#laden of the torn

[hookaroo]

Laden of the Torn (25 of 25)

AO3 link Catch up on tumblr: One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen Fourteen Fifteen Sixteen Seventeen Eighteen Nineteen Twenty Twenty-One Twenty-Two Twenty-Three Twenty-Four Tagging @priscilla9993 @cocohook38 @killian-whump <3

A few weeks later…

Killian could now guess almost exactly when the pain would start, as determined by how long he’d been away from Alice. A fortnight allowed him to get within sight of the blue spires as the curse’s grip slowly tightened around his heart. One month, and he could stand at the tower’s base and gaze upward longingly with only mild discomfort. Six weeks, and he could make half the climb before the knives commenced their assault. Before now, he hadn’t had the self-discipline to test anything longer.

This time, as he climbed in the darkness of near-dawn, his still-healing hand threatened to give out before his heart even felt the first tentative prick of a blade. But his determination drove him higher, and yearning anticipation drowned out all physical concerns.

Alice knew better than to watch him climb. Her proximity as he reached the high window would put him in danger of falling, or even being flung outwards into space as he’d done in her premonitory nightmare before he’d even been cursed. So she waited against the far wall, anxious eyes watching for his first appearance, which always propelled her into an excited bounce--the only way to contain the longing energy that would otherwise have launched her forward into an ill-advised attempt at a hug.

Today was no different, and as Killian pulled himself up to catch his first glimpse of his impatiently waiting daughter, Alice let out a little squeal of relieved delight. Panting, Killian leaned against the wall to catch his breath, flashing her a bright smile as he fumbled for Mandible’s potion in the satchel slung over his shoulder. Alice grinned back with a wave, still bouncing on the balls of her feet and watching apprehensively as one decorative ceremonial cloth fluttered to the floor, followed by a second animal-skin wrapping. He could see tears glistening on her face, and the lump constricting his own throat made choking down the potion absurdly difficult.

Almost immediately, the stabbings slowed, the knives retreated, and Killian’s rib cage could expand freely as he drew a huge, satisfying lungful of air. He downed the last mouthful of tangy liquid, carefully replaced the stopper--he planned to fill the vial with water several times to be sure he extracted every last second of its offered reprieve--and then took a single eager step forward. Alice took that as her cue and was across the room and in his arms before he had even completed a second step.

“Alice…” Killian breathed, squeezing her tight as he’d done so often in his dreams.

“Papa!” cried Alice in almost the same instant, and they both laughed and sobbed and held each other as if nothing would ever drive them apart again.

Killian soaked in every last detail of that hug: the way she felt in his arms, her warmth and surprising strength as she squeezed him back, the sound of her emotional whimpers of laughter as she was overwhelmed by the same heart-wrenching delight that also coursed through his veins. The flowery scent of her hair. The unexpected height of her head against his shoulder. He closed his eyes and committed it all to memory.

“Papa…” whispered Alice brokenly.

“Yes, Starfish?” Killian placed a gentle kiss on the top of her head.

“I… I’m not sure I can let go.”

A tear slipped down his cheek and disappeared into her shining crown of gold. “Nor am I, love. I’ve missed you… more than words can tell.”

Alice sniffed, then tilted her head back to look up at him. She gave him a watery smile, saying,

“Let’s pretend… let’s pretend tomorrow doesn’t exist. It will always be today, forever and ever. Would… that be all right?”

Choking back a sob, Killian nodded. “Of course.”

He wanted to expand upon that, to offer reassurance or somehow lend credence to the fantasy, but found he could not speak as frustration and grief boiled over. A single day was not nearly enough, and it was so terribly unfair that they had to spend their limited time together dreading the unfeeling approach of sunset. With a trembling hand, he reached up and began to stroke Alice’s hair, wrestling back all of the negativity, refusing to let it spoil this one precious day.

“I can’t believe how tall you’ve gotten!” he exclaimed, tone only slightly crazed. “Slow it down, would you? I can’t have you looking down on me one day and pointing out every new silver hair that crops up.”

Alice laughed shyly, finally and reluctantly pulling away, but entwining her fingers with his and gripping tightly. She looked down at herself, then gave an innocent shrug. “Sorry, Papa; I’ve decided to become a giant when I grow up. You’ll just have to make do.”

Killian grinned at her, sincere and encouraging. “Not to worry, Starfish; I’ll be proud of you, whatever you become.”

Alice wiped her face with her sleeve, looked him up and down, and frowned slightly. “Have you been eating properly? You look dreadfully skinny.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Oi, cheeky, would you rather I have a gut full of whale blubber? It would be very hard to climb the rigging of the Jolly Roger hauling that lot around.”

Alice’s laughter still contained a hint of concern, and Killian sighed. Perceptive, his daughter.

“I’m all right love; I give you my word. I had a… minor illness not long ago, but as you can see, I’m good as new now.” He glanced around the only surroundings she’d ever known, taking in the condition of her prison and noting with love the obvious attempts she’d made to make the place presentable for him. “And what about you? Not up late reading every night, I hope?”

“Papa!” Alice rolled her eyes at him. He waited for a proper reply, mock sternness completely undermined by the loving grin on his lips. Giggling, she relented. “I’ve been good, I promise. You would be proud.”

Killian couldn’t resist pulling her into another embrace. “I am, love. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders. Can’t fathom where it came from, considering what a buffoon you have for a father.”

“Oh, Papa…”

He had meant it as a bit of lighthearted self-deprecation--a reference to his recent scrape with Blackbeard and his monkeys, perhaps--but suddenly, the weight of his true misdeeds pressed down upon him with full force. Gently, he extricated himself and stepped back so he could look her straight in her eyes. Using his hook to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, he choked out,

“Can you ever forgive me, Alice?”

She looked completely mystified, and when it took him a moment to continue past his emotions, she asked,

“Forgive you? For what?”

He looked at the floor, recalling with painful clarity the instant the curse had been revealed. “The witch was right. It’s entirely my fault my heart was poisoned. I wasn’t thinking about anything but my own worthless, stubborn pride. I neglected my responsibility to you. I even had a whole night to consider the fact that I was risking my death for nothing more than my bloody reputation, and I still chose to be reckless and selfish. I’m so sorry, love. I’m only cursed because I’m a damn fool, and I’ve forced you to share in the consequences.”

There were tear stains on Alice’s face when he managed to meet her eyes again, but she squeezed his hand, then surged forward and wrapped her arms tightly around him.

“It’s okay, Papa. I forgive you.”

Still wracked by shame, Killian cradled her head against his heart. “You do?”

“Everyone makes mistakes,” she reminded him simply, and he knew he would never forget the complex mix of relief, guilt, pride, and overwhelming love that filled him from head to toe at her quiet statement. It did not completely unburden his heart; nothing ever would until he found a way to permanently break the curse. But a noticeable weight did lift with Alice’s sincere offering of grace.

“I love you,” she said, and he only just managed to choke out,

“I love you too, Alice.” He cleared his throat and struggled to gather his composure. “Thank you for being so understanding. I give you my solemn vow that you are my entire focus, from now on. I won’t stop until I free you, or cure this heart for good.”

“I know.” Alice managed to look hopeful then, despite the number of months that had already passed with no progress on either count. She took her father by the hand again and pulled him farther into the room than he’d dared venture since his magical banishment.

“How about a game before breakfast?” she suggested as she led him to the chess board, which had already been neatly arranged, minus two meaningful missing pieces. She produced her white knight from a pocket in her apron; Killian did likewise with his black rook. As two equally faded pieces joined their more vibrant counterparts, Killian said,

“I would like nothing more, Starfish. But I must warn you, I may be a bit out of practice.”

They both took their accustomed places. Alice scoffed teasingly. “That’s only an excuse for when you inevitably lose.”

“Is that so? Well, we’ll just have to see about that, won’t we?”

Alice giggled, considered him for a moment, then made her first move. And for just that single moment, tomorrow did, indeed, cease to exist.

[obihoe]

god, the ichibi truly is the most terrible bijuu of them all huh. like he's not even that strong, among the bijuus at least he is the weakest but he seems to be so much more terrible to live with than the others. and gaara ... he is not even That strong either? at least not at first, he breaks down all the time. and his jutsu repertoire is not all that various either, his main strength is his defence but after lee breaks it, all the other opponents he faces afterwards manage to break it as well. gaara i think is the epitome of a failed bijuu-host relationship .. his bijuu might be willing to help him by sharing his power with him but that power is too much for him and moreover, the ichibi doesnt help him exactly either, he moreso just uses him as his marionette to sate his own bloodlust .. as opposed to the other, non-jinchuuriki ninjas, gaara has an INSANE level of power and chakra but he cant channel it properly and its too much to handle for him. the image of his sand shield around his body cracking is fitting i think cuz his power quite literally breaks him apart

[kaynothanks]

The Bargain Store

Pairing: Loki x goddess!reader

Summary: You, a goddess hiding on Earth, encounter Loki, who eons ago vowed to kill you. Loki never was one to keep his word.

