your mother lose her only daughter, not after everything she has already lost. 

The itch is familiar, tickling at the corners of your eyes. There was a time when you thought you'd lost that sensitivity. When you thought the war had left you cold, incapable of feeling anything. Incapable of crying.

"You know I can't." Your nose rubs against his milky skin, made clammy by sweat. You keep your eyes closed because you feel the weight of his cold gaze on you, his furrowed eyebrows as he stares at you blankly, his lips pursed in a long, thin line. You don't have the courage to meet his accusing gaze, let alone the wounded look on his face as you crush all his illusory dreams into dust. 

When did you become the more pragmatic of the two? 

When did you become the one responsible for bringing Aemond back to reality?

It used to be you, the one who filled your mind with unrealistic dreams, the one who dreamed of stories and fairy tales, back when you could still dream. "They need me, you know that."

A sneer stretches across your uncle's lips as he swallows a chuckle that sounds more like an ironic growl. You feel his whole body tense against yours, a sign that he's holding back his annoyance. 

A sign that he has something to say, that he's upset, but doesn't quite know how to put it into words. 

"Like they needed you back then?" he replies scathingly, bitterness on the tip of his tongue. "When they used you as a bargaining chip to achieve their ends, hm?"  

Your red cheeks burn with shame, as if he'd slapped you. You don't move, merely swallow hard. You know there's something right about what he is saying, but you don't want to admit it. 

You've done your duty.

You've done what is expected of you as a daughter.

It was not a question of them using you. It never was. 

It was your duty, only your duty, what you were always meant to perform, wasn't it?

And yet a small voice in the back of your head had already given you a similar speech, a few years ago, but you had tried to silence it.

You refused to let Aemond admit it. You refuse to allow him to do it. He had no idea, no right to criticise your family when he'd acted like that.

When he has done what he has done.

He has no idea what it is like to be a daughter.

You don't answer, and silence falls between you again.

You wish so desperately that he could go home with you; that he could tell them that he's sorry.

You wish it were easier. 

There is no one left to wait for Aemond but you, but his son, you know that. His family has been decimated, as has yours in some ways, though you still have your parents and your older brother.

For your uncle, there's nothing left but the shadow of his existence, the shadow of who he once was, long ago.

You let your hand trace the side of his throat, your nose buried against it, your lips hovering over his skin. You lean against him, your body on top of his, pressed together as if you were afraid to let him go.

"You could come with me instead," you whisper, but you refuse to meet his gaze. There's something shameful in the words you've just spoken aloud, something naive, and your burning cheeks are proof of your embarrassment.

Almost imperceptibly, he clenches beneath you, holding his breath. This is a bad idea and you feel stupid. Naive to have dared to suggest something like this.

His voice purrs in a hm that vibrates against you. He's about to say something. He searches for words. "You know that -"

"I know." You cut him off sharply - a little more than you would have liked, your eyes raised to silence him.

You know what he thinks.

He thinks that Rhaenyra will never be his queen. He thinks he will never bend the knee to his eldest sister and her authority, which he doesn't recognise.

He thinks that with the death of Aegon, with the death of the children his brother fathered with Helaena, the throne belongs to him.

And you are aware of his ambitions. You know how perfectly the conqueror's crown fits his head. You know how it sets off the sapphire embedded in his eye socket. You remember the look of greed in his eyes every time he stared at the Iron Throne, you remember the look of pride on his face every time he scorned anyone who dared to question his decisions as Prince Regent.

You know how mercilessly he made the soldiers at Harrenhal kneel, forcing them to contemplate their impending deaths. You know the terror he has sown throughout the Riverlands.

Even in the Seven Hells you could have found more mercy than at the hands of Aemond Targaryen.

Aemond may have changed, but you're not sure he's changed enough to put aside the pride that is consuming him from within.

You take a deep breath. "You don't really have a choice, qybor." 

Fearing his reaction, you curl into a fetal position, your back to him, your knees drawn up to you. You close your eyes. You wait for his frustration.

You wait for his sentence.

You know that he is aware that he has no choice. 

He has only two options: swallow his pride or sink back into the abyss, disappear into the dark meanders of oblivion.

Rhaegar needed his father, of course, but you found him a father in Cregan Stark. 

That was a sacrifice you were willing to make.

There was no way you would give up what family you had left.

For Rhaegar needed his grandparents and his uncle even more.

Behind you, you feel your uncle's hand slip under your tunic and around your body, pulling you against him. He presses his bare chest against your back, tucking your head under his chin. His hand caresses your stomach, then his fingers brush the base of your breast.

"You know she will never be my queen. You know the throne belongs to -" But he lets the words drop without finishing the sentence, the knowledge of what he was about to say hanging in the air between you. 

As long as he remains alive, will the embers of war never truly be extinguished? 

You don't know, but you accept the risk. 

You close your eyes, as if you're about to jump into the icy depths with both feet.

"The rest is up to you, Aemond," you whisper, barely audible. "And if you have truly changed, then you will know how to make the right choice."

He says nothing. 

You savour the last few minutes of illusion you have left.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** 

The fear of making the wrong choice never really leaves you, but your mother chases your fears away, as she so often did when you were a child, tucking one of your dark curls behind your ear. She has her distinctive little smirk on her lips, the one that pulls the corner of her lips up towards her nose.  

The same one Lucerys had, you think sadly. 

You still miss him, even after all this time, and sometimes you wonder what kind of young man he would have become.

"You're a clever girl, my sweet clever girl," she whispers against your forehead as she cradles you in her arms. She's as beautiful as ever, as gentle with you as ever, despite the years, despite the wear and tear of war that has hardened her features and hollowed her cheeks. "And I know you have made the right decision." She lifts your chin with her forefinger to look into your eyes, and you feel like you're turning back into that shy, insecure girl who disappeared somewhere in the violence of the war all those years ago.

 "And if it should turn out that you were wrong... Daemon will be there to intervene. You know he is just waiting for that." You roll your eyes at her attempt at humour, and she plants a kiss on your forehead. 

For a split second, you truly are that carefree little girl again.

But behind your mother's humour lie fragments of reality that make your laughter bitter.

The news of your husband's survival remains a hazy blur in your mind. Sometimes you're not sure if this conversation really occurred or if you're dreaming.

You're not sure if what's around you, if the night you spent in Aemond's arms, is real or an invention of your sick mind.

Sometimes you're not really conscious of the events or how long they lasted, the lump in your stomach grows back, and once again you're destined to carve half-moons marks in the palms of your hands to soothe the tension in your body.

You told your mother first because you knew she'd be more understanding. As a mother, as a woman, she knows the meaning behind certain silences, the weight of words, the unspoken words that float between sentences. 

You know she can understand your pain and your doubts, but also your love and your compassion.

She was shocked when you told her that her younger brother was still alive. She smoothed her dress, paced back and forth, then took the time to sit down, her eyebrows furrowed, her eyes riveted to your face, looking for clues that would betray what you were thinking, what you might be hiding. She was afraid that he had hurt you. She was afraid that he would rip you away from her, just as he had once ripped your little brother away from her.

Her fingers had gently taken your hand and her thumb had drawn little circles on the back of your hand to comfort you. She listened to you first as you confessed everything. 

Where you were that night when you didn't come home. 

Who you were with.

And then she took you in her arms. She reassured you. Soothed you. 

You had been so afraid of disappointing her, of disappointing all of them, that the tension paralysing your body had finally loosened and you burst into tears.

Things had proved more complicated with Daemon. When he learned that his nephew was alive, that he wasn't forgotten forever in the deep waters of the lake near Harrenhal, he refused to believe you. He was furious. He said he had seen him fall, that he was the one who had taken his life, tearing the sky apart.

You didn't know where to look, and it was in your mother's eyes that you sought support, comfort, anything in the face of your stepfather's rage. You could feel on you the look of disappointment of your brother, Jace, as he held his shoulders up and his chin high. He wanted to prove that one day he would be a good king. With his jaw clenched, he said nothing, looking at you as if you were suddenly so foreign to him. He probably didn't know what to say, for fear of being clumsy, for fear of unintentionally hurting you, even more than by his lack of support. 

You know it wasn't his fault. 

He simply couldn't understand.

The words stuck in your throat and you found yourself unable to speak, pearls glittering in the corners of your eyes while you waited impatiently for the final blow.

The final death knell that would seal your disgrace in everyone's eyes.

After all you'd endured.

Daemon stood before you, his eyebrows furrowed, his eyes hard. He was staring at you as if you'd committed the ultimate treason, and you knew he was controlling himself to keep his anger from exploding. "You're going to bring him to me," he had hissed, his hand closing over your shoulder. 

" You will lure him here and he will be put to the sword." His tone left no room for argument. With the tension growing in your stomach, you sought your mother's compassionate look to calm you. You could see the fury in your stepfather's eyes, and also a mixture of fear and feelings of betrayal. You knew that, deep down, he was afraid for you because he considers you his daughter. Because Baela and Rhaena are like sisters to you. 

It was his reaction you feared most, not your mother's. His fingers dug into your skin, the floor slipping out from under you, the room swaying dangerously, and your mother had come to your rescue, trying to calm things down with her usual diplomacy.

You can't quite remember the words your stepfather said; in anger he muttered something that sounded like are you really thinking of becoming his whore again? and the words hurt like hell, but you tried to swallow the pain.

 Endure, hold your head high. That was what you had learned.

Your mother had suggested you go back to your room or spend some time with Rhaegar, her fingers gently stroking your dark locks, and as soon as you left the throne room you could hear their voices echoing through the door. 

They were arguing.

Over you.

Because of you, again.

You took a deep breath and returned to the gardens, where your two stepsisters were making your son laugh by playing with him. They had fun running around in the damp grass to the applause of Baela's little daughter, who clapped her little hands in delight.

Your fingers were still trembling when you joined them.

In the end a solution was found, for your mother feared losing you a second time. 

She remembered what had happened to Laenor, your father, when he had grown tired of the court.

She remembered what had happened to Helaena, your sweet aunt, when she could no longer bear to suffer.

It was her worst nightmare to see you torn from her again, now that she had the chance to hold you in her arms every day, to protect you again, to see you grow again.

It was her worst nightmare to see her only daughter, her only daughter and the second of her only surviving children, taken from her. 

You and Jace were all she had left of her own blood.

After long negotiations with Daemon, you had managed to bargain for your husband's life in exchange for strict conditions; increased surveillance, no bonding with a new dragon, no carrying of weapons, and the assurance that he would be executed if there was the slightest doubt about him. You proposed that you and he leave the capital, with your son as well. To return to Dragonstone. To start over on a new, blank page in a book that was already too damaged.

For you, it was also a way to ease the tensions between your family and Aemond, and perhaps find a more intimate life with your husband and son.

Rhaenyra had declared that this was the best solution: a guarantee for her to have you by her side again, a guarantee for her that you would be there.

You had been afraid of Aemond's reaction, afraid that his ego would not bear it; that he would refuse, that he would rather sentence himself to his own death than to an existence as a prisoner within his own family, condemned to live as a shadow of the man he had once been in exchange for seeing his son grow up. 

But in the end, wasn't he doomed to live as a shadow of the man he had once been, anyway?

He would never be the rider of Vhagar again.

He would never be the ruthless Prince Regent again.

He would never again be the second in line to the throne, the second son greedily waiting for fate to turn in his favour.

He hadn't been all of that for a good three years, lurking in the cold, gloomy corridors of Harrenhal like a lonely monster.

And if he went back, if he rejected your proposal, he would have condemned himself to eternal solitude at the side of a witch you would rather forget.

He had no choice, for he would never be that Aemond again. 

When you joined your husband at the meeting place, you were relieved to see him swallow his pride and accept. It was difficult, but you convinced him. 

For Rhaegar, for his son.

Aemond had suggested that you run away, far away from everything, and you almost hesitated. Running away would have allowed you to forget, of course. 

But your deepest wounds had begun to heal. You had begun to be able to face the ghosts that haunted King's Landing, the ghosts that haunted Dragonstone.

To stop there was tempting, and yet so frightening at the same time. 

The unknown terrified you. You needed familiarity now, something to fall back on, for you were so tired. 

Now you can't help bringing your thumb to your lips, nibbling the skin at the corner of your fingernail with the tip of your teeth as you walk away from Rhaenyra. A handmaiden brings you Rhaegar, and you struggle to breathe. 

You inhale.

You exhale.

The thick tuft of brown hair makes you smile. The sight of your son is enough to give you the courage to walk with a more confident stride. It's as if you were filled with new strength, for you know that he needs you more than anyone else. And for him, you've promised yourself to stay strong.

As soon as you reach him, you kneel and plant a kiss on his plump cheeks. 

He's growing up so fast that sometimes you wish you could stop time.

"There's someone who'd like to meet you, sweet boy," you explain, and you can recognise your mother's inflection in your own voice. Sweet boy. Rhaegar looks at you with big, round, questioning eyes, and you wonder if he senses your anxiety, because he takes your hand between his tiny fingers.

"Who, muña ?" he babbles, striding down the cobbled path in the middle of the gardens, hopping on his clumsy little legs, and you smile at his carefree attitude. He stops to watch the bees foraging, bends down to pick up a flower and gives it to you. He's always so curious, so full of life. He's a ray of sunshine that brightens your dull days. You finally understand your mother, the agonising fear she has of losing you. You finally understand the horror she experienced when she lost her four other children.

You also finally understand why Helena threw herself from Maegor's Holdfast.

The thought of what Daemon did still revolts you, and you can't imagine anyone hurting your boy like that.

You turn around. Rhaenyra is still there, in the distance, her crown on her head, her hands crossed in front of her on the heavy fabric of her dress, watching over you. She won't move, a comforting, discreet presence.

A stone bench awaits you by the fountain, on which two cushions have been arranged. A dessert buffet has been set up under the gazebo and you immediately spot your favourite cakes, the strawberry one, the blackberry jam one, and you look down at your son. He hasn't noticed them yet, or he would have already run over, dipped his finger in the whipped cream and stolen a blueberry from one of the tarts, his innocent expression on his face. 

He is definitely a lot like you. Mischievous and clever. An angelic air. He is an easy-going child who never throws a tantrum.

Who understands quickly, too. 

"I love you. I love you more than anything, you know that, don't you, young boy?" your tone is soft, and you kneel down in front of him, your hands on his small shoulders to emphasise the seriousness of your discussion. You search for your words, hesitating. How do you tell a three-year-old that his father, his dead father, is back from the dead and about to meet him?

Of course, Rhaegar knows that his birthfather was valiant, that his birthfather rode the greatest dragon in the world, that his birthfather died in battle.

But there is so much he doesn't know, so much he will inevitably learn as he grows up, and it is precisely that future that frightens you. You hug him as if you're afraid of losing him.

"Princess."

The deep voice of your sworn protector echoes behind you, and you straighten your skirt. 

You know he is there. 

You know you will see him the moment you turn around.

Your heartbeat quickens.

Aemond Targaryen stands behind your sworn protector, surrounded by two guards. His hands are bound in front of him. 

It is so strange to see your uncle in this vulnerable position. He who for so long has been on the other side, he who for so long has been the one who bent others to his will. He looks at you harshly, and you almost feel the need to apologise.

But you know it is a matter of caution.

You know that Daemon, you know that Jace and even your mother would never have agreed to bring him in if such precautions hadn't been taken.

You admire his resilience, his determination. You admire his ability to hold his head high, to be confident, despite the fact that he is being treated like a common prisoner, about to be sentenced to death.

You struggle to swallow the lump that has formed in your throat. 

"Who's that, muña?" Aemond's eyes leave you and immediately drop to the small figure that has appeared beside you, reaching for your hand, huddling against your leg, shy and worried. 

Immediately, your husband's icy gaze, his lilac-coloured eyes, soften.

"Thank you, Sir Rowan. You may leave us."

Despite the worry on his face, your sworn protector nods, unties his prisoner's hands and walks back to your mother, accompanied by the other two guards. You watch them leave, and a strange silence fills the space between you and your uncle.

He doesn't look at you; his eyes are riveted to your son, whom he observes with wonder. He looks as if he is admiring the most beautiful and fascinating discovery he has ever seen. You look down to see Rhaegar's reaction, and he seems as intimidated as he is hypnotised by that gaze, by that blue and purple eye so similar to his owns, by this man looking at him as if he were one of the most marvellous things in the world. 

"Gods, he's perfect," Aemond murmurs as he looks up at you, emerging from his trance. He comes closer to embrace you. And for once, there is something other than his usual brutal possessiveness and ferocity when his arms close around you.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** 

Aemond is shy at first. Awkward. 