Warnings: (18+ mdni) loki, what else? the smut just happened, i don’t even know how (yes, I do), oral (f receiving), loki has ulterior motives, mention of blood (lip), unprotected p in v, vaginal fingering

Word-Count: 6.5 k

Nobody suspected anything. Never had. For the past few decades, you had been the owner of your little shop, after spending many centuries on the run.

Throughout centuries, there had been wars and revolutions, plagues and remedies. You had stood witness to them all. Watched from the distance as civilizations went into ruin and new ones emerged. You had made sure not to get too involved. It wasn’t your place; not your planet and not your people. Still, you had been on earth for a big part of your lifespan. In your world, you weren’t anything special, a sheep in a broad herd. And you had had enough of it. So, you had left. Ran from your responsibilities, bid no goodbyes and settled for something less.

Centuries had woven themselves into the very fabric of your being, each era a thread in the intricate tapestry of your existence. You had been many things: a whisper in the wind, a shadow in the twilight, a force as ancient and unyielding as the stars themselves. Yet, for the last few decades, you had chosen a far simpler, more unassuming role—a shopkeeper, tending to a quaint little establishment nestled on a serene street, far removed from the cacophony of the bustling city that surrounded it.

Your shop was a sanctuary, not just for you, but for all who sought refuge within its walls. From the outside, it appeared no different from any other boutique that dealt in herbs, teas, and the occasional curious trinket. However, its essence was imbued with something far more ancient, a magic that hummed quietly beneath the surface, perceptible only to those who truly believed or those who, like you, were of another world entirely.

This little shop was your haven, a place where you could be both less and more than what you were. Here, you were not the goddess who had danced among the stars, who had witnessed the rise and fall of empires, who had fled from a war that threatened to consume her very soul. Here, you were simply the keeper of secrets, of remedies both mundane and magical, offering solace to the weary and the lost.

Your reasons for choosing this existence were manifold, but at their core lay a desire for peace, for a semblance of normalcy in a life that had been anything but. You had grown weary of the endless conflicts that had defined your existence, of the power struggles that had torn apart realms and ravaged worlds. Earth, with all its simplicity and complexity, offered a respite, a place where you could hide in plain sight among its inhabitants, who remained blissfully unaware of the greater cosmos that swirled around them.

The shop became a reflection of your desire for tranquility. Its walls were lined with shelves laden with jars and bottles, each containing herbs and potions that held whispers of your old world. You delighted in the mundane tasks of tending to your plants, mixing herbs, and brewing teas, finding a sense of purpose in the healing and comfort your creations provided. Your customers, none the wiser to the true nature of your being, were drawn to your shop by an inexplicable pull, leaving with remedies for their ailments and, sometimes, a lighter heart.

For years, this life had been enough. You had convinced yourself that you could forget, that you could move beyond the past and forge a new existence among the humans you had come to cherish. But the past, as it often does, refused to remain buried. It came for you on an unremarkable day, shattering the peace you had so carefully built with the ringing of the shop's bell and the entrance of a figure from a life you had tried to leave behind.

Loki's arrival was a storm on the horizon, a harbinger of chaos that threatened to upend the world you had created. The God of Mischief, with his piercing gaze and sly grin, embodied everything you had fled from: the power, the destruction, the endless machinations of gods and men. His presence in your shop, a place that had been untouched by the affairs of gods for so long, was a stark reminder that one could never truly escape their nature or their past.

The last time you had seen Loki, it was on the battlefield. You had been on opposing sides, and his last words to you were a vow of death. Yet, here he stood, looking around your shop with a curious gleam in his eyes, not having recognized you yet. Or had he? With Loki, one could never be too sure. You steadied yourself, the mask of the shopkeeper sliding effortlessly into place. "Can I help you find anything?" Your voice was calm, betraying none of the turmoil inside.

Loki turned his attention to you, his green eyes piercing. For a moment, you thought you saw a flicker of recognition, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. "I'm looking for something unique," he declared, the silk of his voice wrapping around you like a familiar shroud. His steps were measured as he approached, the predator within barely leashed. "A gift for someone who values... rare items."

You couldn't help but wonder who Loki would consider worthy of a gift. Your curiosity, however, was a dangerous thing, especially around him. "I have a few rare herbs and special tea blends. If you're looking for something more unique, perhaps a potion or two? Depending on what you wish to achieve." You kept your tone neutral, professional.

It was a game of cat and mouse, and you both knew it. Loki's lips twitched into a smile, and he moved closer, his gaze never leaving yours. "And what would you recommend for someone seeking... forgiveness?"

The question caught you off guard, and for a moment, the mask slipped. Loki was asking for forgiveness? From whom? The thought that it might be you crossed your mind, but you dismissed it just as quickly. "Forgiveness is not easily obtained by potions alone. It requires sincerity and action. But," you paused, turning to fetch a small, unassuming bottle from a shelf behind you, "this may aid in opening the heart to forgiveness, making it more receptive."

He took the bottle, examining it with a thoughtful expression. "And what do you seek, shopkeeper? What would you have me pay for this aid?"

"Peace," the word slipped out before you could stop it. It was the truth, however. Peace was all you had sought by coming to Earth, peace from your past, from the endless battles and politics of gods.

"A tall order," Loki mused, placing the bottle down and stepping closer, invading your personal space. "But perhaps not impossible."

The tension between you was palpable, a dance of curiosity, old grudges, and unspoken questions. "Why are you here, Loki?" you dared to ask, needing to know his purpose. Your heart raced, not just from surprise but from a resurgence of a darker thrill you thought you had buried deep within. The life you had led before, filled with power plays and destruction, beckoned with a seductive finger through Loki's emerald gaze. As Loki dared to step closer, crossing the invisible boundary you had mentally drawn around yourself, a surge of defiance ignited within you. Your heart raced, not solely with fear but with the resurgence of a power you had long kept dormant. With a thought as sharp as a whispered incantation, you summoned a dagger into existence. It materialized in your hand, its golden blade gleaming with a light that spoke of ancient magics and forgotten realms. This was no mere weapon but a relic of your divine heritage, a testament to the might you once wielded freely.

You didn't hesitate. The years had taught you caution, yes, but they had also honed your instincts, sharpened them into lethal points. As Loki advanced, a smile playing on his lips as if he were merely a predator toying with his prey, you struck. The movement was fluid, a dance you had performed countless times across the battlegrounds of the stars. The blade sliced through the air, aimed with deadly precision at the figure before you.

But the strike met no resistance. Instead, the dagger sliced through the illusion, the projection of Loki dissipating into nothingness, leaving behind only the faintest traces of his magic in the air. It was a trick, a mere sleight of hand from the God of Mischief, and you had fallen for it. A cold realization washed over you, a reminder of Loki's cunning, of the depths of his power which, it seemed, had only grown over the years.

Before you could recover, before you could even curse your own folly, arms enveloped you from behind. It was an embrace as familiar as it was unexpected, one that spoke of countless lifetimes and entwined destinies. His hand snaked around your waist, securing you against him with an intimacy that belied the years of separation and the shadow of past betrayals. The other hand, firm and unyielding, gripped hold of your wrist, effortlessly disarming you of the dagger you had conjured. Its golden light flickered and died, leaving you exposed, vulnerable in a way that went beyond the physical.

Loki's breath was warm against your neck, his presence a cloak of inevitability you found yourself powerless to resist. "How I have missed you, darling," he murmured, the words vibrating against your skin, a mix of threat and endearment. In that moment, with Loki's arms around you and his voice weaving spells of its own, you were transported back across the aeons, to a time when love and war were intermingled, and your fate was inseparably tied to the whims of gods.

The realization that the figure you had attacked was but a projection, a mere echo of Loki's true self, sank in with a weight that was almost suffocating. It was a reminder of his mastery over illusions, over the realities he could weave with a mere thought. Yet, the arms that held you, the breath that teased the hairs at the nape of your neck, they were undeniably real. This was no illusion but the god himself, in flesh and blood, as tangible as the tumultuous history you shared.

The conflict within you, a storm of emotions and memories, raged with renewed intensity. Loki's proximity, his touch, it reignited flames you thought had long since turned to ash. But this was not the time for reminiscences, for getting lost in what had been. The immediate truth was that Loki, the very being who had once vowed your destruction, now held you within his grasp, not as an enemy, but with a possessiveness that spoke of deeper, more complex intentions.

As his hand released your wrist, letting the vanished dagger be forgotten, you were left to grapple with the reality of his return. His words, laden with an emotion you couldn't quite decipher, echoed in the silence that followed. Was it a declaration, a manipulation, or something in between? With Loki, the lines were always blurred, the truth as shifting as the sands of time. The shop around you, once a sanctuary of peace, now felt like a stage set for a confrontation centuries in the making. The tranquility you had so carefully cultivated was shattered, replaced by the crackling energy of a storm about to break. Loki's presence, both familiar and foreboding, promised nothing and everything, a paradox that was his very essence.

Still ensnared in Loki's unexpected embrace, his words lingering in the air between you, a whirlwind of emotions battled within you. Anger, betrayal, and a flicker of something dangerously akin to longing. His presence, his closeness, was overwhelming, yet you found the clarity to make a choice. You would play his game, match his deceit with your own cunning, even as thoughts of vengeance danced just beneath the surface of your composed exterior.

Turning your head to face him, you allowed the moment to stretch, to teeter on the edge of something neither of you could fully grasp. Your lips hovered so close to his, the heat of his breath mingling with yours, a tantalizing promise of what could be. "Have you now, my love?" The words slipped from your lips, laced with a venom sweetened by the honeyed guise of affection. It was a challenge, a provocation, delivered with the precision of one who knew just how to stir the god of mischief.

Loki responded not with words, but with action. He hummed, a sound that vibrated with a multitude of unspoken thoughts and desires, before leaning down to capture your lips in a kiss. It was a bold move, one that sought to bridge centuries of separation and silence with the intimacy of a moment. The kiss was a fusion of past and present, a clash of wills and desires, as complex and enigmatic as Loki himself.

Yet, as his lips moved against yours, a part of you recoiled, a reminder of the chasm that lay between what was and what could never be. With a resolve as cold and sharp as a blade, your hand found its way into the silk of his dark locks. You allowed yourself a brief second, a heartbeat, to feel the warmth of him, to breathe in the scent that was undeniably Loki, before your fingers curled into a fist, gripping tightly.

With a swift, decisive motion, you pulled him away, breaking the kiss, severing the illusion of reconciliation and intimacy. "I don't believe you for a second," you hissed, the words dark and laden with all the unspoken truths and lies that had accumulated over the years. It was a declaration of war as much as it was a rejection, a line drawn in the sand that marked the boundary between past affections and present distrust.

Loki, taken aback by the suddenness of your rejection, the intensity of your grip, could only stare, the mask of charm and seduction slipping to reveal a glimpse of the genuine surprise and, perhaps, a flicker of a bruised ego beneath his mask. The god of mischief, so accustomed to being the orchestrator of deceit, found himself momentarily at a loss, caught in the web of his own making. The air between you crackled with tension, charged with the electricity of a storm on the horizon. In that moment, with the remnants of the kiss still lingering like a phantom touch upon your lips, the complexity of your relationship with Loki was laid bare. It was a tapestry woven with threads of love and hatred, betrayal and longing, each stitch a testament to the turbulent history you shared.

Your defiance, your refusal to succumb to the seduction of a momentary weakness, set the stage for what was to come. It was a declaration that you were no longer the deity who had fled, who had sought refuge in the shadows of anonymity. You were a force to be reckoned with, a player in the game of gods, and Loki would do well to remember that.

Loki's response to your defiance was as swift as it was unpredictable. His initial surprise at your resistance melted away into that all-too-familiar grin, a mischievous curve of his lips that had always heralded trouble. The atmosphere shifted palpably, charged with a tension that was as much about power as it was about the unresolved history simmering between you. He advanced, the godly aura that clung to him making the air around you thrum with energy. His approach was deliberate, each step calculated to intimidate and enthrall in equal measure. You found yourself retreating until the solid form of the front desk halted your escape, the mundane reality of your shop a stark contrast to the unfolding drama.

Loki's fingers, cool and assertive, found the hem of your clothes, tugging with a playful yet disapproving frown. "I must confess, I find myself at odds with your choice of attire," he remarked, his voice a low purr that vibrated with an undercurrent of something darker. "These... mundane garments do not suit you. I miss the dresses of old, the ones that whispered secrets against your skin, the ones I could remove with but a thought." His words were a deliberate provocation, designed to unnerve and reminisce a past intimacy that had once been.

Before you could muster a retort or push him away, he lifted you with an ease that spoke of his godly strength, sitting you atop the counter with a possessive certainty. The action was bold, an invasion of personal space that he seemed to relish, watching for your reaction, gauging how far he could push before you snapped. His behavior, this blend of familiarity and threat, placed you at a crossroads. Part of you, the part hardened by centuries of hiding and surviving, screamed for caution, for you to summon your powers and push him away, to reinforce the boundaries he so blatantly disregarded. Yet, another part, perhaps the part that had once known him more intimately, that remembered the complexity of his character, urged you to wait, to use this proximity to your advantage.

The realization dawned on you then, amid the tension and the charged air, that Loki's tactics had shifted because he needed something from you. His words, his actions, were part of a larger game, one that involved merely his goal, and by extension, you. It was a game of manipulation, of old affections twisted into new strategies, but it was also a game you could play.

"So, you miss the past," you found yourself saying, voice steady despite the storm of emotions swirling within you. Your eyes locked with his, a challenge laid bare. "But the past is a realm even you cannot return to, Loki. We are not who we once were, and desires... desires can be as fleeting as they are dangerous." It was a gamble, invoking both your shared history and the undeniable tension of the present. You sought to remind him that you were not the same deity he had once known, that you had grown and changed, just as he had. In this dance of words and wills, you were not just the prey he might have assumed you to be; you were a player in your own right, with your own cards yet to be revealed.

The next move was his, and the air between you crackled with the anticipation of it.

Loki's gaze, a maelstrom of green, held yours with an intensity that bordered on the palpable, each flicker of emotion a testament to the centuries that had shaped him. His response, when it came, was threaded with the weight of ages and the depth of a god's desires.

"My yearning for you," he began, his voice a low thrum that seemed to echo with the gravitas of eons passed, "has never been of the fleeting kind. It is as enduring as the stars that light our skies, as unyielding as the fabric of reality itself. To suggest otherwise is to misunderstand the very nature of my being."

With these words, he sank to his knees before you, an act so filled with symbolic surrender and yet charged with an undercurrent of strategy. In this position, Loki, the god of mischief, the architect of chaos, positioned himself in a posture of fealty—or so it seemed. Yet, you knew better than to take the gesture at face value. Loki was many things, but straightforward was not one of them. Every action, every word, was laced with layers of meaning, designed to manipulate and coax the desired response from those he engaged with.

His move was bold, a calculated risk meant to disarm and perhaps to remind you of the dynamics that had once defined your interactions. It was an acknowledgment of your power, your importance in this intricate game he was playing. Yet, it was also unmistakably a ploy, a way to close the distance between you, to weave a narrative of shared history and unresolved tension.

The air around you seemed charged, thick with the history and the palpable tension of the moment. Loki, on his knees, looking up at you with an intensity that spoke of genuine desire mixed with the ever-present calculation, presented a picture of vulnerability. Yet, you were not so easily swayed. You knew the depths of his cunning, the lengths he would go to achieve his ends. His admission, cloaked in the grandiosity of his age and station, left you with a choice. To engage, to allow yourself to be drawn back into the orbit of his world, his plans, or to hold firm, to remember the reasons for your distance, for the life you had chosen away from the machinations of gods and their games.

The moment stretched, a tableau of tension and possibility, as you weighed your response, acutely aware of the stakes, of the game that was afoot, and of Loki, who knelt before you, a god cloaked in the guise of a supplicant, yet undeniably dangerous, undeniably compelling.

As Loki knelt before you, the atmosphere thick with tension and unspoken words, you made a decision. Lifting your leg, the black of your heeled shoes catching the light and glinting ominously, you pushed against his shoulder. It was a gesture meant to distance, to assert your autonomy against his sudden show of vulnerability or manipulation—whichever it truly was. Your voice, when it came, was laced with a mixture of resolve and undeniable truth, a reflection of the complex dance that had always defined your interactions.

"Your desire for me," you began, your words deliberate, "could never hope to keep pace with your lust for your myriad schemes and machinations, my love." The term of endearment, spoken so, carried a weight of irony, a nod to the past entanglements and the understanding that, for Loki, the pursuit of his goals often overshadowed everything else.

Yet, instead of acquiescing to the push, of allowing himself to be dismissed so easily, Loki's reaction was to tighten his grasp on the situation—quite literally. His hands, those instruments of mischief and manipulation, found your leg, his touch bold as he held you in place. Then, with an audacity that was quintessentially Loki, he pressed his lips against your calf in a kiss that was as shocking as it was calculated. It was an act of defiance, a refusal to be pushed away, and a statement of his intent all at once.

This gesture, so intimate and yet so brazen, served multiple purposes. It was a challenge to your autonomy, a test of your boundaries, and an undeniable declaration of his continued interest. Yet, it was also unmistakably Loki—crossing lines, blurring boundaries, and always, always pushing for more than what was offered. The action left you momentarily stunned, grappling with the rush of emotions it elicited. Anger, irritation, an unwelcome surge of something more confusing, all mingled together. It was a reminder of the power he wielded, not just through his magic, but through his very presence, his ability to unnerve and to provoke.

In that moment, the complexity of your relationship with Loki was laid bare once more. It was a tangled web of attraction and repulsion, of history and the potential for future conflicts. His refusal to be dismissed, to be pushed aside, was both infuriating and intriguing. It was Loki in all his complexity, challenging you to respond, to engage, to once again become entangled in the endless cycle of push and pull that had always defined you.