He's shy and amazed as he follows your son's every move with his good eye. From time to time, his gaze rests on you, as if to make sure he's not dreaming. As if to make sure he is doing right, seeking your approval.

Rhaegar is shy too, at first.

When he sits on your lap, he snuggles up to you, buries his face in your neck, one of your locks curled in his chubby little hand and he rubs it against his nose. From time to time, he turns to give his father a curious look, recognising his own eyes in the unfamiliar face before him. 

Aemond's expression grows gentler, a softness never seen in his features before.

Once he has tamed the stranger, the little boy pecks at the blueberries in the tart in front of him. He shakes his legs, hitting your knees in painful little jabs, and your arm wraps around his body to hold him down.

Rhaegar loves cake, and the sugar may be coaxing him, for he's regaining his appetite for talking.

"He really does have my eyes," Aemond whispers incredulously, and his voice, still foreign to his son's ears, causes the little boy to lift his head.

" It is definitely the only thing he has inherited from you," you reply, teasing him with a small smile at the corner of your lips.

Soon Rhaegar finishes the blueberry tart, the cream smeared over the bottom of his face and the tip of his nose.

"He inherited that from you, that is certain." Aemond grins, pointing with his long chin at the boy's voracious appetite for cakes and pastries.

You have to pinch yourself to make sure you're not dreaming. That your husband is really standing in front of you, with your son, like a normal family. 

That he was truly trying to tell a joke.

This form of domesticity is so alien to your relationship, and yet so pleasant, that you find yourself thinking that perhaps you have made the right decision, indeed, if every day can be like this. 

"Your muña deserves some cake too, what do you say, little one?"

Rhaegar giggles. Aemond cuts a slice of your favourite cake, the one with the strawberries, and puts it on your plate. 

You blush. After all these years, he hasn't forgotten which one is your favourite.

You can't even really whisper a thank you because this apparent domesticity, this feeling of completeness, this interlude of happiness makes you uneasy. Anxious.

You have the feeling that at any moment you'll be plunged back into the horror of what you went through all those years ago. 

You have the feeling that at any moment the Gods will be cruel and snatch away this happiness that you've barely been able to taste, leaving only the memory of its sweet taste on your lips.

You breathe in and out, as you often do when you feel your palpitations rising in your chest.

"Do you... do you want to take him on your lap?" you ask your uncle with shyness, your hand stroking Rhaegar's thick brown curls. Aemond looks at you as if you have spoken in a foreign language. Lips parted, he is about to say something, but not a sound escapes his lips. His lonely eye travels from you to your son, from your son to you, in silence.

"I don't know if -"

You can hear the doubt in his voice, and it's almost touching to see him lose his confidence in front of his own son, to see him so nervous and unsure of himself.

You let out a little laugh, not in mockery, obviously, just full of tenderness.

You know what he's thinking.

He's afraid of frightening him.

He's afraid of harming him.

"You won't hurt him, Aemond."

He answers nothing. He still doesn't like to look vulnerable, unsure, and you know it has to do with his childhood. With all he has kept bottled up inside him all these years. He will need time.

Your eyes fall back to the little boy sitting in your lap, and you draw his attention to yourself by stroking the curls on his forehead.

"Do you want to go to Aemond for a while? To kepus?" 

you correct yourself immediately, and Rhaegar nods in agreement.

You are amazed at how easily he slips off your legs to run to his father, to pull himself onto his lap, when only a few hours ago he was so intimidated by the presence of this stranger with the eyepatch.

Your uncle automatically puts his arm around his waist to make him feel comfortable, his new role taking root in him. His fingers reach for the cloth on the table, and he wipes Rhaegar's face, who can't help but burst out laughing at his father's clumsy gestures.

For a split second you are lost in contemplating the horizon, the stillness of the sea. You taste the sea breeze on your face.

And then you turn your head towards the cobbled path where the guards and your sworn protector are still stationed. 

Your mother is no longer there, and you notice that you have not at any time felt the need to seek comfort in her presence. 

You smile, for in the end you know you've made the right decision.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** 

Dragonstone, 6 months later.

When you walk the corridors of the place that saw you grow up, you are no longer haunted by the ghosts and their incessant cries. A kind of peace has settled over you, a return to the pleasant familiarity you've waited so long for.

You still think of Luke, of course. Of Luke and Joff and little Aegon and Viserys, your brothers you will never see grow old. 

But you no longer feel their disapproving glances at every step you take. You are no longer kept awake by their cries, by their tears, by the remorse that twists your stomach. 

You no longer blame yourself. 

Perhaps you've finally learnt to make peace with yourself.

The heavy door of the bedroom you share with Aemond is half open, and you slip your head into the doorway, piqued by curiosity.

Snuggled on your husband's lap, Rhaegar is staring at the pages of a large book, the corners of which you can guess are horned, the cover worn, from being carried everywhere. You can imagine the jam stains that mark the paper with children's fingerprints. You know exactly which page is missing, the one you and Aemond accidentally tore out and hid so the Septa wouldn't notice, so many years ago. 

It is a book about dragons, the very one the two of you used to read hidden under the table when you were so young and innocent, long before the torment of war.

Without a sound, you lean against the doorframe and contemplate for a moment the perfect vision before you.

You don't have the cruelty to disturb them.

 "This one is Vhaegar!" shouts Rhaegar, and you hold your breath, searching Aemond's face for any hint that might betray his reaction. The mention of his former dragon is still a sensitive subject for him, you know it.

"Yes, that's Vhagar." he pauses. "She was brave."

From the corner of his eye, Aemond spots your silhouette in the faint glow of the corridor, and his attention lingers on you for a moment. He's almost embarrassed to be caught in such a vulnerable, intimate moment, but you smile tenderly to encourage him.

"And big!" the little boy adds, energetically raising his arms to the sky to emphasise his words.

"Yes, and big." There's a suspended moment of silence where the words hang in the air, and then your husband gently ruffles his son's hair. It's a tender sight to see them bond like this, and your heart fills with happiness.

Taking a step forward, you step into the light of the room and Rhaegar expresses his joy at seeing you. You smile back at him and approach the chair where Aemond sits, your son on his lap.

Your uncle's hand instantly rests on the curve of your belly, which he still stares at with the same protective instinct, the same fascination, as the day you told him the news. His eyes sparkle.

"Your daughter is restless today."

He looks up at you, not without lingering for a moment on your breasts and their new shape.

"My daughter?" he asks, one eyebrow raised inquisitively.

"I'm convinced it's a girl. You reply, smiling wryly, and take a seat in the armchair next to the one where Aemond and your son are sitting, facing the fireplace. "And she took after her father, given her temper," you tease him, your hand on the top of your rounded belly to soothe the baby growing there. 

Rhaegar's eyes close slowly. Nestled against the chest of the man who, just a few months ago, was still a stranger, he fights sleep, he fights to stay awake, but tiredness quickly overcomes him. And then he falls asleep, his mouth half open, the movements of his breath making his chest rise and fall rhythmically.

Aemond finally gets up. You follow his movements with your eyes as he approaches you, the child in his arms, and he plants a kiss on the top of his head.

"I'm going to put him to bed. I'll be right back." He straightens and lowers his voice.

"I wouldn't fail in my duty and neglect my wife." The heat rises to your cheeks, turning them red at the implication of what awaits you tonight. You're already wet between your thighs at the thought. 

But you nod in agreement and watch him walk away. 

You are left alone in the silence of the room. The only sound around you is the steady crackling of the fire.

It's strange, you think, to be back on Dragonstone, in the familiarity of the stones you've spent most of your life between, after getting used to the idea of not surviving the war.

To the idea of dying from a broken heart.

To the idea of dying, the umpteenth victim of the vicious spiral of conflict that has torn your family apart.

And yet here you are.

With your own family.

For once you have hope for the future. You hear the cries of your little brother, lost in the storm so long ago, but they are quickly replaced by the laughter of a happy memory. 

And finally, you have the absolute confirmation that you have made the right decision.

*** *** *** *** ***

Thank you so much for reading!! <3

Tag list : @minttea07 @queenofshinigamis (I'm tagging you since you asked for it ❤️)

[purinfelix]

forever young ᯓ ᡣ𐭩

pairing: (childhood bff) gavi x reader summary: a scene from your childhood, a promise from your best friend, and a full circle moment word count: 889

a/n: it's finally done! this is the gavi fic i couldn't decide on the ending for - thank u to everyone who voted in my poll for it <33 😭 - also I KNOW there aren't live commentators when you watch football matches in person okay its for the plot

“In ten years, I’ll probably be so good that I’ll score all the time! And you can come and watch my matches!” 

You could remember it like it was yesterday - Gavi sitting next to you on a park bench, the two of you messily devouring ice cream cones you had begged your mum for enough pocket money to buy. He was excitedly explaining his plans for when the two of you were older, him being a professional footballer obviously, and you still by his side. 

“And when I do score, I’ll point up to you in the stands just like this, okay?”

“That’s so far away in the future, you’ll probably forget by then,” you sigh, but you can’t stop yourself from laughing as he poses and his melting ice cream drips down his small hands and onto the pavement below. 

“I won’t, I swear!” 

You nod unconvincingly, more concerned with making sure your treat doesn’t become a similar mess and for a moment the two of you sit in silence. The warm summer sun tingles on your round cheeks, even as the approaching afternoon causes it to dip below the horizon. You watch as Gavi tries again, and fails, to clean up his hands by lapping up the dripping ice cream. Despite being so young, you’re struck by a sudden desire to retrospectively freeze this moment in time and make sure the two of you can stay like this forever, safe from the changes growing up might hold. 

“I’ll have to go back soon,” Gavi’s voice cuts through your uncharacteristically angsty thoughts, as he turns back to you worriedly after noticing the dimming skyline. 

“Ah, right,” you mumble, slumping back onto the bench - the two of you had been enjoying yourself so much you had almost forgotten how strict of a curfew the academy gave him. 

“Hey, don’t worry!” Gavi pipes up, noticing your expression, “the more time I spend training the sooner you’ll get to watch me score super cool goals!” 

You try your best to muster up a convincing smile, not wanting to send him back in a bad mood after the two of you had had such a fun afternoon together. Satisfied, he finishes what’s left of his icecream before hopping up off the bench and brushing the crumbs of his cones off his lip. You stand too, albeit slower, since you too need to get home before it gets dark.

“Oh and hey, Fermin showed me how to use the dorm phone last night, so I can finally call you! Keep an eye on your phone tonight, okay?”  

Before you can reply he pulls you into a tight hug, and all you can think about is how you hope he can't feel how hard your heart is beating in your chest. Before you can hug back he’s already pulling away, shooting you another quick smile before turning to jog in the direction of the dorms, and you wave goodbye as you watch him go. You’re not sure why you do this, since you’re pretty sure he won’t see you - but if not for him, you wave to give yourself an excuse to stand there a little longer and watch his tiny silhouette disappearing into the afternoon sun.

Despite the deafening cheers of thousands of fans, Gavi is able to spot you from where he's standing on the pitch - his worried expression is instantly replaced with a beaming smile, his arms frantically waving to get your attention. As soon as you spot him you can't help but do the same, almost falling out of your seat as you do, excitement coursing through your veins.

Sitting back, you take a minute to take everything in - the vibrant green of the field is almost blinding and the clamour of everyone around you is enough to give you a headache. But more than anything, you're hyper-focused on one thing tonight, this being the first professional match you'd been able to watch your childhood best friend play.

The match starts with the shrill shriek of the whistle, and you're on the edge of your seat, eyes following the quick movements of the ball as best as you can. To be honest, you know very little about football despite Gavi talking your ear off about it at any opportunity you gave him - but you know enough to know he's absolutely killing it. It's actually a little difficult to keep up with how fast he's moving.

It happens before you can even register it, but the surge of cheers and people jumping up around you forces you up to your feet to join in. Your eyes race, desperate to find your friend - but it seems he's already found you, both eyes locked on yours as he points up to you with the widest smile you've ever seen.

At that moment, you see an echo of the young boy you had fallen in love with over ten years ago - and you can't believe he's kept his promise, the pose and smile the same as it had been back then. You're breathless with joy, and you feel your heart swell.

"Oh, and what's this? The young midfielder seems to be pointing up to someone in the stands!" the voice of a commentator booms through the speakers as you sink back into your seat, your cheeks almost aching from how wide you're smiling.

"We can't really see who it is, but whoever it is must be someone extremely special to him, and extremely lucky!"

[dear-ao3]

Heyy totally weird question and having never experienced a long term relationship before this is really coming just from a place of curiosity, I'm deeply sorry if I'm stepping over a line. Did your ex boyfriend change as a person as time went by, because I remember loving your posts about him, and everything seemed wonderful and adorable about your dynamic, thinking that even if these complete strangers to me break up one day it will be full of mutual respect and understanding. Can a person really change up like that? Like were there ever any signs that he is a douchebag capable of breaking things of over a text and anything else that he's done or was he never actually like that and a "change" happend over night?

I am not at all probing into your life, please don't think that, nor am I asking for some kind of explanation no, just curious about someone turn up to be a complete douchebag at the end

i mean yea there were signs, generally when youre dating someone in the beginning things seem fine and dandy and then it all falls apart later. most of the problems stemmed from the fact that he broke a lot of bad habits and then gained them back. we were also pretty young and in that weird limbo stage of life where youre figuring out what the fuck you want to do and when youre in that area of life (college) things can change very quickly and you can very quickly realize that you are not as perfect for someone as you once thought.

actually though we were decently mature towards the end of it and knew it was falling apart and were like okay when the time comes we will be respectful and this will be mutual and likely we will remain friends (cause we did get along pretty well, there were just a lot of logistics that were not working) and then he decided to dump me over text (which he didnt really realize he was doing? he thought it was a break he was proposing but he worded it so badly that i was like um no this is a breakup. goodbye. then he tried to be like oh no no no we are still good for eachother! so even though he definitely started it i finished it) and all respect was lost

tho despite all that crap i dont regret it, there was a lot of fun, learned a lot about myself and most importantly learned what it does feel like to be in love. its not my fault it didnt work out, there was a lot of stuff that i was aware of at the beginning that would make it challenging and i knew it wasnt going to last forever, but while it was good it was definitely good.

[whispering-ways]

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡ i like you (too much) - part 1 ♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

♡ summary: you just joined a new high school and you're hoping to make a bunch of new friends. unfortunately, you're paired up with katsuki and he seems to despise you. nevertheless, you're determined to make it work. little do you know that you're first interaction would lead to a wonderful friendship and possibly even more.

♡ pairing: bakugo katsuki x reader

♡ tags: no warnings, just fluff :) but the next couple of parts may or may not have some smut ;)

♡ notes: hi besties! I'm back finally with another fanfic after months. I'm so sorry for my hiatus, but I've been super busy with college. I'm graduating in literally in 5 days which is so exciting (neurosci and psychology BS) and also been working on a patent and been doing patient trials in the neurosci lab I volunteer at and been applying for grad programs, so its been a lot. but I'm back with a new (long) Katsuki fic now that things have finally settled! Really this was a story with my OCs, Drew and Kressie (names still yet to be confirmed but that's what I've got for now) but I thought this would still work with Bakugo. Let me know if y'all want me to post the OC version too :) hope you guys like it!

As you sit in the principal’s office with your parents, you start to drown out the principal’s monotonous voice. All you cared about in the moment was how you would fit in. Middle school had been terrible; a journey chocked full of bullies and spending lunches alone. So when your parents told you that the 3 of you were moving to a new state for your dad’s fancy new job, you thought this was your chance to wipe the slate clean. Start afresh and make some friends this time around. You’d been excited for weeks, but now sitting here about to start your first day, you felt your stomach churn with anxiety. 

The principal calling your name brought you back to reality. “So Y/N are you ready to start your first day? I know it’ll be halfway through your periods, but still your first day if you think about it!” 

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” you replied, picking up your backpack. 

“I’ll take you to your new classroom,” said the principal, standing up and opening the door for you, gesturing you to follow him. After saying goodbye to your parents, you head outside the office with a big sigh, readying yourself. It felt like forever before you reached your classroom. Your principal knocked on the door and stuck his head inside. You heard him say something to the teacher inside, but couldn’t quite make out what. She came out a couple moments afterward and the principal left you in her hands. A short introduction later, she brought you inside to the front of the class.

“Hey everyone, I’m sorry to interrupt you all in the middle of quiet work time, but we’ve got a new student. This is (Y/N) and she’ll be in our class from now on,” she said with a big smile on her face; it was almost too cheery. “I’m hoping since you only came in a week late, it won’t be too hard to catch up with the class.” She scanned around the classroom before continuing, “Looks like we’ll have to place you in the back with Katsuki. We share one big desk between students, so I hope that’s okay with you.” You nod and the teacher turns towards her desk, reaching down to grab a packet. “Here’s what we’re working on right now; answer as best as you can and don’t worry about getting questions wrong. You’ll be sitting right over there,” pointing to the back.