The next move was yours to make, and the shop, once a place of mundane tranquility, had become a battleground of wills, a stage upon which the next act of your shared story would unfold. With a flick of your fingers, reality within the confines of your shop twisted and shifted, unfurling like the petals of a flower under the first light of dawn. The mundane guise that had cloaked the truth from prying eyes dissolved, revealing the hidden splendor that no ordinary human could perceive. The illusion you had meticulously maintained for years now peeled away, and the floor beneath your feet transformed, paths of gold unfurling like rivers through the space. Artifacts, their origins as ancient and varied as the stars themselves, now adorned the walls—each piece a testament to histories untold and powers unimaginable.

But the transformation did not stop with the shop. It enveloped you as well, the very essence of your being responding to the unspoken command. The simple, mundane dress that had draped your form vanished, replaced by attire that echoed Loki's wistful remembrance. What materialized was reminiscent of your homeland's attire, designed for the relentless heat and the unyielding brightness of your realm. It was barely more than a tunic, the silk woven in patterns that spoke of ancient craftsmanship and royal decree, clinging to your form in a way that left little to the imagination. The hem flirted with the very brink of decency, the rump of your body barely shielded by the delicate fabric, a bold declaration of your heritage and status.

In this transformation, you reclaimed a fragment of your past self, the visage you had donned before you sought refuge and anonymity amongst the mortals of Earth. The change was not merely physical but symbolic, a shedding of the facade you had adopted to navigate the complexities of a world not your own. Standing there, in the true appearance of your being, you confronted Loki not as the unassuming shopkeeper he had encountered moments before, but as the goddess you truly were—powerful, formidable, and undeniably yourself. You stood before him not as an adversary to be underestimated, but as an equal, a being of immense power and depth, whose true nature was as complex and as potent as his own.

The shop, now a reflection of truths long concealed, served as the perfect backdrop for the unfolding confrontation. The artifacts that lined the walls, each bearing witness to the ages and the stories they contained, stood as silent sentinels to the encounter between two beings who transcended the mundane, whose histories were intertwined with the very fabric of the cosmos.

In this moment, the illusion shattered, the truth laid bare, you awaited Loki's response, the air thick with anticipation and the weight of unspoken challenges. The game, it seemed, had shifted, and the rules were being rewritten with each passing second. As the golden light settled and the true form of your shop shimmered into existence around you, Loki's initial reaction was a momentary flicker of surprise that quickly morphed into an appreciative smirk. His gaze swept over the transformed space, taking in the ancient artifacts and the streams of gold that ran like rivers across the floor. But it was the change in you that held his attention captive. The way the silk of your tunic clung to your form, the bold declaration of your divine heritage—it was as if he was seeing you for the first time all over again.

Loki breathed, his voice a blend of admiration and something darker, more primal. "This," Loki's voice wove through the air with an echo of ancient power, "is the true essence of you that lingers in my memory.” His eyes, alight with a mischievous and predatory gleam, never left your form as he slowly circled you, taking in every detail. "Hiding in plain sight, were we?" he mused, his tone teasing yet laced with an edge that hinted at the complexity of your shared past.

Despite the tension crackling in the air between you, you stood your ground, your posture radiating confidence and power. "And what of it, Loki?" you countered, your voice steady and imbued with strength. "Did you expect to find me cowering? Diminished?"

Loki's circling came to a halt, and he faced you, the distance between you charged with an electric anticipation. "On the contrary," he replied, his voice soft yet carrying an undeniable weight, as his fingers went forward, pulling at one of the strings keeping your body hidden from his gaze. "I've always known your strength, your... resilience. It's what makes this game so exhilarating."

The word 'game' hung between you, a reminder of the countless layers and facades both of you had navigated over the eons. This moment, however, stripped away those layers, revealing the raw essence beneath. It was a confrontation, yes, but also a recognition of the profound connection that had always existed between you—a connection fraught with complexity and contradictions.

"Are you certain you wish to engage in another game, Loki?" Your voice, steady and imbued with a quiet power, cut through the charged silence, even as you felt him unbuckle your shoes, his fingers deftly and slowly slipping them from your feet. "I seem to recall your rather... unfortunate defeat last time." The words hung in the air, a challenge and a reminder of past encounters where the balance of power had shifted, leaving Loki on the losing end.

Loki's hands stilled momentarily as he lifted his gaze to yours, a cunning glint sparkling within those deep green eyes. "Ah, but my dear, to dwell on a solitary defeat is to overlook the endless expanse of the game," he mused with a sly, almost serpentine smile. "The allure for me lies not in the victory or the loss, but in the exquisite complexity of the play itself. The interplay of strategy, the artful dance of minds. And," his voice dropped, a velvet caress against the tension hanging in the air, "the delicious possibility of reversing fortunes, which, I assure you, is a prospect I find most... exhilarating."

As he spoke, his fingers slid underneath your heel, leading your leg to rest over his shoulder with a care and precision that contradicted the levity in his voice. Loki laid another feathery touch to your thighs, gripping them tighter as he wedged his face between them, while you held fast to the edge of the counter. You stifled a moan when his tongue traced over the seam of your core.

There was no need to harbor affection for the man to appreciate the artistry his mouth provided. His tongue grazed the surface of your clit and you felt a tremor coursing through your very bones. He delved deeper, his taste encompassing the entirety of your core. As he did, your legs seemed to tighten inadvertently around him, though it posed no barrier to his indulgence. Your cunt clenched and you were swept away as his fingers dug deeper into the flesh of your thighs, pulling you closer onto his awaiting tongue. The surge of familiar emotions within you was overpowering, far too intense for your unprepared body. Your head fell back with a moan as you gave yourself to him in your entirety and Loki groaned, his tongue honing in on your bud as he chased your orgasm. He refused to relent until the heat had filled you whole, filled your soul. You writhed underneath him, hips helplessly buckling. Loki chuckled, a melodic blend of amusement and triumph, resonating with an undercurrent of sly cunning.

“That’s it, darling,” he coaxed as a surge of desire blossomed within you, enough to part your lips into a broken cry. His dark hair peeked between your fingers and his tongue snuck out to lick his lips while his gaze was set on you above him. His hand wandered to your tunic and yanked it away. His thumb grazed your nipple when he returned his mouth to your center, two of his fingers slowly dipping into your glistening heat.

“Loki,” you whimpered, tightening the hold on his hair—he matched your movements, arm securing you to him so forcefully no might on Earth and beyond could have parted you from his lips. He curled his fingers, rubbing that special spot inside of you and your stomach twitched. You felt him grin against your heat, teeth gracing over your sensitive bud, as a tremor ran through your body.

“My tempest darling,” he sighed when he finally pulled his fingers from you, leaving behind such an agonizing feeling of emptiness. You were about to retaliate, when he stood, bringing your body this his, hand running along the length of your thigh before he hoisted it against his hip. “Even if doubt shadows your heart, my dear, believe me, the absence of your taste on my tongue has been an ache most persistent,” Loki declared, his voice weaving together assurance and playful sincerity. One of his hands made quick work of undoing the dress pants of the black suit he was clad in, the other clutching your thigh close—so terribly tight you were certain even the skin of gods could be bruised by his hungry fingers. His lips found yours, softly at first, though through the looming desire burning within, Loki’s control appeared to stray when you bit into his lip, drawing blood. A groan tore from his throat, eyes darkening as he looked down at you, refusing to part from your gaze even as he entered you. Your mouth fell open against his, a silent moan slipping from your lips, his forehead dropping onto yours. He moved then, pulling out barely before he pushed back in so deeply it shook you. Loki had always been the embodiment of wickedness wrapped in the guise of charm; an enigma whose very presence stirred a vicious blend of temptation and sin, drawing all who encounter him into a dance with the devilishly divine.

“How I’ve missed you,” he whispered against the heated skin of your neck, traveling downward to softly kiss along your bared collarbones. His voice was a divinity, dark and rich and soaked with the sweetest of all sins. The emerald green within his eyes reflected the gold surrounding you. One of your hands cradled the back of his neck, fingers catching loose strands of raven hair that had grown so long in the centuries you hadn’t laid your sights on him. Loki held your thigh in a fierce grip, fingers digging further into your flesh with every stroke of his throbbing cock with your heat.

“You swore to kill me, my love,” you gasped as he delivered another harsh thrust, your head fell forward against his shoulder a searing pleasure built within you.

As his teeth grazed the delicate skin of your neck, savoring the salty essence of your being, Loki’s hand traveled from the curve of your thigh, securing you firmly against him at your waist, moving you against him in a refined rhythm. Against the warmth of your skin, he murmured, “To kill you, my little deity, would be akin to consigning a part of my own soul into the abyss.”

A gasp caught in your throat as he thrust into you deeper than before and you collapsed against him, coming with a cry of relief. He continued thrusting into you, arm keeping you secured against him as though you were about to vanish as you had done all those years ago. He lifted your chin, his mouth capturing yours when you felt him jerk inside of you. You felt his warmth spilling into you, his shameless groans filling your ears as he emptied himself within you. Breath mixing with his, you stayed there for a moment—in which the world seemed to narrow down to the space between the two of you, to the silent conversation spoken through glances and the slight tremors in your lungs.