You look toward where she gestured to find a guy in a black hoodie, his eyes covered by his hood and lip curled in disdain. “Fantastic,” you thought, taking the packet from your teacher’s hand. “It’d be my luck to be put right next to someone that looks like they’d kill.” You plop down in your seat and look towards your new deskmate, smiling at him as an olive branch. Maybe he was super nice and just didn’t know how to show it. 

He looked at you up and down, eyebrows furrowed in confusion as if he was wondering why you’d even dare to look over. With a sigh, you turn back around and start to work on your packet. You wouldn’t consider yourself super smart, but definitely above average. But ‘above average’ wasn’t going to cut it for this packet. You chose to take Calculus to challenge you and to look better on college applications, but looking at the work in front of you, you regretted your decision. This stuff was just way too complicated, but you were determined to figure it out. 

You look over at Katsuki to see whether he’s struggling too for some sort of comfort. To your disappointment, you see him flying through the work, his head practically buried in the packet. You tried again to work through the first problem. “Find the derivative of the following function...what even is a derivative?” you thought to yourself. You pulled out your phone, hoping to try and find some sort of video to explain what was going on when you felt a tap on your shoulder. 

You turned around to find your teacher smiling at you once again. “Hey (Y/N), I hope the packet is going good, but in this classroom we don’t use phones to search up answers. If you’re having trouble, why don’t you ask your deskmate to help you out? I’m sure Katsuki would love to help you out!” 

You slipped your phone back into your pocket, giving your teacher a tight-lipped smile in return. “Out of all people, why did I get paired with him,” you pleaded internally. After a few moments, you give up and decide to ask Katsuki for help. “Hey, uh... would you mind helping me out with this question please?” No response. You cleared your throat, hoping to draw attention to your request. Nothing, nada, zilch. It’s then that you noticed he had some earbuds in. “Maybe he really just couldn’t hear me,” you thought. A few moments of contemplation later lead you to tapping his shoulder, hoping to finally get his attention.

He whipped his head around, giving you the chance to get a good look at his face. The first thing you noticed were his eyes. His eyes were red, probably because of contacts, and were coupled with dark circles; it looked like he hadn’t had sleep in weeks. You were finally able to see his hair peeking out from under his hood which had been messily bleached blonde with brown roots growing out. His lips were still in a snarl. “What do you want?” he asked, spitting out each word with anger. “Don’t you know when people are trying to ignore you?”

A hit and a miss. There was no doubting it now; he definitely hated you. You hadn’t even been in the classroom for 20 minutes and your high school dreams of making friends were already coming crashing down. You were just about to reply when he snapped back at you “What? Just going to stare at me forever or something?” 

See, you were nice, but not nice enough to let that sort of behavior go by without saying anything. “What the fuck is your problem dude? I just wanted to ask you about derivatives. Damn, a bitch can’t even be curious about math anymore,” you retorted. You were hoping to put him in his place a little, but instead, you heard him chuckle. 

“Ok fine, I’ll help you out. I’ll admit, that was a little funny. But this doesn’t mean we’re all buddy buddy, okay? I just want you off my back.”

“Sure whatever gets me done with this packet,” you said, flipping through the pages of the problems till you found the one you were looking for. You pointed to the derivative question and said “Just explain this one to me and I’ll be out of your hair. I just don’t really know how to get started with it.”

With an annoyed sigh, Katsuki gets started on explaining it to you. “Okay so basically all you’ve got to do is just differentiate all 3 parts and then add it. Was that too hard for you to understand or something or did you finally get it?”

You didn’t want to say it, but you didn’t get it. What was differentiating? Subtracting? You had no clue. But you couldn’t admit that, not when he was acting so rude; you had way too much pride for that sort of confession. “Let’s say I didn’t get it. I totally did, but if I didn’t, would you be able to explain it more in depth?” you ask him, hoping he wouldn’t pick up on your lie.

Katsuki definitely picked it up. He wasn’t stupid. But he was dreading having to talk to you more. He wasn’t trying to make friends or talk to people and be all chit-chatty; all he wanted was to be left alone, but unfortunately, you didn’t seem to be picking up on that any time soon. He grabbed your sheet and put it right between you two. If you wanted a in-depth explanation, you were going to get one. Bit by bit, he explained every single step of the problem, dragging out each individual part unnecessarily. That’d teach you to bother him again. 

What he did not expect was the beaming smile you gave him in return. “Thank you so much! That actually helped a ton dude! See I knew you could be nice,” you say as you bring the packet back to your side to continue working on the next couple of problems. 

Your response threw him for a loop. Sure, Katsuki was confused over how he could seem nice, but what really had him was your smile. He could’ve sworn it was the sweetest smile he’d ever seen. Slightly crooked, but still shined like the sun. He turned around, pulling his hood down to cover the slight blush that had appeared on his face. He hated the feeling he had his stomach now and it was all your fault. He knew it was a bad idea to help you.

He dove into his work, trying not to focus on you. It felt like decades before the bell rang and people started packing up to move to their last period. Out of the corner of his eye, Katsuki saw you whip out a folded piece of paper, which opened up to reveal your schedule. He heard you sigh as he was packing up and he already knew what was coming. As soon as he came back up from zipping his backpack, he was met with your eyes looking at him and he knew you were about to bother him again. 

“Uh... so I’ve got my next period in room 2301, but I have no idea how to get there. I think its English Lit with Ms. Carlisle, but like we only have 10 minutes to get there and I don’t want to get lost. Do you mind just giving me some quick directions?” you ask.

He wanted to say no and tell you to get lost. But it seemed like his mouth betrayed him when he heard himself saying “Yeah ok, I”ll take you there.”

“Oh! I mean you don’t have to really take me to the room, but I appreciate it a lot!” you reply cheerily with another one of your smiles.

“Do her cheeks never hurt from all that smiling?” Katsuki thought to himself. “It’s whatever, I’m in the same class too so I don’t give a shit.” he said, standing up and slinging his bag over one shoulder.

He starts walking away and you take that as a sign to start walking or be left alone in the classroom. With a wave to your teacher, you speed up to catch up to him. It was a bit awkward walking beside him but not talking. You’d initiate some sort of conversation, but it looked like he was ready to bite your head off and you already felt like you were pushing it. 

Thankfully, Katsuki ended the awkward silence between you two, “So.... like, where did you move from?”

“From Florida, but not like city Florida, think like retirement home type of Florida. North Florida specifically.” you rambled, trying to fill up the silence between you for a bit longer. 

“Cool, so you’ve like seen gators and shit then?” he said, looking down towards you. It was then that he took notice of the height difference between the two of you. He wasn’t super tall by any means, but compared to you he felt like a giant. 

“I mean I’ve seen a couple snakes, gators... and a few lizards too! Nothing too scary though!” you say with a smile. He nodded in response and a silence settled over you two again. You started to rack your brain for something to say to keep the conversation going, when you suddenly felt a yank on your backpack.

“Don’t just fucking walk off, we’re here, English Lit,” Katsuki says, pulling you back to the front of the door after you’d walked right past it. 

“Oh! Thank you” you reply, holding the door open. “After you.”

Katsuki felt weird walking into class and it had nothing to do with the quiz the class had to do today. He walked over to his usual desk and felt you follow behind before sitting down right next to him. You put your bag down in your seat and walked over to the teacher, probably to go introduce yourself. It was obvious to Katsuki that he wasn’t getting rid of you or the weird feeling you gave him every time you smiled anytime soon. 

He was brought out of his thoughts by the sweetest laugh he had ever heard. He turned towards the source of the sound and he wasn’t surprised to see it came from you. It seemed like everything you did added to that weird feeling he felt in his stomach. He hated it. You sat back down next to him, syllabus in hand along with a couple of other forms for you to fill out. 

Class seemed to drag on forever for Katsuki. It took everything in him to focus on what the teacher was saying rather than how your eyebrows were furrowed in concentration and how you chewed your pencil from time to time and how you drew tiny little flowers and hearts on your notes whenever you got bored. The bell finally rang, releasing Katsuki from what seemed to be his own personal hell. He got up wordlessly to walk towards his car, ready to leave and go home. He made it a couple of paces outside of class before he felt a small tap on his arm. 

He turned around to see you looking up at him with big eyes. “Hey.. uhh.. Could I maybe get your number? We have to finish that packet by tomorrow’s class and I know there’s a good chance I could be confused again, so I was hoping to maybe get your help again?” you ask. 

How could he refuse those eyes? With a sigh, he held his phone out to you. You looked up at him quizzically. “Do I need to explain everything to you? Put your number in already. I’ll text you back so you can have mine” he snapped. 

You took his phone and typed in your number, saving your contact while you were at it. “There you go, all saved and everything,” you say. You couldn’t even fully finish your sentence before Katsuki snatched his phone out of your hands. 

“Well, it was nice meeting you Katsuki, but I’ve got to head to the buses soon. I think my bus is leaving in like literally 10 minutes. It was nice meeting you though and hope to see you tomorrow,” you say, running off to catch the bus before you were left without a ride.

“Nice to meet you too, I guess,” he whispered to himself. He hoped you didn’t hear it. He walked to his car, throwing his bag into the backseat and putting his head on the steering wheel. “What’s going on with me? Why is everything so weird all of a sudden?” he thought. He took his phone out from his hoodie, looking for your contact and, more importantly, to put a name to your face.

It wasn’t hard to find since it was the only contact that stuck out like a sore thumb. “Y/N..” he said, reading out your name. He noticed a small smiley face beside your name, a sweet detail that caused an unconscious smile to cross his lips. It didn’t take him long to notice and he immediately shook his head trying to drive his smile away. He put his head back on the wheel with a thud, letting out a frustrated groan. That weird and uneasy feeling in his stomach had come back again and he had a feeling it wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

[garbinge]

The Year of 1969

Johnny Davis x F!Reader Benny Cross & F!Reader

Summary: You decide to leave Chicago with your brother and have to break the news to Johnny.

Word Count: 2.4k 

Warnings: Grief. Loss. Main Character Death. Canon Spoilers. Angst. 

A/N: First Bikeriders fic I’m posting!!! But I have a buuuunch more coming. I decided to rewatch today and just got hit with this idea. Enjoy!

The Bikeriders Taglist: @drabbles-mc @justreblogginfics @kmc1989

You put it off for far too long. To the point that now you were juggling with whether it’d be worth telling him now or have him just figure it out when you were gone. That’s what you were currently doing, right outside The Stoplight, deciding which option would hurt him less. You knew which one would be easier for you, just leave without a word, but you also knew it wasn’t fair. He just had to say goodbye to his best friend, Brucie, and you saw how much that wrecked him. And now you were going to pile this on as well. 

Before you could think anymore your legs pushed you through the doors of the bar, the light smokey haze mixed with the low sound of music meant that it wasn’t busy, just a few of the guys. Made sense since it was still light outside, most of the guys were probably still working but the ones that were here probably had earlier shifts or were off like Johnny who didn’t have a trucking run for another week. 

“He-eey.” The voice was cheery as Corky welcomed you in. It caused a few other of the guys to look up and greet you with smiles, Johnny included. His smile wasn’t as big as the others, or even like his normal grin. That’s what made this even harder, when Johnny lost Brucie, not only did things with the club change, but so did things within Johnny. And now you were going to break him more. 

“Hey guys.” You smiled, similarly to Johnny. 

“Where’s your brother?” Cockroach leaned forward, “told me he’d let me take a few shots on his camera one day, learn about loading film n’ stuff.” He was smiling from ear to ear, looking at the other Vandals as he boasted. Little did Cockroach know, your brother was packing up his stuff for New York as you stood there with your stuff in the car already. 

“He’s uh–” You thought of an excuse but just couldn’t bear it and turned to Johnny. “Can I talk to you for a second, Johnny?” 

The guys might have been a little oblivious sometimes, but they picked up on your tone immediately. Their smiles were vanished from their faces and suddenly they were all trying to look anywhere but at you and Johnny. 

“Yea–uh, let’s go outside.” Johnny was standing up and placed his hand around your back lightly to guide you outside. 

The sun was starting to set, it was honestly one of your favorite times at The Stoplight, the way the sun would cast its golden rays on the line of bikes that would be outside. Maybe it was the artist in you, since living with your brother you tended to see the beauty in things like that. Moments you wanted to capture and keep alive forever. It was a shame that now, as the sun glistened on the paint jobs of the bikes and the road fell silent and Johnny stood a few feet from the bar entrance, this was a moment you’d never want to remember, one that’d you drink to forget. 

“Smoke?” Johnny asked as he stood on the sidewalk near the curb. 

“I’m alright, thank you.” It was then that you moved to stand next to him, arms crossed, taking a deep breath as the words started to move from your mind to your throat. 

It took you a few minutes, ones that you two just stood in silence for. That wasn’t unusual for you two, there were tons of times where you and Johnny didn’t talk, it was usually because you were doing other things, his mouth was preoccupied with your own, or the guys were around and your conversations were with them all. But right now it felt unusual because normally when it was just you two, you’d talk, about everything and nothing at all. The TV shows you’d watch, the news, stories, you’d love to tell Johnny stories, real ones, fiction ones. You’d talk about the shots you took on the camera your brother gave you, your purpose. It was what brought you here in the first place, at your brother’s place. Lack of purpose. You thought if you’d learn about what Danny was up to at school, you’d learn something yourself, and you did. But you weren’t sure if photography was truly it. It was Johnny who told you that you should tell stories, like the people on the news when it clicked. You wanted to be where the action was, a writer and newscaster. 

“You see those guys with those helmets they launched up into space?” Johnny broke the silence after exhaling the cigarette smoke. “Travellin’ round the moon and the stars and stuff.” He was nodding. “That, uh, Barbara Walters you told me to watch was reportin’ it. Cool shit.” 

“Johnny I’m leaving.” You blurted the sentence out, the pain coming right along with it as you felt your stomach knot. 

It was like instinct, he looked over at your car. The suitcases were piled up in your backseat, the one that you two so frequently found yourselves in over the last few years. 

“Where ya headed?” It was far too casual for your liking, but you also knew not to expect much else from him. 

“New York. With Danny.” You mentioned your brother’s name and he nodded as it all clicked in his head. He could’ve been mad, said something along the lines of maybe trying to do something for yourself for once and not follow someone else’s dream, someone else’s life. But he knew it wouldn’t have been true. He knew exactly what you were going to do once you were in New York. 

“Heard they got that, uh, big music festival out over ‘dere in the uh big apple, you oughta head there and check it out, write a story on it.” He was pointing in a direction like it was where New York was as he spoke. “Nixon election’s comin’ up too, could write about that.” He dropped his head to the left, his face moving to a frown, thinking how that could also be a viable option.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier.” Any other time you would have loved to talk about all the stories you were going to get over on the east coast, but right now you were just hoping you could leave on semi-decent terms with Johnny. 

“S’no problem.” He inhaled one last puff of the cigarette and dropped it on the ground. 

You were turning to look at him now, arms still crossed, emotion building up as tears in your eyes. 

“Stop all dat.” He tossed his arm over your shoulders and looked out at the sunset. “When you leavin’?” While he knew it was tonight, he wanted to know how much time he had left, it would determine what he’d say, how he’d act, although the more he thought about what your answer would be and what he’d do, the answers all felt pretty similar. 

“Later tonight, I got a couple hours.” You were leaning into him, arms still against your chest as you brought your hand up to wipe the tears. 

“Get back in dere.” He tipped his head toward the bar. “Grab a drink, we’ll hang for a while.” 

“For a while.” You accepted his offer, looking back up at him. 

“Go.” He smirked, his arm releasing you now. “Before more show up and you’re left with the shitty beer. I’ll be in in a minute.”

As you went back inside, Johnny’s smile faded. He pulled out another cigarette and walked over toward your car and just stared at the bags in the back as he smoked the cigarette down. He must’ve lit up a few because when he came back to it, there were about 5 buds on the ground next to him, the sun had set and Benny was approaching him. 

“Everything good, Johnny?” He was leaning curiously toward the man before he entered the bar. 

“No, s’not.” He mumbled under his breath as he let his head fall back for the quickest second before looking over at Benny and joining him at the entrance of the bar. Johnny’s hand raised and flew over Benny’s shoulder. “Hey, yea, everything’s’well.” 

________

“Hey, you hear about that weird thing over in Chicago?” Your coworker walked up to your desk and interrupted a thought of yours. Your eyes closed and you collected your frustration as you looked up and made eye contact with them.

“What weird thing?” 

“Someone was murdered in Chicago.” Your coworker leaned on the wall of your cubicle. The first part of the sentence, surprisingly didn’t shock you, as a news reporter you had received a lot of stories similar and you were really concentrated on making this deadline for your next piece to end up in the paper, but when they said Chicago, you started to pay attention. “Chicago?” 

“Yea, some gang violence or something. They sent someone out there to report on it, I think Gary from features, he’s packing up his stuff now. Seems like they’re gonna write a big thing on bikers and the uprising of motorcycle clubs.” 

That’s when your heart started to sink. “You get a name?” Your body was frozen but you were waiting to hear someone’s name that was familiar to you for you to grab your things and leave. Cal. Zipco. Benny. Corky. But not his. 

“I think Johnny something–Davis! Johnny Davis.” 

Within seconds you were in your car, one destination in mind, you had gotten more information on a small town radio station which is how you learned where it happened. The whole drive you wouldn’t let your mind think about it, let it be real. As you pulled up to the abandoned parking lot, you wouldn’t have been shocked if you didn’t even put your car in park, you were stepping out so quickly. You weren’t exactly sure what you were looking for, but it was true that you’d know when you saw it. Because you did. The blood stained on the pavement made you freeze and that’s when your heart finally broke and reality sunk in. 

You remembered your last memory with him.

His hands wrapping around your face as he leaned against your car, his feet still on the curb but his back against the car. You were on top of him, laughing as he placed a kiss to your lips. “Thanks for the last minute farewell party.”

“If you gave me a heads up, coulda had Corky bring streamers.” 

You remembered how much pain that comment brought you and how he realized it immediately. 

“Hey, ey, ain’t meant nothin’ bout that comment. Just shootin’ the breeze with you.” He kissed you again, this time with no smiles, no laughs just pure passion. 

“Let’s go for a ride.” You whispered against his lips, your way of prolonging your goodbye.

“Think it’s probably time for you to head outta here, s’late.” Johnny still had his arm around you and his other lightly touching your face. 

“One last ride.” You whispered again. 

Johnny knew if he got you on his bike, he’d drive the night away in avoidance of letting you go. He also knew every time he got back on his bike he’d think of you and he couldn’t handle that. So as he kissed you quiet again, his left hand moved to open the passenger seat of your car. He didn’t say anything but he didn’t need to. You knew what he was saying. You pushed off him, despite everything in you wanting to crawl back on him in that awkward position and stay there forever. As you dropped your bag in the passenger seat, he closed it and walked around to the driver’s side and opened it up. With a deep sigh, you plopped inside and immediately leaned out the window, your arms crossed hanging outside. 

He leaned down, his arm resting on the top of the car’s roof now. “Will miss you tellin’ me those stories, but I’ll, uh, get one of the guys to help me send a letter to subscribe to the New York news.” 

“Just don’t have Corky imitate my voice.” You smirked. “He really exaggerates my midwestern accent.” 

“Nah, I’ll just call ya and have you read ‘em to me.”

“You promise.” Your face got serious, it felt like that statement needed reassurance. Most of your relationship with Johnny was all jokes and fun, so you needed to know if he was serious.  He stared at you for a minute, his face getting serious as well. His hand tapped the roof of your car, “You better take the ‘spressway, 490s always  backed up.” 

He didn’t break the promise, because he never made it. 

“Will miss you listenin’ to my stories.” You mumbled, staring at the blood stain, trying to imagine what happened and every scenario was wrecking you thought by thought, until your thoughts were interrupted by a loud engine approaching. 

Your body turned and you saw Benny Cross, eagerly walking up and standing next to you. Emotion heavy on his face as he stared at the blood stain. Neither of you said anything, just stared. There was no tension, just every other emotion you could think of instead. 

“Heard you left.” It should have made Benny jump but he felt numb and just nodded before talking. 

“Not long after you did.” Benny agreed. 

You just acknowledged him with the same gesture. “I’m back in Chicago.” 

“Me too.” 

Silence again, still both of you just looking at the red mark that had turned deep red almost brown on the dark pavement. 

“I’m done riding.” Benny broke the silence this time. Your head turned to look over at the bike that he took here and that he’d likely drive out of here and you frowned in confusion but then you realized.  He just came back just like you. When you said you were back in Chicago, you weren’t really back in Chicago, you were just back in Chicago, like 1 hour back. Your car just drove over the Illinois border an hour ago, and you think Benny did the same. 

So now, the two of you just stood numb, over the blood of the one man you both knew and loved, wordless as the grief draped over both of you.

[shotmrmiller]

cbf!Price?!?!

You mean your older brother's even older friend?

You'd been born in the US to an American mom and a British dad; but his job moved you all back across the pond. New country, new school, new people--it had been hell for you and your brother. But the family next door were so welcoming, especially their only kid, John.

Who always called you 'sunshine', gave you piggyback rides at rugby matches so you didn't get lost in the crowd, and never said "Hello" but, "There's my favorite girl".

The same cbf!Price who was your scary dog privilege when you fell in love with the underground punk scene and wanted to go to the sketchiest concerts.

When he'd enlisted, you'd cried for days, but couldn't bring yourself to tell him why you were so heartbroken, no matter how many times he asked, brows furrowed with concern. "Its only a couple months, luv, then I'll be on post just down the road. We'll still have our weekends."

And he kept that promise, as much as he could, even after you moved out of your parent's home to attend university.

It was forever on the tip of your tongue; the words you so desperately wanted to say, had to bite back, otherwise they'd destroy that precious friendship....

.... I can only imagine the myriad of unfortunate ways he might accidentally hear you whispering his name and those words....

with my brash personality, im fucking him the day he's to leave for basic. js.

no regrets around here.

--

ohmygod! imagine him being captain now, and he brings you to meet the boys.

Johnny whistles low the moment he lays eyes on you. "Steamin' Jesus, Captain. Tha' yer friend? She single?"

John does not answer him.

Kyle is kind, sweet, and courteous. Suspiciously so. It gives John flashbacks of how he acts towards women he wants to bed.

Right.

Simon's just his big, quiet self. He's intimidating, but you're not afraid—after all, you grew up with your bully older brother and John.

John notices his eyes gleam when you talk at him, yes, at, because Simon doesn't respond. But he listens. And he's been listening a little too intently, staring at your dainty hands gesture animatedly.

That's enough, he thinks.

"Time t'go home, love." You pout but wave goodbye at the boys and head towards his vehicle.

Johnny opens his mouth to speak but John quickly intervenes, that unless he wants to start fucking pushing, keep his thoughts to himself.

"I'll see you all at base tomorrow."

On the ride home, you tell him that they were all very nice. John's grip on the steering wheel tightens and says that as nice as they are, they go through women more than they do magazines.

"Oh." Did he imagine the disappointment laced in your voice?

"Do you?" What?

"I don't do it often."

"Oh." He turns his head to look at you, but you're staring out the window.

His heart races and elation thrums through his veins. You definitely sounded upset. John looks straight ahead and speeds up to take you home.

His home.

There's only you for him, and if you won't take the first step, then he will.

--

side note: what if he didn't return those feelings? christ id eat my fucking phone. im running away!!! no one look at me how embarrassing!!! his eyes soften, and he's like, "Oh. I'm so sorry, love. You and I practically grew up together."

That really stings. And then he brings his little girlfriend over to meet you and your brother, and you stiffly shake her hand and go to your room to cry.

Someone softly knocks on your door, and you don't move to open it, just yell at whoever is at the door to fuck off in a warbly voice. John's muffled I'm sorry deepens the crack in your heart.

"'S'alright, John. I'll be okay."

You did this to yourself, anyway.

The marriage invitation comes in the mail and you tear it to pieces.

Since you were young, you dreamt of being Mrs. Price, but now, that's all it'll ever be.

A childish dream.

[miasmaghoul]

Oh :(

Oh Miasma why would you do this to me why would you make me sad about Omega like this........

But also.

Poof. Omega's just gone. Do you think it breaks Aether's heart to lose his mentor? Or do you think some part of him is happy for him because maybe, if the unholy father wills it, Omega might find Terzo again in another life?

Do you think Dew feels like his worlds been turned on its head? Relies even more heavily on Aether for a sense of stability without Omega there?

Sorry you've activated the sad Omega brainworms and I am in shambles

-Void

(Follow up to this ask)

I almost exclusively have sad thoughts about Omega, it's a curse 😔

Sad terzomega and dewther brainworm food below, but maybe with a little hope swirled in for flavor. Eat up 💜

I think he withdraws once Terzo goes missing, and with all the fallout after the fact...no one really notices. Except for Aether and Dew - they're at his door every day, always trying to offer what they can. Anything Omega needs, they'll make happen.

Omega needs Terzo. No one can help him with that.

I think they both feel it when he vanishes. Aether via the connection he has to all his pack members, and Dew senses it thanks to a chill he's never felt before. Like something's been chipped off inside him, something small but crucial. They wake up together one rainy morning, a week after the Cardinal was named leader, and just know everything feels...off. They dress together in silence, and walk just as quietly to Omega's chamber in the lower ghoul wing. Aether's hands won't stop shaking when he goes to open the door, but Dew does him the courtesy of not mentioning it.

Inside, on the perfectly made bed, they find the photo of Copia, a worn silver mask - and a pair of golden rings.

They hold each other for a while after that. Aether pins Dew to his chest and Dew clings to his shirt. No words, just contact. Reassurance that they both need so, so badly in the moment.

Then, knelt at Omega's bedside, they pray.

Aether prays he's found peace. That he's free of the stress and misery of being without the one person he'd found a true connection with. (If he peeks at Dew from the corner of his eye, he can't be blamed.) He prays that now Omega can rest, and that Secondo was right when he drunkenly told them all that the family Emeritus has it good in Hell. He prays that Terzo has been down there waiting, and that Omega can spend the rest of forever as happy as he deserves to be.

Dew cusses him out, brow furrowed in frustration as every bit of ghoulish profanity he can remember rolls through his mind. He sighs to himself once the wave of reactionary anger recedes, setting his elbows on the mattress and bowing his head - and all he can think to say is thank you. It's not enough, certainly. Nowhere near as complex as a goodbye should be, especially not to someone as important to him as Omega had been, but it's all he's got. In the end, he supposes that's fitting. Omega was never a ghoul of many words. He preferred keeping things direct - it was one of the things that Dew admired most about him. So maybe thank you is enough. For now, it has to be.

Aether's the first to stand, but Dew follows quickly. The join hands without so much as looking at one another, Dew leading the way to the door with purposeful strides. Aether grabs the old brass key from the dish on Omega's desk, and he pauses with one hand on the door handle. Takes one last look at the mask, the rings, and with one deep breath he commits every detail to memory.

Dew does not look back until he hears the lock tumble, and hold his hand out expectantly. Aether drops the key in his palm, and hand in hand the walk to the lake. It's still drizzling out, enough that their uniforms have gone damp by the time they reach the creaky old dock. Dew holds out his hand, and they stare at the key for a long moment. The little ghoul sighs, and Aether looks up to find Dew watching him with resolute eyes still watery along the edges.

"We gotta make him proud."

Dew says it so softly that Aether almost misses it, his mouth set in a firm line, and the fiercest sort of affection rips through his chest. He nods, biting the inside of his cheek.

"We will."

Dew throws the key towards the center of the gently rippling water, and they both turn away before they can see it sink.

[haveyouseenthisskeleton]

So I just had a funny thought and I can't stop laughing about it so main 10 + dust and killer(I'm ok with just main 10 if adding two more is too much) with a child and S/O one day there just chilling and child starts screaming out of no where then runs hysterically and turns out there a cockroach on the wall... S/O takes skeletons slipper/her own slipper and throws it at the cockroach and it hits...

It's still moving so S/O goes for round 2 and throws another slipper... also hits the bug...

That sh** starts flying... S/O and child now screaming, there also running out of there if sans/papyrus are brave enough both S/O and there child screaming at them kill it they won't be coming out of the bedroom until it's dead or outside

S/O would have killed any bug that was small or a tad big but a bug the size of a tarantula( I'm sorry I can't spell) or a cockroach that flys that's where they draw the line.

Undertale Sans - He picks up the cockroach and throws it outside, taking his damn time. He doesn't understand why you're so scared of that little thing. You know he had cockroaches as pets when he was a kid? Well, that's for sure something you didn't want to learn about him.

Undertale Papyrus - He starts to throw bones everywhere, trying to catch the bug as it flies everywhere in panic. After that, the kitchen is a forest of bones but the cockroach is dead! ... Or he thinks so. He kinda lost it in the middle of all the bones. Oh well. A problem for his future self.

Underswap Sans - No, sorry, he can't. He's dying of laughter on the floor, screaming like a hyena as you and the kid are panicking and running around like headless chickens. He can never get enough of this. You end up kicking the cockroach out with a broom, and then you kick him out as well to thank him for his help.

Underswap Papyrus - What? Him? No! He's not touching that, he's scared as well. And you know what? To not have to do it, he starts to hyperventilate and then passes out on the floor, adding to the chaos lol.

Underfell Sans - He laughs like an evil villain and stomps on the thing in a disgusting "KRIIIIIISH" that still echoes in your head to this day. You can't get rid of the ugly stain on your carpet though. It's here to stay forever.

Underfell Papyrus - He picks up Doomfanger and throws his cat on the cockroach. Doomfanger then destroys the hell out of the cockroach and eats it entirely in front of your disgusted eyes, and his very proud eyes. That's his baby girl.

Horrortale Sans - Uh... Ok. He picks up the cockroach, slowly puts it outside, pets it twice on its little head, waves it goodbye, and goes back inside. Why being mean? The poor thing was just scared. You didn't know he could talk cockroach.

Horrortale Papyrus - He puts on a pair of kitchen gloves and comes to pick the thing. He then throws it outside and kicks it so it lands far from the house. Ew. He needs to clean the house again now. It's disgusting.

Swapfell Sans - Him? Like hell. He throws you on the floor as a sacrifice for the cockroach, picks his kid, and runs out of the house with them above his head. It was nice knowing you.

Swapfell Papyrus - He picks up the cockroach, laughing. Then he suddenly stops laughing and slowly turns around with a shark smile. "Oh no." "oh yes." You start running, screaming like you're getting murdered, as Rus runs behind you to put the cockroach in your hair. He can't help it, sorry.

Fellswap Gold Sans - He summons his three blasters and blasts the hell out of the cockroach. It's very dead now. So is the wall actually. You have a new window in the kitchen now. If it bothers you, he can still stick some tape on it.

Fellswap Gold Papyrus - He tries to push the cockroach, it jumps back at his face. Coffee is now screaming, the cockroach on his face, running into every piece of furniture and screaming for help to get it off. The worst part is when he runs into a wall, squeezing the cockroach on his face in a disgusting noise. Poor Coffee just unlocked a new trauma.

[grapejuicestyless]

I’ll Love You, Forever.

Conrad Fisher x fem!reader

Angst

Summery: Conrad wants to become a doctor. Why should you stop that?

The platform near the train was nearly empty. It was so early, not even the early risers were up yet. It was the first train of the day but it was nearly night with how close the clock was to midnight.

My left hand clutches onto my coat, holding the collar between my knuckles tightly. I have too many shirts on. A tank-top, and a sweatshirt thats grey with the the words, Brown University, scribbled across the chest. The bottoms of my jeans are too long, so the dew wets the hems until they are soaked around my ankles.

“I’m proud of you.” I tell him, watching how his face, previously turned towards where the train will inevitably pull up turn to look at my face. He hangs his head, he’s taller and the wetness from his hair leaves tiny droplets on my skin.

I don’t really mind this. Our clothes clinging to our bodies because we ran through the passing rainstorm. How its so cold this winter that our fingers sting and our noses are numb.

“I want to help people.” He says it like he needs a reason. Like he’s thinking of staying. But he won’t, I wasted the last of my gas to get here. My car is stranded in the parking lot.

“I know.” I can feel his heartbeat under his coat when I put my hand over his chest. I can feel the cold nipping at his skin when I place it over his cheek.

When the cry of a horn sounds in the distance, he becomes aware just how limited our remaining time. He doesn’t understand just how little we have left though. I know it, but he never will. That’s how I want it.

He looks away from me, and the sigh that releases from his mouth is shaky.

“Don’t be discouraged. I’m right here. Promise.” When he looks back at me, he’s lowered himself even lower. Partly by himself, and partly at the mercy of my guiding hand that’s slipping from his cheek to the nape of his neck.

While we stand like this, I let my lips place their mark on his forehead. His eyes are fluttering shut, but I can’t find it in me to let the darkness in. I have so much time to wander within in, befriend it. I want to cement this moment in my memory forever.