Loki stole another kiss, then, as if breaking from a spell, his expression shifted, his early devotion to you giving way to a more serious, contemplative mien. “Business with you, my tempest darling, had always been a delight most exquisite,” Loki said, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that bordered on violence. “I trust you’re familiar with the tales of the Celestial Compass, aren’t you?”  he continued, referring to an artifact of immense power and ancient origin, rumored to guide its holder to whatever they sought most in the universe. It was an object that you had kept hidden away, its location known only to you.

The mention of the compass sliced through the tension, a stark reminder of the stakes at play. Loki's presence in your shop, the transformation of your surroundings, the exchange of words—all were mere preludes to this moment.

"Why, Loki?" you asked, your voice a mix of curiosity and defiance as you fixed the tunic he had so carelessly pulled aside. "Why seek the compass now? What is it you desire so fervently to find?"

Loki's smile then was enigmatic, a mask that offered no clear answers. "Ah, but revealing one's desires so openly is a dangerous game, my dear. Let's just say... I seek something that has long eluded me." The ambiguity of his response left you wary, aware that Loki's desires were seldom straightforward and often entwined with greater schemes and hidden agendas. Yet, the acknowledgment of this quest, of his need for the compass, revealed a vulnerability in Loki—a crack in the armor he so carefully maintained.

As Loki awaited your response, the weight of centuries and the anticipation of what was to come hung heavily in the air. The next move was yours to make, in a game that was as much about uncovering truths as it was about concealing them. In response to his inquiry, your reply came not in words, but in the form of a serene smile, a silent echo of your shared past. With a casual flick of your fingers, you vanished into the ether, just as you had done countless centuries before, leaving Loki alone in the confines of what now appeared to be a decrepit shop. Its once vibrant essence faded, reflecting the sudden void your departure had created.

Loki, momentarily taken aback, quickly regained his composure. A laugh, rich with both amusement and a tinge of admiration, escaped him as he reached out to snatch a golden letter materializing out of thin air. The letter, simple yet profound in its message. The words, though brief, carried the weight of eons, a testament to the enduring dance between you two. Loki's gaze lingered on the golden script, a smirk playing on his lips, already plotting his next move in the timeless game between you.

“Farewell, my love.”

[rafesapologist]

the set up — rafe cameron; part thirteen

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: you've been one of the pogues since childhood, and your loyalty has always lied within your friend group, who is practically your family. when a threat by the name of rafe cameron begins to threaten the pogue's plans, they assign you to gain the trust of the dubious kook and keep an eye on what he's up to. however, now it's been six months since your friends set you up to spy on the kook prince himself, but what you didn't anticipate was to fall head over heels for the boy. your relationship had soon become inviolable shortly after your guys' first exchanges, much to your friends' dismay, and you two became practically inseperable. that was, until rafe discovers the truth.

warnings: angst, smut, jj being sad, unedited

You sat bolt upright on Rafe's bed, your fingers clutching the phone, your eyes fixed on a distant point as you absorbed Kiara's message. The color drained from your face as the words sank in. "Missing? How... when?" Your voice trembled with disbelief and worry. Your breaths quickened, a sharp pang of panic gripping your chest. You turned slightly away from Rafe, shielding the phone from him, grappling with the weight of this sudden and alarming news. The room felt stiflingly small as your mind raced through scenarios and possible courses of action.

"He's been gone since you left. None of us can get a hold of him."

Your heart began to race as Kiara's words sunk in. "What do you mean, gone? Did he say anything to you?" You asked, her voice tinged with concern.

"No, nothing. He was just acting weird before you left, and then he disappeared," Kiara replied, her worry palpable even through the phone.

Your mind raced through various scenarios, trying to make sense of the situation. "Okay, stay put. I'll be there in a few," You said, trying to sound composed despite the anxiety that clenched at her chest.

You ended the call, looking over at Rafe, mind conflicted about what to do next.

The weight of Kiara's words lingered heavy in the air as you sat there, grappling with the sudden and alarming news. Rafe sat nearby, his expression a mix of concern and confusion, unaware of the distressing conversation that had just transpired.

Your fingers trembled slightly, the phone clutched tightly in your grasp, its screen a stark reminder of the urgent situation. You turned slightly away from Rafe, shielding the phone, not wanting to alarm him yet, as your mind raced through a labyrinth of worries and potential scenarios.

Rafe's voice, laced with worry, cut through the tense silence. "Is everything okay?"

Your breath caught, and you struggled to compose yourself. "It's... it's JJ," you began, your voice barely above a whisper, eyes fixed on a distant point as you tried to process the magnitude of the situation.

Rafe's brows furrowed in concern. "What happened to JJ?"

"He's missing," you managed to say, your voice laden with worry and disbelief. The room seemed to shrink around you, the weight of the situation suffocating.

Rafe's eyes widened in shock and concern. "Missing? How?" His voice betrayed his worry, his concern mirroring yours as he leaned in closer, trying to understand the situation.

Your thoughts were in turmoil as you relayed the conversation with Kiara. "He's been gone since I left. Kiara and the others can't get a hold of him," you explained, your voice quivering with apprehension.

A surge of panic gripped your chest as Kiara's words echoed in your mind. "He was just acting weird before you left, and then he disappeared."

The gravity of the situation was undeniable, and your mind raced through a maze of possibilities, trying to make sense of JJ's sudden disappearance. The urge to act was strong, but a sense of helplessness settled over you, unsure of the next step to take.

Looking at Rafe, torn between the urgency of the situation and the need to involve him, you weighed your options, seeking a way to navigate this distressing predicament without causing unnecessary worry or alarm.

The air in the room felt charged with tension, the weight of JJ's disappearance hanging heavy between you and Rafe. As you contemplated your next move, a whirlwind of worry and urgency tugged at your thoughts.

"I should go and find JJ," you suggested, your voice edged with determination, though uncertainty gnawed at your resolve. "I'll figure this out."

Rafe's brows furrowed in concern. "I'm coming with you," he declared, his tone firm and resolute. His protective instinct surged to the forefront, a palpable insistence in his voice.

Your voice trembled slightly, a mix of worry and insistence threading through your words. "Rafe, I don't want you getting involved. This is my fault," you admitted, the weight of responsibility heavy on your shoulders.

Rafe's expression softened, his concern unwavering. "How could this possibly be your fault, y/n?"

"I don't know," you began, your voice filled with uncertainty. "I left, and now this happened. Maybe if I had stayed..."

Rafe's hand gently touched your shoulder, his touch a comforting anchor in the whirlwind of emotions. "You can't blame yourself for this," he insisted, his voice soft but resolute. "We don't know what happened that caused him to wander off, but it's not your fault."

The weight of his words sank in, a brief respite in the storm of worry and guilt. You looked up, meeting Rafe's understanding gaze, the weight on your shoulders lightening slightly under his reassurance.

"But if I hadn't left..." you trailed off, the what-ifs clawing at your thoughts.

Rafe's voice carried a sense of urgency, his words a gentle yet firm plea. "No, Y/N, don't do this to yourself."

Your gaze flickered from the floor to meet his, a swirl of emotions reflected in your eyes. The weight of responsibility and guilt tugged at your thoughts, threatening to overwhelm you.

"But maybe if I hadn't left..." You hesitated, the words catching in your throat, each syllable laden with self-blame.

Rafe's hand reached out, gently cupping your face, his touch warm and reassuring. "Y/N, you can't hold yourself accountable for things beyond your control," he urged, his voice earnest. "None of this is your fault."

His unwavering support and insistence penetrated the cloud of guilt shrouding your thoughts. His words, a beacon of reason amidst the storm of self-blame, nudged you to consider the situation more objectively.

"You did what you thought was right," Rafe continued, his voice soft but resolute. "Blaming yourself won't help us find JJ. We need to focus on finding him."

A flicker of resolve sparked within you, reigniting the determination to address the present crisis rather than dwell in the murky depths of guilt.

Rafe's unwavering support offered a lifeline, a steadying force amid the tempest of emotions. With his reassurance echoing in your mind, you nodded, a silent acknowledgment that it was time to redirect your focus toward the urgent task ahead.

"Okay," you murmured, your voice steadier, as you readied yourself for the search, the weight of self-blame gradually lifting, replaced by a renewed determination to find JJ.

The air was thick with tension as the two of you prepared to leave, the weight of the situation hanging heavy between you. Anxiety gripped at your chest as you thought of JJ, wondering where he was and what had happened to him.

As you made your way to the door, Rafe reached out, placing a gentle hand on your arm. "Y/N," he said, his voice soft, "I'm sure he'll be okay."

"I hope so." Your voice trembled slightly, betraying the fear and uncertainty that lurked beneath the surface. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself against the whirlwind of emotions.

You suggested to Rafe that splitting up might improve the chances of finding JJ. Rafe glanced at you, his concern mirrored in his eyes. "Are you sure?" he asked, hesitant to separate in such a tense situation.

You nodded, forcing a small smile to reassure him. "Yeah, we can cover more ground that way. I'll head towards the shipwreck, it's a spot JJ usually goes to when he needs to think."

Rafe hesitated for a moment, his worry evident. "Okay, just... be careful, alright?" he said, his voice laced with concern.