I won’t be here when he gets back, I know that. I knew it when he first called me in last December talking about transferring to a medical program. I knew it in August when he told me he was going to Stanford. And I know it now that the train is pulling up, ready to take him halfway across the world.

“I’m not angry at you for leaving.” I tell him. I know he doesn’t quite get what I mean. He thinks of it one way, but within the next few months, I hope he’ll understand what my words really meant. I hope my disappearance won’t discourage him from his dreams. I hope he becomes the greatest doctor to ever live. I want that so badly for him, I might fool myself into thinking I want it more.

“Do great things, okay?” When he finally stands straight, the doors have opened. The seats are emptier than the train station.

He waves goodbye and whispers back, “I love you.” And his eyes have never looked so vibrant.

“I’ll love you, forever.” I whisper back, letting the doors consume him. He sits on the empty seat directly across from me. His eyes trace me until I’m gone. I feel them leave, I feel him leave.

I don’t know why I never told him. Maybe it was because if I told him I was dying, I knew he wouldn’t have gone. He wouldn’t have left my side, just like how he never left Susannah. I don’t want him to drive for miles, wondering if I’m still breathing.

He’ll hold it against me forever. How I never let him say goodbye, never let him try. I hope he knows just how happy I am for him. Even if he can’t see it.

I made him promise to do great things, but he already has. He gave me the best life I could’ve asked for. So I feel no regret leaving it like this. I feel no pain when I go.

[suzdin]

Two for One: Chapter Four

Neighbor!Dave York x F!Reader x Human!Max Phillips

Series Masterlist

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, pre-vampire Max, pre-Equalizer 2 Dave, familial drama and angst, mentions of drug use/abuse, alcoholism!, stalking (don’t do it), voyeurism (so so much), invasions of privacy, mutual masturbation, sexting, oral (m receiving), dom!Dave, soft!Dave, dom!Max, softish!Max, public sex, work sex, some fluff, maybe?, SEA OTTERS!, murder, poison, asphyxiation, let me know if I forgot anything, watch me make up stuff about an aquarium I’ve never been to and also poison.

Word Count: 7,700+

Notes: Sorry this took forever because my brain is dumb. I just want to thank all of you for being so patient. I love you and hope you have a wonderful 2024. 💜 Enjoy and feel free to leave me feedback if you wish! 😊

(Not my gif)

—

You make Max exchange phone numbers as he’s leaving your apartment.

“No more showing up uninvited,” you reprimand him, the heel of your palm planted firmly between his shoulder and sternum as you push him into the corridor of your building, “I mean it.”

He cocks his head to one side, lopsided smirk twisting his lips, forehead wrinkling as he lifts his brows, pausing. He’s staring at your still very much flushed and sweaty face. “You sure about that, doll?”

Your skin heats even more. You hate to admit that his smarmy defiance arouses you in ways that it shouldn’t.

“Max. If we’re going to keep whatever this is ongoing, I’m going to need some compliance here. For my privacy.”

Max’s smirk only grows wider and he beams at you, his gaze sliding down your face to your lips, hands raised in surrender. “You mean so I don’t cross paths with him, is that it?” he asks, quirking one of his brows to the side, knowing you’re fully cognizant who he’s talking about. “Fine.”

“Tell me you’re not bullshitting,” you retort.

“Woman,“ Max begins, wagging a finger at you, “I assure you that I am in no way being deceitful.”

He hasn’t wiped that shit eating grin off his face the entire time he’s been standing in front of you, either.

You can’t help but roll your eyes. “Scout’s honor?” you press.

“Scout’s honor,” he replies, lifting his hand in a mocking salute.

You sigh and shove him back another step, his back almost flush with your neighbor’s door.

“Goodbye, Max,” you snip, turning to go back to the comfort of your apartment, when that gnawing southern upbringing decides to make a re-emergence once more, and you remember your manners.

With a sigh, you turn to give him one last glance, your visage softening in its regard. “Thank you, by the way. For the drink.” And you mean it, even if it’s likely all melted and weeping on the table by now.

You almost think you see his own features grow a shade softer, and before you can dwell on it, he’s suddenly shifting back into your space.

Your initial instinct is to flinch, to shove him away, because after Dave and him in a single day, your poor fucked out pussy can’t handle anymore punishment.

But he doesn’t grope or manhandle you. Max’s arms grapple you into a snug embrace, his hot breath fanning over your neck. It’s uncharacteristically soft for Max to show this level of affection and you would hug him back if he wasn’t clamping your arms to your sides.

“Thank you,” he whispers, keeping you ensnared for a few lingering moments before releasing you and taking a step back.

“Yeah… no problem,” you offer awkwardly, because what else do you say to that? “I’ll see you around. I work tomorrow, opening to two.”

Max nods, his usual crooked smirk making a reappearance. “See you then.”

“And hey?”

“Yeah?”

“Be nice to my coworkers. It’s the least you could do,” you remind him.

His smirk doesn’t fade, tongue swabbing the inside of his cheek. “I’ll do my best.”

You snort and shake your head, watching as he disappears down the stairwell.

——

After Max leaves, you spend the remainder of the afternoon and evening wallowing around your apartment, watching bad reality television and trying not to think about… well, anything, pouring yourself some vodka with whatever mixers you can scrounge up until your brain mellows to a welcome numbness.

You order take out for dinner because, fuck saving money at this point. Proceeding the earlier conversation with your mom, you aren’t even sure why you’re trying to get back to Texas anymore.

It’s far easier having several states between you, even if you do miss your grandmother and have a wicked hankering for some barbecue right about now.

You check Facebook periodically anyway, not at all surprised to see your mother asking for prayers and attention from all the faceless online entities because she did not receive the validation she sought from you.

You grumble and toss your phone down every time you read a new ‘woe is me’ comment from your mother and you wonder why you’re even torturing yourself like this.

Belly full of chow mein, you settle down into your bed for the remainder of the evening to distract yourself with some mind numbing television to go along with the buzz you’re feeling.

When your phone lights up, you sigh in indignation, expecting a text from your mother as you swipe open to the notifications.

Much to your delight, it isn’t your mother, and you let out the breath you realize you’ve been holding in.

Dave: Hey, you.

You smile. Relief washes over you as heat simultaneously slithers its way up your spine.

Dave decides to change to split screen, one side with the recorded footage and the other side with the current feed, and he watches as you smile at your phone, steadily stroking himself, his phone vibrating your response a few seconds later.

You: Hey, you. 😜

You: I was beginning to wonder if you’d made it to VA

Dave: Yeah. Long day.

Dave: You made it worth it, though.

You: Doubt that

That makes him chuckle. He knows you know that to not be true.

He continues to stare at you, your gaze glued to your phone as you await his reply. You’re sitting up in bed now, back against the wall, wearing a different but equally revealing top than the thin camisole you had on earlier, blanket pooling in your lap.

The veins in his dick pulse when he ponders if you’re wearing any pants under the covers, and his eyes flick back to the recording of Max eating you out, a soft, breathy moan escaping his lips. The pleasure on your face is telling.

Dave: You do, huh?

Dave: Maybe I should show you, then.

You bite your lip at his response, quickly punching in your reply and hitting send.

You: Aren’t you supposed to be spending time with your kids?

Dave: they’re in bed. It’s late.

His head lifts from the monitor momentarily—only as long as necessary—taking his headphones off to listen for any sounds of wakefulness from the bedroom. When he finds there is none, he turns his attention back to you, freeing himself from his sweats, tugging them down to his knees.

He quickly snaps and sends a photo of his rigid cock, colored a deep shade of mauve at the head, hand fisted at the base, dark curls peeking out from underneath his palm.

You swallow, your walls tightening and mouth watering at the mere sight of it, breath puffing softly past your lips. And you’re almost surprised how turned on you still are, despite the events of the past two days.

Max is just a phone call away, you tell yourself, quickly squashing that thought right out of your brain just as quickly as it arrives. You’d hate to risk having him spend the night with you. Besides, you should probably give yourself a break.

You: Jesus, Dave.

Dave: All for you, baby

Dave: This is what you do to me. I was hard almost the entire way here.

Dave: What are you doing?

You snicker through your nose at the sudden shift in conversation, deciding to play along anyway. Going back to the picture every so often to admire it.

You: Watching TV

Dave: Anything good?

You: Just reruns of 1,000 Lb. Sisters. It’s a good show, you should watch it

Dave: I would watch it with you if I was there.

Dave: if I could keep my hands off of you

Dave: Touch yourself.

You laugh when the conversation takes yet another rapid turn, but you barely give it a second thought the moment you feel your clit throb with need, firing off a response to Dave before breaching the band of your panties with your fingers.

You: Yes sir

Dave: good girl

Dave drags his tongue along his plump lower lip when he sees your hand disappear beneath the covers, his eyes darkening with lust.

Dave: show me

You throw the blanket back and he’s pleased as punch to see you’re only wearing panties. He watches intently as you shuck them off and toss them to the floor.

You open the camera app on your phone and begin recording, doing your best to get the shot right but it’s difficult to see much from your perspective. You take the video anyway.

Breathing softly, you slide two fingers between your folds and sink them into your entrance as far as you can manage, which isn’t enough and will never be enough compared to Dave or Max, before dragging them back out again to display the shiny coating of arousal on your digits for the camera.

You save the video and send it to Dave immediately.

Dave: Fuck

Dave: Can you get a different angle? I need to see it

He almost tells you to prop your phone up on the window sill by the bed, but he doesn’t want to risk you somehow finding out he’s watching you. It’s possible you would think nothing of it, since he has seen the inside of your apartment now, but he’d prefer not to take the chance.

You frown and stop touching yourself, looking around the room in consideration before scooting on your knees over to the window to prop the phone against the pane of glass.

You hit record and maneuver into position, spreading, lifting your eyes to make sure everything is in frame. Shockingly, it is, and this new angle is so visual and obscene that even your OB/GYN would be impressed.

You record a short video of your fingers circling your clit, letting out a soft, salacious moan.

You still feel very much used from Dave and Max in a single day, but you make sure to keep your own touches as light as possible.

You record about ten seconds of yourself and send it to Dave.

Dave: Fuck

Dave: Need to fuck that little pussy full of me

Dave: We’re getting you an IUD and I’m paying for it

Dave: Fuck

His eyes move back to the side with you and Max, at which point you’re cumming on Max’s face, and Dave’s balls tighten with longing. He remembers exactly how you taste when you hit your high, and his mouth waters in remembrance.

Any jealousy he feels is immediately snuffed out by how much he wants you. How much he needs you.

You: I can pay for it

You: [video]

He’s so distracted by watching Max making you cum, his hand pumping himself more rapidly, that he doesn’t realize you were recording again. Your fingers swirl your bud faster, your hips twitching and coming up from the mattress.

Dave: Jesus

Dave: It will be well worth the money to see my cum dripping out of that tight little hole

You: such things you say, Dave

He smirks.

Dave: use a toy

You: How do you know I have one?

Dave: dirty fucking sluts like you always have toys

Dave: do what I say

Arousal floods your core when Dave’s true colors bleed through, even over text. You can practically see his brow pulling into a hard, dark line; see the way his lips curve ever so slightly into a sadistic and hungry smirk.

You don’t dawdle, leaning crossways over your bed to retrieve your favorite toy from your bedside drawer — you have a few accumulated from your time with Jonathan, since he never got you off — a vibrator with a curve at the end for optimal g-spot stimulation.

You: yes sir

You: [video]

You: is this sufficient

Dave receives a video of you clicking on the toy and sliding it teasingly along your slick and swollen labia, pausing periodically at your clit, your moans quiet yet lewd. All for him.

Dave: fuck. Gonna have to fuck you with the toy in you like that

You: I look forward to it sir

Your words send a rush of heat through Dave as his vision subconsciously slips back over to the side with you and Max, who’s now railing into you from behind like a jack hammer, and he damn near cums on that image alone.

He wanted to kill Max for how he had treated you. But now, watching Max bring you pleasure, and how much you appear to be enjoying it, he can’t stop his thoughts from wandering. Would you let both men inside you at the same time? Would you like it?

Would Max take orders from him like a good boy?

That last thought admittedly gives Dave pause and he shakes it from his mind. He had done things in the military, sure, most of the men had, missing their wives and girlfriends. But that was a side of him he hadn’t acknowledged in years, and he shoves it down to the furthest recesses of his brain, returning his focus to you.

Dave: good girl. Now put in and make yourself cum for me

You slide the toy past your opening with little effort, and you’re so worked up it takes almost no time at all before you’re chanting his name. Dave watches, transfixed, pupils dilated and jaw slack, eyes drifting back and forth between the two images on the screen, a cry departing your lips as you reach peak.

You: [video]

You: Mmm wish it was you making me cum though

Almost like serendipity, you cum on the recorded footage at almost the exact same moment as he witnesses it in real time. He can’t hold himself back any longer, and he barely has time to pull his phone back out to record before he’s shooting like a geyser all over his hand and lower abdomen, thick and milky spend dribbling down the backs of his knuckles.

Dave: Fuck

Dave: [video]

Dave: wish this was all over your fucking face instead

You sigh and fall back, panting, opening the last text with a satisfied grin painting your lips as you watch Dave spill down his hand.

You: Rather it inside of me

You place the phone down and crawl off the bed to go clean yourself and your toy in the bathroom, smiling to yourself.

Several states away, Dave heads to the bathroom in his hotel suite to do the same.

But as the high starts to dissipate, your trepidation inexplicably returns, twisting like a knife in your gut. You like Dave. Probably a little too much. And you shouldn’t. Because the day will come when he hurts you, just like Jonathan did.

You do your best to swallow down your doubt and finish cleaning yourself up, traipsing back into the main room to retrieve your panties and slip them back on.

A new text message lights up your phone.

Dave: Soon.

Dave: Can I call you?

Dave sees you sigh and chew at your lip, one of your hands coming up to the back of your neck. You seem unsure.

Your anxiety triggers his own, making him worry if he’s moving too quickly for you.

You: Sure

Now clad only in his sweats, Dave takes in a prolonged breath, hitting the call button. It rings twice before you answer.

“Hi,” you answer quietly.

“Hi,” Dave returns and you can hear the grin in his voice. “Thank you for that. I needed it after today…”

He switches off the recorded footage and goes back to watching just you. You.

You’ve already moved back under the covers, snuggling up with your back facing the window, one arm drawn up under your chin.

“You’re welcome,” you reply after a beat. “I needed it too.”

Oddly enough, you did, despite how many times you’ve already cum today, which was a welcome end to a stressful day.

That makes Dave grin, and he feels a pang of want as he wishes he were there to hold you in his arms, to feel your back pressed up against his chest.

“I miss you,” he confesses with a soft, nervous chuckle. His change in demeanor doesn’t go unnoticed by you — a man of dual natures, an enigma. “Wish you were here.”

He chastises himself silently for saying too much, but it’s true.

You swallow down the coiling anxiety you feel.

“Yeah. That would be great,” you proffer gently. You change the subject as seamlessly as you can. “What are your plans for tomorrow?”

He notices, but doesn’t point it out. “Taking the girls to the aquarium.”

You actually do soften at that. You always loved visiting the aquarium as a kid.

“Oh, how fun! I love aquariums. I know there’s one here… I’ve never been.”

“I’ll take you sometime,” Dave suggests. “We’ll make it a date.”

Your skin heats and you take your welling emotions and stamp them down as deep as you can. “Yeah.”

“What is your favorite marine animal?” Dave randomly asks.

“What, why?”

“Curious.”

You think it over for a moment. “Sharks,” you reply, “I like sharks.”

You hear him chuckle. “Figured you for more of a sea otter type.”

“Sea otters? Do explain, Dave.”

Although you can’t see it, he shrugs. He’s still watching you, fixated on the way your fingers fidget with the covers.

“Women usually like the cute sea animals. And sea otters are cute,” he says.

“Because I’m a woman, I’m not allowed to like things that aren’t, by your definition, ‘cute’? That’s sort of sexist, don’t you think?”

He lets out a quiet laugh. “You’re right. My bad.”

“Your bad? Well, what is your favorite sea animal, then?” you press.

“… Sea otters,” Dave answers without any additional thought, and you can’t control the burst of laughter that erupts from you. It makes his heart vibrate with affection hearing the joy in your voice and watching the way your nose crinkles when you smile.

“Oh, fuck off!” you tease, and he can’t help but laugh along with you.

“You need to go to bed,” you tell him as soon as the laughter dies down.

“What if I’d rather stay up all night talking to you?” he counters.

“Then I imagine tomorrow will really suck,” you quip back.

“It will be worth it.”

“Dave,” you begin in a more earnest tone, “I have work in the morning. Early. We’ll talk tomorrow, okay?”

Talk…masturbate mutually. Either way.