You nodded again, appreciating his concern. "I'll be fine, Rafe.. Let's just stay in touch, keep our phones on."

With that, you both went your separate ways, each consumed by the urgent need to find JJ. Rushing towards the shipwreck, your heart raced with worry and anticipation. The vastness of the island seemed daunting as you searched every corner, calling out JJ's name in the hope that he might be nearby.

As you reached the shipwreck, your pace slowed, your senses heightened in anticipation of finding JJ there. The familiar sight of the weathered wood and rusted metal struck a chord within you, reminding you of the countless times JJ had sought solace in this quiet spot.

"JJ!" you called out, your voice echoing against the waves crashing nearby. But there was no response. You scanned the area, your eyes darting from corner to corner, searching for any sign of his presence.

And then, to your surprise, you spotted him seated atop the old wreck, his silhouette against the dimming sunlight. His posture was slouched, his gaze fixated on the horizon, lost in contemplation.

Your heart skipped a beat at the sight of him. Relief flooded through you, but it was quickly replaced by concern. Approaching him cautiously, you called out softly, "JJ?"

He turned his head slightly, acknowledging your presence without saying a word. As you moved closer, a somber atmosphere enveloped the space between you. JJ's usual cheerful demeanor was replaced by a veil of melancholy.

"Hey," you said, a mix of relief and worry in your voice. "Are you okay?"

He hesitated before replying, his voice tinged with a hint of resignation. "I will be, I guess."

You suggested to Rafe that splitting up might improve the chances of finding JJ. Rafe glanced at you, his concern mirrored in his eyes. "Are you sure?" he asked, hesitant to separate in such a tense situation.

You nodded, forcing a small smile to reassure him. "Yeah, we can cover more ground that way. I'll head towards the shipwreck, it's a spot JJ usually goes to when he needs to think."

Rafe hesitated for a moment, his worry evident. "Okay, just... be careful, alright?" he said, his voice laced with concern.

You nodded again, appreciating his concern. "You too. Let's stay in touch, keep our phones on."

With that, you both went your separate ways, each consumed by the urgent need to find JJ. Rushing towards the shipwreck, your heart raced with worry and anticipation. The vastness of the island seemed daunting as you searched every corner, calling out JJ's name in the hope that he might be nearby.

As you reached the shipwreck, your pace slowed, your senses heightened in anticipation of finding JJ there. The familiar sight of the weathered wood and rusted metal struck a chord within you, reminding you of the countless times JJ had sought solace in this quiet spot.

"JJ!" you called out, your voice echoing against the waves crashing nearby. But there was no response. You scanned the area, your eyes darting from corner to corner, searching for any sign of his presence.

And then, to your surprise, you spotted him seated atop the old wreck, his silhouette against the dimming sunlight. His posture was slouched, his gaze fixated on the horizon, lost in contemplation.

Your heart skipped a beat at the sight of him. Relief flooded through you, but it was quickly replaced by concern. Approaching him cautiously, you called out softly, "JJ?"

He turned his head slightly, acknowledging your presence without saying a word. As you moved closer, a somber atmosphere enveloped the space between you. JJ's usual cheerful demeanor was replaced by a veil of melancholy.

"Hey," you said, a mix of relief and worry in your voice. "Are you okay?"

He hesitated before replying, his voice tinged with a hint of resignation. "I will be, I guess."

Your gaze softened as you sat down beside him, allowing a moment of silence to linger between you. The sun dipped lower on the horizon, casting a warm orange glow across the sea.

"I'm sorry for worrying everyone," JJ finally spoke, his voice carrying a heavy weight.

"It's okay," you reassured him gently. "We were just concerned about you, Jay. You know you can talk to us, right?"

He nodded, but his expression remained guarded, his thoughts seemingly elsewhere. The tension in the air was palpable, and you felt the need to break it, to reassure JJ that he wasn't alone.

"JJ, what happened?" you asked softly, your voice filled with genuine concern. "You know we're all here for you, right?"

He hesitated, as if wrestling with his thoughts, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon. "I... I've been feeling... I don't know, things are just... complicated."

You nodded in understanding, giving him the space to open up at his own pace. "Take your time," you encouraged, hoping to offer some comfort in this moment of vulnerability.

"It's just... being around you and Rafe, seeing you both together, hearing about it... it's hard," he admitted, his voice tinged with a mix of emotions.

Your heart sank, understanding the weight of his words. "JJ, I'm sorry," you began, feeling a pang of guilt. "I never wanted to make things difficult for you."

"It's not your fault," JJ interjected quickly, his eyes meeting yours with sincerity. "I should have said something earlier, instead of letting it eat away at me."

A heavy silence fell between you, the words hanging in the air, pregnant with unspoken feelings. The setting sun painted the sky in hues of orange and pink, casting a warm glow around the two of you.

"Y/N," JJ started, his voice barely above a whisper, "I've... I've been holding back something for a while."

Your gaze met his, curiosity and concern evident in your eyes. "What is it, JJ?"

He took a deep breath, his expression a mix of hesitation and vulnerability. "I... I think I might have feelings for you." The confession caught you off guard, your heart skipping a beat at his unexpected words. The air seemed to grow heavier as you processed the weight of his revelation, unsure of how to respond.

A long moment of silence stretched between you, the tension thickening as the truth hung heavily in the air.

You shifted slightly, trying to make sense of his unexpected admission, to decipher the tangled mess of emotions churning within you. "JJ, I..." you trailed off, uncertain how to proceed, a part of you unwilling to admit the truth.

"I know," JJ said, a hint of sadness and resignation in his voice. "You and Rafe... it's pretty clear."

You struggled to find the right words, struggling to navigate the complex web of emotions. "It's not that I don't care about you," you began, the words catching in your throat, the gravity of the situation sinking in.

"It's not fair to either of you if I keep hiding it, right?" JJ asked, his voice edged with resignation.

The truth, laden with guilt and uncertainty, hovered between the two of you, threatening to tear down the wall that had protected the fragile bond between you.

You felt a wave of guilt wash over you, your heart torn between the two boys you cared about. A swirl of emotions threatened to overwhelm you, but in this moment of vulnerability, an understanding settled between you and JJ, the weight of unspoken feelings finally acknowledged.

The air between the two of you was thick with tension, but the raw honesty of the situation was a relief, the unspoken feelings that had hung heavy in the air between you finally brought to light.

"It would make things really complicated, JJ. You're my best friend, you know I can't-"

"But you can be with Rafe?" 

"I love him." the words hung in the air, a stark reminder of the reality you were facing. The unspoken feelings that had existed between you and JJ for so long had finally been brought to light, and you felt an undeniable shift in the dynamic between the two of you.

"I can't say it doesn't hurt, knowing that," JJ admitted, his voice barely a whisper. The sound of his voice broke your heart, and you reached out to gently place your hand on his.

"JJ, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. You're one of my closest friends, and the last thing I want to do is lose you." He turned to look at you, his eyes glistening with unshed tears.

"I know. And I don't want to lose you, either. I care about you, y/n. But it hurts, knowing that you don't feel the same way."

The weight of his words sunk in, and you felt an ache in your chest as you realized the depth of his feelings. "I'm sorry, JJ. I wish I could say otherwise. I wish I could make things different."

"It's not your fault," he assured you. "I knew the risk of telling you, and I still had to do it. I had to get it off my chest, to tell you how I feel."

You nodded, the weight of his confession settling on your shoulders. "I'm glad you did," you replied, your voice heavy with emotion. "I want you to know that I'll always be here for you, JJ. I don't want this to change things between us. I don't want to lose you as a friend."

He offered a small smile, a hint of warmth breaking through the sadness in his expression. "Me, too. I want us to stay friends. I want us to be okay."

You returned his smile, feeling a rush of affection for him. "We will be, JJ. We'll always be okay."

The conversation drifted to other topics, the tension gradually dissipating as the two of you reconnected on a new level, the weight of unspoken feelings finally lifted between you.

In the midst of the moment, your phone began to ring, lighting up with the name "Rafe Cameron" in a large font on your lock screen. Your heart sank for a moment, knowing JJ could see. You felt him tense up, as if the mere mention of his name had a physical effect on him.

"Hey, I'm so sorry, I'm going to answer this, just give me a minute," you explained, a hint of urgency in your voice.

"Hey, Rafe."

"Any luck? He asked on the other line, voice laced with genuine concern.

"Yeah, I found him."

"Is he okay?"

"Yeah, he's fine, we're going to head back." You reassured, looking back over your shoulder to see JJ sitting in the same spot as before, staring straight back at you with an empty look on his face.

"Okay, I'll meet you there."

You hung up the phone, slipping it into your pocket and approaching JJ. "Hey, I'm really sorry, but Rafe is going to meet us back at the chateau. Are you okay with that?"

JJ's jaw tightened, the weight of the situation settling on his shoulders. "Yeah, of course. I'm ready."

You nodded, the tension between the two of you palpable. With a sigh, you led him back toward the chateau, a heavy silence falling between the two of you. The air was still and calm, a stark contrast to the chaos raging in your mind.