Your buzz is starting to wear off. Dave sees you rub at your eyes as you reach for your cigarette pack with the other, lighting it up and taking a long drag.

He knows you’re guarded and he supposes he understands why. He hopes you’ll let your walls down sooner than later.

“Okay,” he sighs in resignation. “But I’ll be thinking about you all day tomorrow.”

You tap the growing head of ash against the edge of the empty plant tray you’ve been using as a makeshift ash tray.

“Me too. Goodnight. Have fun tomorrow, alright?”

“Yeah. I’ll try,” Dave replies honestly, and you exchange your goodbyes before hanging up.

He continues to watch you. And not just until you’ve finished your cigarette or gotten out of bed to — presumably — have one final pee.

He watches you plug up your phone and set your alarm. He even watches you as you curl into a fetal position, clutching one of your extra pillows against your torso, and he wishes it was him instead.

Soon, he reminds himself.

He doesn’t stop watching until he’s sure you’re completely asleep. And even then he lingers, only stopping when one of the girls — his youngest, Alice — rouses from sleep in absolute hysterics, loud enough to wake the dead. Something she had started doing around the start of the divorce process.

He sighs, slipping back into dad mode, swiping a hand over his sleep weary face as he shuts his laptop down and heads to the bedroom.

——

Like clockwork, Max is at The Beanery around 7:30 AM for his morning caffeine fix.

You’re grateful that it’s slow and that Audrey and Vincent are in the back room folding boxes and chattering away about god only knows what. Almost like you’d planned it that way. Like you gave them each monotonous side work on purpose.

You knew Audrey was working today and you wanted to stave off the inevitability of admission that you don’t really have the power to ban Max as long as you could. Or resist him, for that matter.

You’re also grateful that Audrey was able to hide your hickies and bruises using the expensive foundation she brought to work just for you, at your insistence, with the incentive that she could leave two hours early with pay today. A decision that would probably bite you in the ass later.

You didn’t tell her who or what they were from and she didn’t ask.

You receive a text from Dave mere moments before the chimes hanging over the door signal Max’s arrival, causing your blood to heat and your skin to pebble.

It’s an image of Dave in a steamy bathroom, fully nude, hand curled around the base of his stiffened cock, with the caption: Wish you were here

You respond with a very underwhelming selfie in your work cap and apron, to which he replies almost immediately: You’re fucking adorable

You can’t help the heat that crawls up your cheeks.

You slip your phone back into your apron and start cleaning the espresso machine when Max traipses in, strolling up to the counter like he owns the place.

Or like he owns you, more like it.

“Morning,” you greet, and the remaining traces of your flustered state swell once again the moment you see Max in his primped and tailored three piece, donning a flashy paisley red tie. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him not adorned in a suit, aside from when he’s naked.

“Your usual?” you query, starting on his Americano before he even has a chance to respond.

“Morning,” Max parrots, smirking as his eyes bore into you. “And add whatever you want for yourself, sweetheart.”

He’s certainly starting off early today, isn’t he?

“That isn’t necessary,” you say.

“It wasn’t a suggestion,” he tuts and slams his card down in front of you. When you go to retrieve it, he reaches out to grip your wrist gently, and your eyes snap up to meet his.

He can see the affect he’s already having on you just by proximity alone, his cock already growing rigid in his pants.

“Thanks,” you squeak out and ring up Max’s drink and yours with your free hand, running the card and handing it back to him.

“Good girl,” he purrs in a rich timbre. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you last night.”

And he really couldn’t. He doesn’t oft have a habit of bringing women to his place, opting for theirs or someplace else instead, but he couldn’t stop thinking about you in his bed, waking up next to him that morning so he could make you sing his praises first thing.

“Let me get your drink…” you tell him, attempting to take a step away, but his grip on your wrist holds true, tightening infinitesimally, thumb circling your pulse point.

Max leans forward, a single elbow rested on the countertop. “Or,” he suggests, his voice low and barely an octave above a whisper, “you can meet me in the bathroom in two minutes.”

His eyes flash and he releases you, shooting you a stilted grin before heading to the small bathroom in the corner.

At first, all you can do is gape in disbelief, your jaw slack. Did Max Phillips really just come into your place of business and ask you to meet him in the bathroom?

You turn to listen to the sounds coming from the back room; Audrey and Vincent seem to be prattling on about something, oblivious.

You sigh and resign yourself to curiosity, to self torture, checking to see that the coast is clear.

“Hey, Vince, listen for the front, please. I… I’ll be right back,” you call out and take in another prolonged breath.

“10-4, dinosaur!” Vince chimes back and you roll your eyes, rounding the corner of the counter and heading over to the bathroom.

As you approach, the door swings open and Max pulls you inside before you can even reach for the handle.

He barely gives you time to react before he’s locking the door and crowding into you, pushing you back against the wall and pinning you as his hips grind your thigh hard. He starts to grab at you, everywhere, pawing at your clothes, your body. His mouth finds your neck and when his teeth start to bear down, you protest weakly.

He doesn’t listen; or maybe he’s just so overwhelmed with his desire to be inside of you that he’s lost any semblance of composure.

It doesn’t take you long to realize you don’t want to do this here. Not at work and not when your body needs a break, still so sore and overwrought from the last couple of days, and you attempt to push him away. He only pushes right back, unwilling to hear your pleas, because he thinks it’s what you would want.

“Max,” you groan and you feel your resolve slipping although you shouldn’t, “not here.”

“Come on baby,” Max growls, gently nipping at your earlobe, “let me inside of you.”

He pins your arms above your head at the wrists with one of his hands while the other begins to undo your belt, moving swiftly, his breathing desperate and heady.

He hasn’t been able to get you out of his mind for two whole days and pining over a woman isn’t something Max Phillips does.

Your resolve is rapidly waning and just about gone, arousal welling up within you. But with your last remaining shred of dignity, you’re able to shove him away and grit out, “Max, lavender,” your safe word.

Part of you expects to be ignored regardless, as Max has a habit of doing whatever the fuck he wants, and what you suspect to be very few morals. To your surprise, however, he does stop.

He releases you and takes a tentative step back, lips parted, hurt and uncertainty twisting his features. With nothing to say, at least for a few brief seconds.

His eyes meet yours and he lifts his hands in surrender, a frown creasing his brows. “Fine. That’s fine. I just figured since you came in here…”

“Max, shut up,” you say as you step towards him and you’re the one undoing his belt this time, positioning him with his back to the sink. “I just didn’t wanna— I mean, I want a break, but let me just… do this instead,” you further explain as you successfully get everything undone, sinking to your knees in front of him.

Understanding settles over Max and he nods, eyes growing a shade darker as he watches you finagle his slacks and boxers down, hardening cock springing free after a moment.

Of course none of the tile on the floor is even, so you have to adjust slightly to prevent the edges from digging into your knees and make yourself more comfortable, your hands sliding down Max’s thighs as you look up at him through your lashes.

He gently places a palm atop your head, fingers curling into your hair. “That’s it, doll. Be my good girl, now.”

He has to stifle the loud moan that reverberates from his lungs as you spit directly onto his shaft and grip him in your fist to begin slowly jacking him off, swiping the flat of your tongue up his length, his entire body vibrating.

You pause at the head, circling it, lapping at the pearl of precum that collects at the slit. He grasps your hair with a firmer hold, tugging at the roots.

“Don’t be a… fucking tease… or I’ll fuck you anyway,” he warns and in spite of yourself, you moan, and almost break.

You grin to yourself and take him deeper into your mouth, still holding him steady with one hand at the base as you adjust to his size, slowly pistoning your head forward and back.

“That’s it. Ohhh yes, good girl, sweetheart, good girl,” Max pants softly.

You slide your tongue along the underside of his dick, pausing at the fold of skin at the head as you rock forward, causing his hips to shudder and you eventually bottom out.

He grunts and grips the back of your neck, holding you flush against his groin, the dark and manicured thatch of hair tickling at your nose.

You can smell and taste the soap he uses; woodsy and light, nothing over the top nor underwhelming, but he’s as clean and well groomed as you would expect a pretentious man like Max to be.

He releases you when your eyes start to water and you murmur a noise of protest, allowing you to take a short break for air.

“Come now, darling, you can do better than that,” he notes with a small pout.

You nod in agreement and wet your lips, placing your hands on his hips as you take him back into your mouth and his head rolls back with a sigh, hands going to either side of your face.

You bottom out again and manage to hold better this time, hollowing out your cheek bones and breathing through your nostrils, relaxing your jaw and throat as you do so.

“Good girl… good… fucking girl,” he praises, nary louder than a whisper, running his fingertips along your scalp.

You tremble at the attention, moaning as you taste more precum dribbling onto your tongue, bobbing your head faster—as fast as you can—to get the job done as expeditiously as possible.

He groans and grasps your cheeks tighter, stilling your movements, holding you exactly where he wants you, and without any prior warning, starts rutting into your mouth.

“That’s right, that’s right… you can take it, can’t you? You can take it,” he growls, and there’s little else you can do but let him use your body as he wishes.

You can get the job done quickly but Max can get it done faster, knowing you’re on a time crunch.

You slacken your muscles as much as you can, as much as your body will allow, breathing through your nose and trying not to gag, especially considering you can feel and hear him nearing his release.

He starts to sputter what mostly sounds like nonsense words to you, gripping your cheeks and neck tightly in his large hands, rutting into your mouth with wreckless abandon and all you can do is sit there with the uneven tile digging into your tender knees and take it, letting go of his thighs to find purchase on the vanity behind him.

Finally, his hips begin to catch and then eventually seize, and with a low, guttural growl he spills hot and thick into your mouth, and you accept everything he has to offer you, swallowing it all with ease.

“Good girl… good girl…” he puffs, chanting your name softly on his tongue.

You milk him of every last feasible drop and a line of spittle connects you as you pull away, bringing your hand up to swipe at your mouth and breaking the string in the process.

He’s still panting as he helps you to your feet; you move to step to the sink so you can clean your face and rinse out your mouth. Without warning, Max grabs you once more, different than only a moment ago, ensnaring you in another tight hug and pushing you against the wall.

“Max… hey—“

He hasn’t even pulled his pants up yet. He squeezes you, lips ghosting over your skin as he presses his nose to the soft space between your neck and skull, inhaling your scent. And just… holds you like that, in an embrace, not at all dissimilar to yesterday.

“Thank you,” he whispers against the shell of your ear, and you’re once again struck with his sporadic shift in demeanor.

“Uhh… you’re welcome,” you reply and he breaks the hug, a single hand coming up to cradle your jaw, thumb dragging your bottom lip as he stares at it, contemplative and fixated.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to return the favor?” Max asks.

“Um… no… I need to clean up and get back out there,” you explain, causing his hand to drop from your face.

“Yeah. Yeah, right,” he says, almost appearing crestfallen — almost — as he tucks himself and his shirt back into his work slacks, buckling his belt and giving himself a cursory once over in the mirror.

You turn away and ignore him as you smooth down your clothes, splash some water over your face and rinse out your mouth and when you’ve determined you don’t look super fucked out, you confirm with Max that you’re each composed enough, giving him one last glance as you step out.

You feel fingertips against the small of your back, almost like he wants one last point of contact with you before you have to go back to the real world.

And what you both step into is a sea of chaos, the lobby now bustling with people needing their various morning addictions, and you cast Audrey and Vincent an apologetic glance as you rush over to assist them.

God, you really need a cigarette and a stiff drink.

They pass each other a look when they see you and Max coming out of the bathroom together and you inwardly sigh because you had hoped you could keep all of this on the down low. Well, that plan was pretty much out the window now. And there was no saving it.

Max stands to one side and waits patiently as you rush through making his drink, passing it to him when you’re done and your skin burning as you feel his gaze dwelling on you one last time before he dips out for the day.

The rush stays steady for about an hour and you’re actually kind of thankful for it, as it helps to keep your focus off of everything that’s happened recently.

——

You’re walking home when your phone buzzes with a new text.

You take in a breath and fish your phone from your purse, hoping it isn’t your mother. Wishing it isn’t her. She had already texted you earlier that day to let you know Garrett was out of jail, no thanks to you, and you made a point of ignoring it.

You expect another dramatic text from your mother as you’re opening your phone, but you’re relieved to see it’s from Dave this time, thank god.

You open the text to see an image of Dave crouched down in front of the jaws of a rather large shark, Alice perched on his knee and Mollie standing to one side, all three of them smiling for the camera. You try not to let the sweetness and normalcy of it affect you, and you can hardly believe that this is the same man who had practically broke you and stitched you back together multiple times.

You: looks fun

A few minutes later you receive more texts, popping up as you get close to your apartment’s wifi. The first is a video of the girls in front of a shark tank, babbling at a nurse shark, and then a second video of a reef shark swimming overhead in a tunnel, with the caption: sharks for you

You: Cool. I love them! See any sea otters?

Dave: no 🙁 But we saw penguins! 😍

You cover your mouth with your hand as you snicker at his reply, typing in a quick response.

You: Penguins? How feminine.

Dave: Okay smartass

You: Just dishing out some of what you were serving last night, Dave

Dave: Watch it, sweetheart, or you’ll really see what I can dish out when I get home

You: Promise? 😜

As you enter your apartment building and Dave texts back with I would love nothing more, you try to keep reminding yourself you aren’t falling for him.

——

With the girls dropped off safely with Carol, at the house which is still in his name, that he still pays for, Dave shoots you a quick text before pulling away.

Dave: I’ll be back in town in a day or two. I have a work thing

He fishes out a burner phone and punches in the address for your ex, Jonathan, who lives on Long Island. Which is good — perfect, really — as it’s en route back to Boston. A quick rendezvous there to take him out and then straight home. Or what he could consider his home, nowadays.

You make it feel like home to him.

The hit shouldn’t take long. It was an ideal situation, if he was being honest. The woman Jonathan had left you for had pulled the same trick on him as he had on you, leaving him high and dry after he had up and moved states, and now he lived alone in a small garage apartment at the back of a property that was flanked on all sides by woods.

Perfect.

He would be arriving long after nightfall, and he would bide his time in the woods until it was late enough to slip in and out undetected.

Dave did not care that Jonathan really wasn’t a bad person, aside from being the asshole who broke your heart. He couldn’t give two shits, really. He only wanted to take retribution for Jonathan’s slights against you, on your behalf, because you were too kind and gentle to do it yourself.

As he pulls onto the highway to begin his journey north, he can’t get your beautiful face out of his mind.

——

It turns out Jonathan is a night owl.

Dave has been in the trees at the perimeter of the property for hours. A single window at the back of the apartment shines a pale yellow, denoting lingering wakefulness from his mark. It’s the only available illumination aside from a lone street lamp near the front of the property.

And aside from his phone. He’s been watching you off and on all night, to pass the time. You’re alone, and have been for days now. You haven’t had Max — or anyone else for that matter — in your bed since the last encounter, which means you stopped seeing Max entirely or you had simply taken to fucking elsewhere. Max’s apartment?

He isn’t sure which, yet.

Currently, Jonathan is getting stoned and painting. Dave is far from being an art expert, but even from his vantage he can see the strokes on the canvas are broad and messy; calling it abstract would be a stretch. Infantile, maybe. He couldn’t have been the artist of the painting you have hanging in your apartment—the style and technique just wasn’t right.

He wonders, not for the first time, if you were a gifted artist as well as being a gifted writer.

Jonathan orders a pizza at 9:09 PM and it’s delivered at exactly 10:00 PM. He spends an hour eating, his motor skills slowed due to being so fried, attempting to masturbate after that — much to Dave’s abject disgust — gives up, and goes back to painting.

Dave can feel his patience growing thinner by the second. You’ve already retired to bed so he no longer has anything to occupy his mind as he waits. He would prefer to strike while Jonathan is sleeping, but it’s either now or never; anything close to daybreak would be too risky.

Given up on being discreet, he slinks like a cat out of the woods at around 12:30 AM, head on a constant swivel, gun holstered at his hip in case he needs it. He’s hoping he doesn’t.

He’s opted for the more difficult to trace route as the actual means of execution — a syringe with 100mg of potassium chloride, the same drug used in prisons — tucked away neatly in the pocket of his black hoodie.

The nearer Dave draws to the apartment, the louder the indie rock music Jonathan is blaring becomes, a band Dave doesn’t recognize. That’s a good thing, though, it will work in his favor when he picks the lock at the front of the building, arguably the riskiest part of this entire mission, due to its proximity to the street.

He reaches the second story landing and pulls his lock picking kit from said hoodie, adjusting the black beanie away from his eyes as he finds the right tools. He manipulates them into the lock, ear pressed to the thin door so he can better hear what he’s doing.

The music continues, and so far as Dave can tell, he hasn’t been detected.

He pops the lock within minutes and the door slowly shimmies open, his hand going to his hip on instinct as he pushes the door the rest of the way with the toe of his boot.

He’s met with a short entryway that veers off to a dimly lit living room. So far, Jonathan hasn’t noticed him. He’s on another planet entirely—exactly where Dave wants him. Thank god for brain altering substances.

Dave stalks forward and soon arrives at the opening of the main living space which is littered with various articles of trash and other clutter, skillfully dodging as much as he can so as to not alert his presence, or give detectives anything to go on.

What he finds is Jonathan hunched in front of a canvas, paintbrush perched between nimble fingers, painting god knows what, because Dave sure can’t tell, his back facing him. The sheer abundance of luck at his mark being in such a vulnerable and unawares position is so goddamn sexy Dave can hardly keep his dick in check at the presentation.

But even with Jonathan being as preoccupied as he is, it would be imprudent to dawdle, so he doesn’t.

He quickly closes the space between the two of them, one arm coiling like a large python around Jonathan’s throat and the other disabling his limbs.

Jonathan looses a low bellow, most of which is drowned out by the music and the reduced flow of oxygen to his lungs, nearly knocking over the easel the canvas sits on in his rush of panic, but thankfully does not. In Dave’s experience working cases for the CIA, signs of struggle are often harder to hide than one would think.

He attempts to fight back, body trying to twist away, but Dave is larger, stronger and more experienced in disarming than Jonathan is in fighting…well, anything…so it isn’t as difficult as Dave had feared it would be.

It isn’t exactly a cake walk either, and Dave knows he needs to get him to the ground as soon as possible to fully disable him, arm tightening around Jonathan’s throat as he wrestles the smaller man to the floor. He puts Jonathan in a sleeper hold, adding a second arm for leverage and bringing a leg up to ensnare his lower half.

“Just let it happen. Let it happen and it will be easier,” Dave grits against the shell of his ear. “Don’t fight me.”

He doesn’t listen, of course, hellbent on breaking the grapple, and failing. That pesky self preservation always did aggravate Dave as much as it excited him.

Jonathan’s vision starts to blot away, music fading to a low and persistent hum, his body finally giving in to the asphyxiation now that the adrenaline was a fleeting thing.

This is exactly what Dave needed to happen, and as he feels Jonathan’s body growing slack in his clutches, he removes the syringe from his pocket, biting the lid off and grasping it between his teeth as he readies the needle.

It isn’t hard to find a vein due to Jonathan’s heightened sense of agitation and panic, inserting the needle into the soft flesh of his neck and sinking the plunger before he can struggle away, flooding his bloodstream with the full dose of potassium chloride.

Within moments, attempts to free himself devolve to little more than faint body tremors, and Dave doesn’t release him until his body has fallen completely motionless and limp in his arms.

He checks Jonathan’s pulse a moment later and when he’s satisfied he’s gone, he drags the corpse to the recliner on the opposite end of the room, manipulating him into a position that makes it appear as if Jonathan succumbed to cardiac arrest.

Once done, he finds Jonathan’s cellphone and begins to thumb through the recent calls and text messages.

He finds you in there, as well as a string of messages to you begging your forgiveness and for your return, which have gone wholly unanswered by you. Dave smiles to himself. You must have blocked him after the breakup. Good.

He knows there’s a very real chance cops will question you regardless. But Dave decides to delete the messages and any other snippet of information he can find about you in Jonathan’s phone anyway, just to be safe.

As he repockets the empty syringe, he gives the room a final comb to ensure that not even a hair is out of place. When he determines everything is satisfactory, and that he hasn’t left behind any evidence or traces of DNA, he turns to make a hasty retreat.

He leaves the apartment exactly as he found it, making sure to lock the door behind him, leaving nothing out of place, no loose ends unraveled.

He jogs down the stairs and makes the mile long trek through the woods to return to where his car is parked, working up a sweat even with the cooler air but not at all concerned about it, pulling the beanie off and tossing it to the passenger floorboard when he finally makes it to the car.

Palming himself through his dark jeans, he pulls onto the road, with you being the only thing on his mind as he begins the arduous six hour journey home to see you. You.

And he can barely fucking wait.

——

Taglist: @ohheypedrito @kateispunk @awilderi @survivingandenduring @heavennumber2 @alwaysmicado @oberynslady @kellybelly1978 @cosmic-li @chronically-ghosted @morallyinept @annieispunk @xxjigglynatxx @daddy-dins-girl @onmysluttyknees @guelyury @gwendibleywrites @missladym1981 @anoverwhelmingdin @yorksgirl @shotgun-shelby

Please let me know if I forgot you, it wasn’t intentional 🥺

💜💜💜

[dragon-kazansky]

Veil of the dreamless

Morpheus x Reader

A cursed Morpheus holds your father prisoner when he enters The Dreaming without permission. You, also able to enter the realm, take his place. Now a prionser to the Dream Lord, you do all you can to learn about the curse and hopefully break it.

{Masterlist}

{Previous Chapter} - {Next Chapter}

Chapter Eight - The mirror

☆☆☆

Morpheus takes you back to his room. He claims there is something else in there he should show you. While he fetches the item in question, you stand in the middle of his room and look at the ruby rose.

It has very few petals left on it. You frown. You still don't know how to break the curse.

A pain settle in your heart.

Morpheus returns to you with a mirror in his hand. He looks at you gently.

"This mirror is magic. It can see into your world." He holds the mirror our to you. You take it carefully. "I've been keeping an eye on your village..."

You look down into the mirror. At first, you only see your reflection, but then it changes to your home in the village. You see your father pacing back and forward in the house. He looks worried.

You see Hob sitting on the couch watching your father. Your father is talking to him, explaining what has happened. Hob believes every word. The Dreaming. Morpheus. The curse. Hob believes every word.

You watch Hob stand up and place a hand on your father's shoulder.

"I know of him."

"You do?"

"He's an old friend."

"Can you save them?" Your father asks.

"They're not in danger. Not unless Desire is there, too."

"Desire?" You look at Morpheus.

"My sibling. The one who had me cursed."

"How do I break it?"

He looks like he wants to tell you, but resists. He looks back at the mirror again.

"I need them safe."

"They are safe." Hob says.

"I want them home."

Your heart aches for your father. You miss him. But you're glad he's safe at home.

"I... I'm going to send you back."

You look back up at Morpheus. "What?"

"You will no longer be kept here. I will send you home."

"Morpheus..."

He shakes his head at you. "I was angry at first, but you have gained my trust and my friendship. I will not keep you here any longer. I will send you home to be with your father."

You reach out and take Morpheus' hands in yours. "I will tell him what a good man you are. I will tell him of how you looked after me, how you saved me."

Morpheus smiles. "Thank you."

"But-!" You go to ask him how you can break the curse for him, but je doesn't give you time. You're swept up in a gust of sand and the next thing you know you're standing outside your house.

"Morpheus..." You whisper his name.

You look up at the house and feel your heart breaking. You're glad to be home, but you also didn't want to say goodbye to Morpheus. Would you even see him again?

You realise you're still wearing the clothes from the ball, and you almost want to cry. Tonight had almost been utterly perfect... and now he had sent you home. You look at the mirror in your other hand. You can see him in it. He looks... sad.

You reach for the front door and find your father and Hob. Both of them turn when you enter. Your father calls your name and reaches out to you. He pulls you into a hug.

You look at Hob. Hob looks at you.

There's an understanding. Hob can read you like his books. Something about you has changed.

You cling to your father.

"What happened to you?"

You look at him. "Morpheus looked after me... I... Father... he needs my help. I need to go back..."

"Back? You can't go back! He's a madman!"

You try to argue with him. Hob comes to your side and takes you in his arms. "Tell me," he whispers.

"His time is nearly up... if I don't do something, he'll be stuck like that forever..." You tear up.

Hob rubs your back. "Desire will go to him when his time nears its end. I can help you get back to him."

You look up at Hob. "How?"

"Come with me."

Your father watches as Hob takes your hand and leads you out of the house. You follow without question.

The only thing you can think about is saving Morpheus, and perhaps you can be open with him. Deep down, you know, you're falling in love with him.

He needs to know.

☆☆☆

@littleblackcatinwonderland - @kpopgirlbtssvt - @missdreamofendless - @intothesoul -

[suguwu]

gn!reader x childe, identity issues, predator/prey.

minors and ageless blogs dni.

You have always loved crocuses.

Snezhnaya is a brutal winterscape at the best of times, but the crocuses never fail you. They pierce through sheaves of snow, bearing spring in their hardy stems. They bloom into dark purple bruises, their golden stamen hidden away between the petals, something precious and protected. 

It’s a promise imbued into a flower, small and hardy, the beginning of the Snezhnayan winter’s long goodbye. 

They are coming later and later, these days. 

The village whispers that there may be a day they never come. That winter will stake its claim on your land forever, leaving naught but desolation in its path. 

You will not let that happen.

“That rite is ancient,” the elder says, her brow furrowed. “And that god—”

“Still lives,” you say.

“—is dangerous.”

You fall silent. 

The elder’s eyes gleam in the firelight. You think of the dark stones of the river under moonlight, how they shine. “Yes,” she says. “He lives. But it is too perilous to invoke him.”

“He protected us once—”

“That does not mean he will protect us again.”

“What choice do we have?” you ask. “What more can we lose before it is too late for us to recover? The winter begins to have no end.”

“And who will be sacrificed, then, to fulfill this rite of yours?”

You take a deep breath. “I will.” 

The elder watches you for a moment, her expression giving away nothing, as impassive as the glacier that rises beyond the village. You meet her gaze. She sighs.

“You are certain?” she asks.

No, you think, a chill fluttering down your spine, a spiral of winter. 

“Yes,” you say, and if your voice trembles a bit, she is kind enough to say nothing.

“Very well.” The elder leans back in her chair, her dark eyes keen. “We will help you with the preparations.” 

You dip your head. “Thank you, elder.”

“Go,” she says. “Make ready.”

You turn to leave and pause as she murmurs your name, as soft and warm as the spring sun. When you glance over your shoulder, her eyes have a glassy sheen to them.

“May you come back to us.”

You give her a small smile.

You go to meet your fate.

—

Snow is falling as you leave the village, the fat, fluffy flakes spinning in the breeze. They catch on your eyelashes and melt away, beading there like crystalline diamonds, sending the sun refracting through them, nature’s favorite prism. 

It’s a half a day’s walk to the ritual grounds. The path is almost gone, lost to the passing years. The snow hides it, too, thick drifts of it piled high among the sapling ribs of the forest. You follow it as best you can.

You see the first crocus around midday.

It blooms through the snow, a bruise against the pristine white, and you stumble towards it. From there, you spy the next, the bloom unfolding towards the sun, an acolyte at an altar. 

They only grow thicker from there, sprouting up in bunches as the snow thins, little markers of purple as deep as the night sky, dotted with blooms the color of the sun. 

Soon you have to step around them carefully, leaving a path of swaying flowers in your wake, rippling like a river. They come to an abrupt halt at the edge of a snowless clearing, where thick tufts of grass are verdant against deep, dark soil. There are tiny flowers dotted in the grass like stars. 

In the center of the clearing, a riot of flowers spills over, from massive peonies almost buckling under their own weight to tall, proud irises rising high. There’s something to the shape of them. It prods at you, but you can’t make sense of it.

You take a deep breath and step into the clearing. 

Something sweeps through you, a frisson of power long dormant, fizzing across your nerves. Gooseflesh rises on your skin. 

Nothing happens.

You step forward again. The sun shines boldly here, the rays soft against your skin. It is nothing like the bleak winter sun that has accompanied you on your journey. You close your eyes and turn your face up towards it. It plays over your skin like a lover and you bask in it. There is a sweet scent lingering in the air; it mixes with the fresh smell of the grass crushed beneath your heavy boots. 

For a moment, you simply stand there, nestled in this little pocket of spring. 

Ice trickles down your spine. 

Your eyes pop open as your breath catches in your throat. You glance around wildly but nothing has changed. 

“Hello?” you call out.

“Hi,” comes echoing back to you, obscenely cheerful, and you stumble back. A shiver rolls down your spine. “Over here,” the voice says, full of laughter.

You follow the sound of it up to a tree on the very edge of the clearing. It’s half in bloom, one side thick with lush leaves, while the other is barren and dusted with snow. 

The god is sitting on a branch, tucked up against the thick trunk. His long legs are crossed and resting on the branch; he’s the picture of relaxation. 

You suck in a sharp breath as he peers down at you, his head cocked to the side. It lets you see the very edge of a crimson mask jauntily perched on the side of his head. It gleams in the sunlight, wine-dark. You frown for a moment, wondering if there’s a mask you should be wearing—you don’t remember reading about one. 

“Whatcha doing here?” the god asks.

You pause, thrown by how flippant he is, by the wide grin on his lips. Something cold settles behind your ribs, digging sharp teeth into the softness of you, a warning bite. You shudder.

“Well?”

You shake off the oppressive feeling that’s layered over your skin, coating you like oil. “I’ve come to invoke the spring rite,” you say. “The winter—it’s gone on too long. The growing season should have already begun.”

The god hums.

“Please,” you say, “the village won’t survive.” 

“There’s usually a sacrifice for these types of things, isn’t there?”

Your hands tremble. “I’m here,” you say. “I offer myself in the spring rite.”

The god’s eyes gleam. “You give in easy, don’t you?”

You pause. “I don’t understand.”

“Tell you what,” the god says, hopping down from the tree gracefully. He lands on his feet without a wince despite the long drop. He prowls closer to you and the air thickens with something you can’t name. You choke on your next breath.

“You know the lake?” he asks.

Bewildered, you nod.

“You run to it. I’ll follow. If I catch you, you’re mine. If I don’t, I’ll help the village. Sound good?”

“I—I don’t understand—”

He prowls closer still. His orange hair catches in the sunlight and you think of a crackling fire, of the snapping bite of the flames. Your stomach turns.

“Do we have a deal?”

You square your shoulders. “Yes.”

He smiles; ice spirals down your spine. 

“Run, little mouse,” the god says, sounding far too cheerful. His eyes—blue, blue, blue like the ocean’s depths, and just as cold—are sharp. “And c’mon, make it a good chase, won’t you?”

You turn and run.

Behind you, the god laughs, the sound young, almost boyish. 

The flowers of the clearing smash beneath your heavy boots; you all but throw yourself back into the snowy grip of the woods, dancing between the massive oaks. 

Your pulse is already singing in your ears, a thundering crash of waves. A branch catches your cheek, a sharp bite of pain, but you don’t even slow. You know you don’t have a second to lose, not with the snow slippery beneath you, not with the sound of laughter echoing behind you. 

The air is humming, shot through with something you can’t name, something that settles deep in your bones, an old and terrible thing. You shudder with it as it shrouds you, weighing you down. The hairs on the back of your neck rise.

You dart right just as a hand skims the flaring end of your furs; you feel the slight tug of it and throw yourself forward, pushing harder despite your already-screaming legs. 

“Good,” the god says, sounding deeply pleased. 

You veer away from the sound of his voice, almost slipping on a patch of ice hidden beneath the snow. You can practically feel him behind you, keeping pace with you as if it’s child’s play. He dogs your steps, his very presence oppressive and heavy. 

You lose precious time ducking around trees and weaving your way through the forest, but you know he’ll catch you if you simply run. The winter wind nips at your cheeks and nose; it burns your throat as you take in huge, gasping breaths. 

Behind you, the god is humming.

The tears burn at the corners of your eyes. It feels like they freeze on your cheeks as they trickle down. But the trees are starting to thin, the lake not far off beyond them. 

You push yourself, thighs and feet screaming as you leap over a tangle of roots, and then the lake is in your view, glimmering under the bleak winter sun, the water shifting like a mirage. 

You’re almost there.

You put on another burst of speed, your heart in your throat, lengthening your stride as your pulse hammers.

“Game over,” the god says in your ear.

You go down before you know what’s happening.

The god takes you to the ground in one fell swoop. He’s warm against you. You barely catch yourself; pain sears through you as you hit the ground. Still, you take advantage of his loosening grip to wiggle out from underneath him, dragging yourself free by digging your hands into the soil and scrambling forward.

You’re almost on your feet again when he catches you by the ankle with one big hand. 

You kick on instinct, something carved into your bones coming to life inside you, a desperation passed down in your blood. You catch him just below the ribs, in the softest part of his stomach. Air leaves him in a billowing gust. His teeth clack together, bone against bone, a graveyard sound. 

But he doesn’t let go.

He laughs.

It’s a crow of delight, bright and merry, echoing off the barren trees. His blue, blue eyes crinkle at the edges. 