The journey back was short but felt like an eternity, the heavy silence between you and JJ a stark contrast to the usual camaraderie and banter. You were both acutely aware of the weight of the situation, the reality of the feelings that had been revealed. You snuck a glance at him, the weight of his confession weighing heavily on your heart. You wondered if this was the end of the friendship that had meant so much to both of you.

Finally, the chateau came into view, and your stomach twisted with anxiety as you realized that the others would be waiting for you. You could already hear their voices drifting from the backyard, a mix of relief and concern.

You looked over at JJ, who seemed equally apprehensive. You wanted to say something, to reassure him, but the words wouldn't come. You simply gave him a nod, a silent communication that you were both in this together, and stepped into the backyard, ready to face the inevitable questions and concerns.

"Hey, everyone," you called out, a hint of forced cheer in your voice. "JJ's back."

The group turned to face the two of you, a mix of relief and worry on their faces.

"JJ, man, are you okay?" Pope was the first to speak, his voice tinged with concern.

"Where were you, dude? We were worried sick," Kie added, her expression a mixture of relief and frustration.

"I'm fine," JJ said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry I worried you guys. I didn't mean to cause any trouble."

"It's okay, JJ," John B said, his voice gentle. "We're just glad you're safe."

JJ nodded, his expression somber. "I'm gonna head inside, if that's cool," he said, avoiding everyone's eyes.

"Of course, man," John B replied, his voice full of concern. "Get some rest, okay?"

"Yeah, thanks," JJ murmured, heading into the chateau.

A tense silence hung in the air as everyone processed the situation. Kiara was the first to break the silence, her voice tinged with concern and confusion. "What happened out there?"

You shrugged, trying to remain casual. "I don't know, he was just gone. Maybe he needed some time alone."

"He seemed upset about something," Kiara persisted, her gaze searching your face for answers.

"He was," you admitted, the weight of JJ's confession still fresh in your mind.

"Is he going to be okay?" John B asked, his brows furrowed with worry.

You hesitated, unsure of how to answer. "I hope so," you finally said, the weight of the situation resting heavily on your shoulders.

Pope's concern was evident. "We're his friends. If there's something bothering him, we should be there for him, right?"

"You're right, Pope. I'm sure he'll talk to us when he's ready," you assured them, though the knot of anxiety in your chest told a different story.

"If there's anything we can do, just let us know," Kie said, her gaze meeting yours with concern.

You nodded, giving her a tight smile. "Thanks, Kie. I will."

You excused yourself, making your way into the chateau. Your footsteps echoed against the hardwood floor as you made your way down the hallway. You paused at JJ's door, the weight of the situation resting heavily on your heart. You contemplated knocking, but hesitated, unsure if your presence would be welcomed.

Taking a deep breath, you decided to knock gently on JJ's door, hoping that he would want to talk. After a few moments of silence, you heard a faint response. "Come in."

Pushing open the door, you found JJ sitting on the edge of his bed, staring down at his clenched fists. His shoulders were slumped, and his usual vibrant energy seemed to have been drained from him.

You closed the door behind you and walked over to sit beside him. The room felt heavy with unspoken emotions, but you knew it was important to break the silence. "JJ... I'm sorry about earlier. I never wanted to hurt you."

He looked up at you, his eyes filled with a mix of sadness and resignation. "I know, y/n. You don't have to apologize for not feeling the same way. It's just... hard, you know?"

"I can imagine," you replied softly, reaching out to rest a hand on his shoulder in a gesture of comfort. The tension in his body seemed to melt away slightly under your touch, and he leaned into it, craving the solace you offered.

"I've never felt this way before," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "And I don't know how to navigate these emotions. It's like a storm inside me, tearing everything apart."

You squeezed his shoulder gently, trying to convey your understanding. "Love can be overwhelming sometimes, JJ. It's okay to feel lost or confused. We all go through it."

He let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. "But why now? Why did I have to fall for you, of all people? It's so complicated, and it's messing with everything."

You sighed, knowing that there was no easy answer to his question. "Sometimes, love doesn't choose the most convenient time or person. It just happens, and we can't control it." Your fingers absentmindedly traced circles on his shoulder, hoping to offer him some comfort.

JJ leaned his head back against the wall, his gaze fixed on a distant point. "I never wanted to ruin our friendship," he murmured. "You mean so much to me, and I don't want to lose that."

"I don't want to lose our friendship either," you admitted, feeling the weight of his words settle heavily in your chest. "But JJ, we can't pretend that what you've shared doesn't exist. We have to confront it and figure out how to move forward."

He turned his head slightly, locking eyes with you. The intensity in his gaze made your heart skip a beat. "Do you think we can?" he asked, a hint of vulnerability in his voice you could never have imagined. The question hung in the air, both of you acutely aware of the precariousness of the situation. There was no guarantee that your friendship could survive the weight of unrequited love, but there was something about JJ's earnestness that made you want to try.

"I don't know," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "But we owe it to ourselves and our friendship to at least try."

JJ nodded slowly, his gaze searching yours for any signs of hesitation. "I'm willing to fight for us, y/n. Even if it means keeping my feelings at bay, I don't want to lose what we have."

A lump formed in your throat as his words settled in your mind. His selflessness in making this declaration stirred something within you, touching a deep chord. "Thank you, JJ. I'll make sure to always be truthful with you," you replied. A faint smile played on his lips and there was a glimmer of hope in his eyes

"I should get going, Rafe's outside waiting." You reluctantly ushered, realizing that Rafe was waiting outside for you. JJ's expression shifted from excitement to disappointment as he nodded understandingly. You could see a glimmer of acceptance in his eyes, but also a tinge of sadness.

"Yeah, go ahead," he said, his voice tinged with melancholy. "I'll see you later." His words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken emotions and unfulfilled expectations. It was clear that he wanted you to stay, but respected your decision to leave. You couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt as you turned and walked away, leaving JJ behind with his thoughts and feelings.

You stood up from the bed, feeling a pang of guilt as you walked towards the door. The weight of your decision to be honest with JJ tugged at your heart, but you knew it was necessary for both of your sakes. As you reached the doorway, you turned back to look at him one last time.

"Take care, JJ," you said softly, offering him a small smile before stepping out into the hallway. The door closed behind you, leaving JJ alone in his room with his tangled emotions.

Outside, Rafe stood waiting for you by the chateau entrance. His presence brought a sense of familiarity and comfort, momentarily easing the ache in your chest. But as you approached him, a nagging feeling tugged at the back of your mind.

"Hey," Rafe greeted you with a warm smile. "Ready to go?"

You nodded, but couldn't shake off the guilt that still lingered within you. The image of JJ sitting alone in his room, struggling with his feelings, haunted your thoughts. It was as if a heavy cloud had settled over your heart, dampening any sense of joy or excitement.

As you and Rafe made your way back to his car, you couldn't help but feel an overwhelming need to confide in someone, to share the burden weighing you down. You knew you couldn't keep it all to yourself; it would eat away at you.

"Rafe," you finally spoke up, your voice barely above a whisper. "Can I talk to you about something?"

He glanced at you with concern, his eyes filled with the genuine care that drew you to him. "Of course," he replied softly, pulling the car keys out of his pocket and pausing before unlocking the door.

"What's on your mind?"

Taking a deep breath, you glanced out at the chateau as it faded into the distance, the weight of your secret threatening to crush you. "It's about JJ," you began hesitantly, your voice barely audible. "He... he confessed his feelings for me."

Rafe's grip on the car keys tightened slightly, and you could see the flicker of unease in his eyes. "Oh," he said softly, his voice tinged with a mix of surprise and disappointment. "I see."

You turned to face him fully, searching his expression for any sign of judgment or resentment. Instead, you found compassion and understanding. It was clear that Rafe cared about your happiness, even if it meant setting aside his own desires.

"I didn't know what to do," you continued, your voice wavering. "I care about him so much, but not in the same way that he does. I don't want to lose our friendship, but I also don't want to lead him on."

Rafe remained silent, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. His grip on the steering wheel tightened even further, and you could sense the conflict within him. It was as if he was battling his own emotions, torn between what he wanted and what he believed was right.

"I don't want to hurt anyone," you whispered, feeling the sting of tears welling up in your eyes. "I never asked for any of this." 

Rafe continued driving in silence, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the steering wheel. You could practically feel the tension radiating from him, his internal struggle palpable in the confined space of the car. The road stretched out before you, matching the uncertainty that stretched out before your words.

Finally, Rafe let out a heavy sigh, his voice laced with a mix of empathy and caution. "I understand that you're in a difficult position," he said, his gaze still fixed on the road. "But you have to remember that you can't control other people's feelings. It's not your fault that JJ has these emotions for you. What matters now is how you choose to handle it."

His words cut through the fog of guilt that had consumed you, offering a glimmer of clarity. You wiped away the tears threatening to spill over, realizing that Rafe was right. You couldn't bear responsibility for someone else's feelings, no matter how painful it might be.

"But what if I can't avoid hurting him?" you whispered, your voice filled with a mixture of fear and vulnerability. "What if my actions inadvertently lead him on?"