He drags you to him with an ease that makes something in you go cold, like the darkest part of winter, when the night swallows up even the smallest hints of the sun. He flips you over onto your back. 

“Not a timid mouse after all,” he says, baring his teeth in a wide, thrilled grin. There’s blood shining on them. “You kick too hard for that, right, little hare?”

You try to kick him again; he pins you in place under his body weight, his eyes darkening. 

“You can do better than that,” he says. “C’mon. Hit me harder. I know you can.” 

“What kind of god are you?” you whisper.

He blinks. “God?” he says. He stares at you for a moment with those eyes, dull and deep, and then he throws back his head with a laugh. “Do you mean the god of that little clearing? You think I’m him?”

“I don’t understand,” you say, dread welling up inside of you, spreading through you like poison. 

“I’m no god,” he says cheerfully. “I did kill that one, though. Tsaritsa’s orders. He was weaker than I thought he’d be.”

You think of the mass of flowers in the center of the clearing. Of the odd shape of them.

“I thought you were him,” you breathe. 

“Nope.”

“You—” you start, before your tongue fails you. “You’re not a god?”

“Afraid not.”

You buck beneath him, trying to throw him off, wiggling around in the snow and trying to get leverage.

He tightens his grip until you go still. 

“Still, a deal’s a deal,” the god—the man—says cheerfully. He leans down and brushes his lips over yours, a whisper of a kiss. 

“You’re mine.” 

[mygoo]

I'm going to outlive my son. It's the saddest realization for any parent, but it's one I can't deny anymore. See, my son is fat. No really, faaaaaat. Take whatever you're thinking in your head and double it, heck triple it even and you're probably still thinking too small.

His mother and I tried for years to get him active, to get him interested in the outdoors, sports, heck any physical activity, but the only physical activity he cared about were ones that ended in food.

We tried at first to guide him into making better decisions. Surely as he matured he'd realize that all the food and all the weight wasn't worth it, but the gentle treatment didn't work. We never wanted to be strict parents, but we decided that drastic measures had to be taken when he reached his teens with his weight still climbing. We rid the house of anything unhealthy and kept an eye on his eating like a hawk and he finally started dropping weight to our slight comfort.

Looking back now I see how short-sighted we were. It's one thing to control your kid, but he won't be a kid forever. At some point he's going to need independence, a job, a car, all the facets of a normal adult life and hopefully someone to share it with. Out on his own he could eat as much as he wanted, when he wanted, especially once we found out his first job was not what he originally told us, but a job at one of the local fast food joints.

Slowly at first, but surely his weight started creeping up again. He'd bounce around between jobs depending on what cuisine he was especially feeling and how long they'd keep him on before realizing how much he was literally eating into their profits. We'd failed. Just like his youth anything he did was motivated by food. We were all out of ideas. Time passed by in this stalemate, the only needle moving faster being the one on our bathroom scale.

We had thought about kicking him out, but at this point I don't think he could even live on his own. He had every weight-related medical condition in the book, every one a missed wake up call to turn back. Things that people in their 50s would start worrying about, not someone less than half their age.

Getting on disability took away the last reason for him to ever get off his copious ass, so it's no surprise that his mobility vaporized shortly thereafter. Some days I wonder if he'll see 30. It'll surely be a miracle of medical science if he does.

I couldn't tell if it was a blessing or a curse the day I found his online persona, through the further I looked, the more I gravitated towards the latter. It finally made everything make quasi-sense, a reason for the way he lived his life, if you can even call it that, but it did so in such a disgusting, heartbreaking way. He catalogues his gains to a sadistic audience hungry to watch him blow up. He talks about how much he loves his weight, shockingly especially its side-effects, reveling in being out of breath simply from rolling over in bed. The post where he declared himself immobile is proudly pinned to the top of his page, racking up comments of support and congratulations from the people feeding into his addiction, both figuratively and literally with constant food deliveries I had long-assumed he had ordered for himself. It's all so fucking disgusting, and it's something I will never tell my wife, something I will take to my grave long after his.

As far as I'm concerned, he's already gone. He was lost 100s of pounds ago. There's no son in that void of a room, just a mound of flesh, endlessly growing until the day it doesn't. Goodbye, son. I hope you really love all your flab like you say you do, because it's all you got, and there's a ton of it.

[desi-yearning]

Every 19th November has its 29th June.

Bittersweet. That’s the word I had been using to describe the ODI World Cup 2023. I'd use the same to describe this T20 World Cup 2024 too. But for reasons that are poles apart.

Very few people would know and understand how much this win means to me. 19th November has done some irreparable damage, I’ve had breakdowns for months about this, wrote poems that’ll never see the light (or you’ll never know it was written about this), but most importantly, I had given up hope, completely. This one compares nothing to that world cup but this brought back the hope to me that life won’t be as good as I want it to be, but maybe it won’t be as bad as I thought it would be.

I’ve grown up. I turned 18 this month and I also had to begin saying goodbye to my hero. From defending Virat in classrooms, carrying his pictures in my bag to defending Virat on online platforms yesterday and having a poster of him in my room, I’ve come a long way with him as an idol. I know that he is going to play the other formats but this is the beginning of a series of goodbyes. I’m not ready for this. I don’t think I’ll ever be too. I love him beyond expression.

Rohit. I still do not get how people who like Virat do not like Rohit. How can you *not* like Rohit? Rohit had been one of the players I liked previously but when cricket came back to me after a few years, he came back to me stronger. Rohit started to mean so much to me especially after seeing him embrace his ‘Bhaiya’ role in the best way possible. I’ve written so much about him in the last few months, maybe more than I’ve ever written about Virat. I love him so much.

Jasprit Bumrah. The only God I believe in. The game changer. The point of difference. I could write an entire book about how amazing he is and that'll still be less. That man is the sole reason behind me starting to watch the bowling innings too. And now, I'll gladly admit that I enjoy the bowling innings more than the batting one. All because of one man, the man, the myth, the legend.

So many moments yesterday that brought me tears but nothing compares to seeing Hardik cry and talk about it all. I'm so proud to have never trolled that man for whatever has happened, it's a flex to say that I've defended him during that time. People put him through so much and I think he was the one of the people who deserved this win the most. He's a gem.

I could go on and write paras about every single one in this team. All of them are phenomenal and like Rohit and Rahul say, they played their roles exceptionally well. How Sky’s catch changed the winning probability, Arshdeep’s last over, Axar’s contribution with the bat, Kuldeep throughout the tournament. I couldn't be anymore grateful to this team for making this day possible.

It was an insane game. One of the greatest comebacks ever. I’m glad to have never stopped believing in this team. They’ve done what felt impossible at one point. This is a story I’ll tell people for generations to come. I feel so blessed to be supporting and cheering for a team like this and having the good fortune of having watched it live on a screen. I’ll never shut up about this. I’ve witnessed history.

This was my first world cup win ever since the time I started watching cricket. I still don’t think there was a specific someone who got me into cricket, this game just happened to me. And I’m so glad it did because I cannot imagine my life without cricket playing one of the biggest parts in it. Most of my best and worst memories are from watching cricket. If I had to divide my life into phases, it'd always be using cricket. Thank you Team India for all these memories. I will love you forever.

This one’s for my Tumblr people. I love each and every single one of you all so much. I was watching the match all alone in my room but yet I felt like I was celebrating with everyone else with all the live-blogging that we did. Celebrating with people is still a big dream for me as I always watch the matches alone and no one in my house really cares. But you guys made it possible, partially at least. I don’t think I’d have enjoyed the match as much as I did if not for you, my dear Tumblr mutuals. So, a big thank you to you too! <3

Love, A.

[wonderfulworldofmichaelford]

Psycho Analysis: Buffalo Bill

(WARNING! This analysis contains SPOILERS!)

Back in 2019, I started Psycho Analysis with a review of one of cinema’s most overshadowed and underrated villains. Now that I’m better at this, I've decided I'm redoing those old reviews, giving them a fresh coat of paint, fitting them into the modern Psycho Analysis style, and updating the scores. I figured there’s no better place to start than with good ol’ Jame Gumb.

Jame Gumb (yes, Jame, he doesn’t have an “S” in his name) is the enigmatic serial killer from The Silence of the Lambs known as Buffalo Bill. He’s left a trail of flayed women in his wake, his motives unknown, and it’s up to Clarice Starling to stop him with a little help from a smarmy cannibal asshole. He’s the perfect sort of twisted, perverted freak you’d hope to find in a grim, gritty detective story. In fact, he almost seems a bit uncontroversial and unremarkable in terms of villains, doesn’t he?

Oh, if only. Unfortunately, there are aspects of Bill’s character that have made him the second most controversial villain of 90s cinema after Ray Finkle from Ace Ventura: Pet Detective. And we’re going to discuss all of that, because the big question when discussing Bill ultimately isn’t whether he’s good or bad, but is he good despite the unfortunate implications he ends up carrying due to what is and isn’t adapted from the book?

Motivation/Goals: Bill just wants to play dress up. Unfortunately, his idea of dressing up involves skinning women and then sewing said skin into a woman suit he can wear to dance about in his underground dungeon, penis tucked between his legs. To accomplish this Ed Gein-esque goal, he uses the playbooks of other killers like Ted Bundy to lure in unsuspecting women of considerable girth, traps them in a well in his basement, and forces them through a strict skin care regiment until it’s time to kill and skin them.

All of this is just incredibly fucked up, and also isn’t elaborated on to quite the degree the novel does due to Bill not being a character we focus on to gain real insight into. The full reveal of his plan is a shocking twist, but we don’t have the full psychological scope of his actions that was laid bare in the novel; while it doesn’t diminish Gumb in my opinion, it does leave the door open for some… problematic readings of what he’s up to, which we’ll discuss later.

Performance: While I don’t think I could possibly say he is an actor who manages to achieve the lofty heights of Hopkins, Ted Levine is still absolutely fantastic in his role. He’s an actor who always manages to inject his characters with a sort of unsettling air; just look at his brief appearance in Shutter Island if you need proof of this. Those skills are put to good use here, as he manages to make Gumb truly unnerving, and arguably far more realistic in his depiction of a serial killer than Lecter is.

Final Fate: After stalking Clarice Starling through his blackened basement while wearing night vision goggles, the tables are turned on Bill and the hunter becomes the hunted as Clarice unloads her gun into him. It’s a rather fitting death; as he preyed on women at their most vulnerable, it only makes sense that a woman strip him of all his power when he appears to be in control.

Evilness: I really don’t think there is any good argument against Bill getting the full 10/10. I mean, the man skins women so that he can wear their skin as a suit. How much fucking worse can a person even be in a story like this? It says a lot that Lecter comes off as more reasonable and less evil than the guy (even though this is decidedly not the case).

Best Scene: You know what it is:

And it’s even Jay and Silent Bob approved!

Really gotta compliment the song choice here; Q Lazzarus’ ominous dance tune “Goodbye Horses” forever had its image altered by its use here, but it really heightens the mood and feeds in to the unsettling nature of Bill’s dance. You can’t hear the opening notes of the song without this scene immediately coming to mind. And to think, its inclusion was all because she happened to pick up director Johnathan Demme in her taxi during a blizzard and showed him her demo tape.

Best Quote: From the above scene, Bill drops one of the most famous serial killer quotes in cinematic history:

“Would you fuck me? I’d fuck me. I’d fuck me so hard.”

Final Thoughts & Score: Buffalo Bill is horrendously underrated as a villain, though clearly there are some out there who appreciate him (Seth Green for example, who based Chris Griffin’s voice in Family Guy off of Buffalo Bill’s). That being said, the movie unfortunately ends up dipping into problematic territory as by excising most of the elaboration from the novel, Bill can unfortunately be read as an unflattering depiction of a trans woman.

Now you and I know that isn’t true, and anyone else who has read the book knows it isn’t true, but do you really think the average moviegoer in the early 90s cared about that? They see the freaky man dancing around with his schlong tucked away, wearing a woman’s skin, and find it unsettling and grotesque. It is incredibly easy to see how someone could see this as something akin to a villain in a crappy JKR detective novel, and it really didn’t have to be that way because the book really goes out of its way to not demonize trans people; while a bit outdated by modern standards, the book explains that trans people are not inherently violent and that Gumb is merely deluding himself into believing he is trans as some sort of warped justification for his actions. It even pointing out he was rejected for gender reasignment surgery. The movie has a few lines, but that’s kind of disappointing compared to the original novel, isn’t it? Then again, perhaps over-explaining would lead to the same criticisms the ending of Psycho gets, where laying things out for the audience in a way that tries not to demonize marginalized individuals is seen as tacky and unneeded.

Considering that Gumb was inspired by real life killers and their motivations (particularly Ed Gein, who has a higher number of fictional characters inspired by him than he does victims) and because I read the book, I don’t necessarily find his portrayal all that offensive, but I am a cis guy. If you do find his character tasteless, I won’t exactly blame you. It’s a rather unfortunate side effect of the transition from book to film that we lost the details that would ameliorate the problematic image of the character. With all that said, I still think he gets an 8.5/10. He’s certainly not as iconic as Lecter is and he’s too problematic to score any higher, but he is a very effective villain for the film he’s in and Levine’s performance is chilling and entrancing.

If nothing else, his existence led to the greatest open RP of all time. That’s gotta count for something.

[z3ny44]

Spoilers for Fionna and Cake Finale Double Episode Post

-Alright, episode 9 started of with a scare! That nightmare really seemed real for a second, and Marshall looked like Shoko when she fell into the radioactive river....

Thank god it was a dream honestly, but the main even of this episode... The Lich begging for Golb to acknowledge his achievements, his success in ending all life on his reality, only to be denied of any form of gratification and to be stripped of his own reason and turned into a tetris block...

I really liked this bit, I think Fionna and Cake had the best moments of Lich alongside his speech in the Citadel episode. His expression, his posture, his rage alongside his struggle... How can a character so inherently impossible to kill, be absolutely finished by no more than a look from the one whom he called his scholar.

Also Simon kicked him that's funny,, poor Jerry

And Now, from the 1000+ years Ooo, we get to see Shermy and Beth again! They are vandalizing Gibbon's kingdom, that, in case you don't remember or don't know, he's the son of Charlie (Jake's daughter that played Card Wars)

I really like 1000+ years Ooo. In a way its cozy but at the same time uncanny cuz you really don't know anyone... (I mean Marcy and PB are canonically alive but still they only appear in the Come Along with Me Intro) I wish it was a miniseries itself!!! Simon got TP'd to Shermy's head and still is trying to find a crown. They went to the library which is now ruled by the paper guys, and a robot in a turtle shell? uh,,, okay?

And yeah basically the Scarab is back cuz Ellis P freed them,,, bruh.

-LAST EPISODE FFS PAWN SWAN IS CANON WOOO

Okay but in all seriousness, the episode continued F&C dealing with the Scarab, and they just threw him all the guys that he imprisoned, which shows us what we already had a feeling since he caught Kheirosiphon: the Scarab just caught outlaw, independently if they are good or bad, most of these guys are reformed and have started a new life... he's just so shitty... like, look at these little Big guy :')

Anyways, to get done with the F&C story, basically Prismo tp's the Peppermint tank, alongside with Jay, little Destiny and BABY FINN!! WHICH IS HUGE?! Finn is going to grow up in Fionna's universe, and if the series continues, we might even see a normal world grew up Finn (with grew up I mean like 15, lol) ALSO WE SEE TIFFANY

Simon's side on the other hand,,, jeez I feel like I was synced with Simon in a way that I never really acknowledged Betty's sacrifice... She really did put everything on the side to be with Simon, and for his happiness.... not that it went by unnoticed, but it bugs me to think... what if they did it differently? What if he went on the trip with Betty... I mean to be fair we have the answer... he dies to vampires a couple years after, but how was the time he spent with Betty? What did they change? How did they change and grew even if it did not last forever....

and if you think that this was the part that hit the hardest... buddy..

Yeah,,, I think Betty isn't even there anymore, this was a goodbye... It wasn't explained but I think it was implied that she is gone... That Golb is back to his normal form... i don't know if this will have repercussions in the future? Maybe reform Lich and fuse with him?! I'm just throwing random ideas at this point.

-Final Opinion: This series was amazing, I'm always happy to have more Adventure Time content, it being my main artistic inspiration makes it so much more fantastic to see new characters, places and stories. It was definitely the best mini series so far. The funniest, the most interesting, and the prettiest visually. The epilogue was so heartwarming, Fionna being able to talk with Simon via sms, he's having therapy with Minerva, and PRISMO! Prismo now has the Scarab with him in the Time Room, they are going to make stories together hehe.

(also there was a frame in which prismo's head was flipped? idk if it was an error wtf)