"How would they do that?" Rafe's question hung in the air, heavy with implications. It forced you to confront your own intentions, to examine the way you interacted with JJ and whether you had unknowingly given him false hope. The car seemed to shrink around you, trapping your thoughts and anxieties in its confined space.

You replayed every conversation, every touch, searching for signs that could be misconstrued as encouragement. As your mind raced through these memories, you began to sense a pattern - a subtle kindness that had been interpreted as something more. But was it your responsibility to police every word and gesture?

Your voice trembled as you tried to articulate your doubts. "I've always been friendly towards him," you began cautiously. "But maybe my actions have been misinterpreted. Maybe I haven't been clear enough."

"He should have known better than to make assumptions. You and him are just friends, after all." He shrugged, seemingly blowing off JJ's feelings for you.

You bristled at Rafe's dismissive tone, feeling a surge of protectiveness for JJ. "It's not that simple," you argued, your voice tinged with frustration, "He's human, Rafe. We all make mistakes and misinterpret things. It doesn't mean he deserves to be brushed off like that."

Rafe sighed, the tension in the car thickening. "I didn't mean it like that. I just...don't want you to blame yourself for something that isn't your fault." You nodded, understanding Rafe's perspective, but still unable to shake off the guilt that gnawed at you. The weight of responsibility for someone else's heartache was heavy on your shoulders, and it seemed like no matter what you did, someone would end up hurt.

"I know it's not entirely my fault," you replied softly, your voice barely above a whisper. "But I can't help but feel responsible somehow. I care about JJ deeply, and seeing him hurt because of me... it's difficult."

Rafe's grip on the steering wheel loosened slightly as he glanced at you, his eyes filled with a mix of sympathy and concern. "I understand," he said gently. "But you have to remember that you can't control how others feel. What you can control is how you handle the situation."

You took a deep breath, letting Rafe's words sink in. He was right, of course. You couldn't control JJ's feelings, but you could control how you acted moving forward. It was time to confront the situation head-on and have an honest conversation with JJ.

As the car continued down the winding road, you focused on gathering your thoughts, determined to find the right words to express yourself without causing further harm. The guilt still lingered, but with each passing mile, a newfound strength began to grow within you.

After what seemed like forever, you pulled up to Rafe's house, a massive white mansion looming in front of you. You and Rafe got out of the car and entered into the seemingly deserted house.

As you stepped through the front door, your eyes adjusted to the dimly lit entryway. The only source of light came from a single lamp in the corner, casting shadows across Rafe's face as he shut the door behind you. "Is it just you here, still?" you asked, taking in the emptiness of the house. 

"Yep. Just us again," he answered with a slight shrug, his gaze fixated on your figure. You could feel his eyes scanning up and down, taking in every detail of your appearance. Despite the lack of company, his presence made you feel safe and at ease.

"Hmm," you hummed with a nod, taking a look around the room to observe all of the empty space that the two of you could occupy, "interesting."

A mischievous smile tugged at the corners of Rafe's lips as he stepped closer to you. "Yeah?" he replied, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine. The air between you crackled with anticipation, and a surge of electricity passed through the room, drawing you both together like magnets.

You could feel the weight of the unspoken tension, the unexplored desires that hung in the air. It was as if time had frozen, leaving only the two of you to navigate this newfound intimacy. Rafe's hand reached out, brushing against your cheek, his touch gentle yet commanding.

In that moment, everything else faded away—the guilt, the turmoil with JJ—it all paled in comparison to what was happening now. This connection, this undeniable chemistry that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long—it was finally coming to fruition.

Your mind spun with a mixture of emotions as Rafe's lips hovered just inches from yours. There was a hunger in his eyes, a longing that mirrored your own. The world outside ceased to exist as your breath mingled, creating an intoxicating blend of anticipation and desire.

With a soft exhale, you closed the remaining distance between you. His lips met yours in a fervent kiss, and the world exploded into a symphony of sensations. The taste of him, the warmth of his embrace, sent shockwaves of pleasure throughout your body. It was as if every nerve ending had awakened, alive with electricity.

Time became fluid as you lost yourself in the rhythm of the kiss. In that moment, nothing else mattered but the connection you shared with Rafe. The weight of the past was lifted off your shoulders, replaced by an overwhelming sense of freedom and exhilaration.

As your lips parted, both breathing heavily, Rafe's forehead rested against yours. His eyes searched yours for any sign of doubt or hesitation, but all he found was a reflection of his own longing and certainty.

You nodded, speechless as the emotions inside you swirled. "Please, Rafe, touch me," were the only words you could muster.

As Rafe's hand found its way to your waist, you leaned into him, feeling his warmth enveloping you. The chemistry between you two was undeniable, and it only seemed to intensify with each passing second. You knew that this moment had been building up for a long time, and now that it was finally happening, you couldn't help but feel a sense of awe and gratitude.

His fingers tracing the curve of your hip, sending a jolt of desire straight to your core. Your heart raced as your breaths became shallow, the anticipation of what was to come threatening to consume you. But it was also a sense of peace, a feeling of tranquility in the midst of this whirlwind of emotion.

"We've been waiting for this, haven't we?" Rafe asked, his voice barely above a whisper. 

You looked into his eyes, a reflection of your own thoughts, and slowly nodded. The weight of the past began to slip away, replaced by an overwhelming sense of understanding and connection. This was the moment you had been waiting for, a moment that would define the rest of your lives.

With a deep breath, Rafe's lips brushed softly against yours, triggering a surge of electricity that seemed to radiate from your core. As his passion grew, so too did the intensity of your emotions. You felt as if you could read his thoughts, as if he had somehow become a part of you.

His hand, still gently resting on your waist, moved up to your shoulder, his fingers tracing the curve of your neck. The warmth of his touch sent shivers down your spine, and as his lips moved to your neck, you felt the same jolt of desire that had taken hold of your core earlier.

"I can't get enough of you." He murmured against your neck, his voice a low rumble that sent waves of desire through your entire body. You couldn't help but look into his eyes, the intensity of his gaze matching your own. In that moment, you knew that this was more than just a physical connection. It was a deep and powerful bond, one that had been building for a lifetime.

His lips trailed down to your collarbone, his tongue flicking against your skin. You let out a small moan, your breaths becoming shallower and more ragged. He was driving you wild, making you feel things you didn't know were possible. You could feel the pulse of his desire, the raw passion that he was unleashing upon you.

His hand slid slowly down to your hip, his fingers delicately tracing the soft curve of your body. The sensation was overwhelming, sending you into a whirlwind of emotion. Each touch, each kiss, felt like a bolt of lightning, igniting a fire deep within your core. He smirked as he felt your body press into his, aching for more of him. His desires grew untamed as he sensed your greedy longing for him, fueling his own insatiable hunger.

As the intensity of the moment continued to build, so too did the heat between you and Rafe. Your lips met again, this time with a fervor that reflected the deep connection you knew you shared. Your heart was racing, your breaths shallow and rapid.

His hand moved from your hip to your thigh, sending a shockwave of pleasure through your entire being. You couldn't help but let out a small gasp, the sensation overwhelming you completely. Rafe smiled, his eyes gleaming with the same intensity as yours. He knew that this moment was more than just a physical need; it was a deep-seated desire for one another that had grown over time.

His fingers traced the curve of your hip, the pressure of his touch causing you to moan softly. You could feel the pulsating rhythm of his heart, mirroring the desire that consumed you. His fingers trailed closer and closer to your inner thigh, before brushing against your core softly, sending a jolt of electricity through your entire being.

Your hips bucked involuntarily, your body crying out for more of his touch. Rafe couldn't help but chuckle, his eyes glinting with mischievous excitement. You felt a wave of heat crash over you as the intensity of the moment grew even greater.

"Rafe please." You begged, looking straight to him with pleading eyes.

"What is it, Princess?" He whispered, his voice thick with desire.

"I need you," you gasped, your voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart.

Rafe's eyes sparkled with desire as he slowly and deliberately reached his hand down and gently caressed the sensitive area between your legs. You felt a surge of desire course through your body as his touch sent shock waves through you.

"You know I can't resist you," he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear.

You moaned softly, feeling helpless and powerless to his touch. His fingers moved with a skill that left you breathless and craving more. Each touch, each caress was more intense than the last, building the fire inside you to a fever pitch.

Your hips bucked again, this time more insistently, as Rafe's touch became more insistent. You knew that he could feel your urgent need, and it only seemed to fuel his desire further.

"Take me," you pleaded, your voice shaking with anticipation. "I need you to take me now."

With a smirk, Rafe lifted you onto the bed, the flames of desire still burning in his eyes. He positioned himself between your legs, his erection throbbing against you.

"Are you sure, Princess?" he asked, his lips hovering over yours.

You nodded eagerly, your eyes locked onto his. In one swift movement, he entered you, driving deep into your core. Your entire being seemed to ignite with pleasure, as if the fires of passion had merged with the heat of his touch.

Rafe began to move, his rhythmic thrusts causing waves of pleasure to crash over you like a storm. You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him closer, as if you needed to be as one with him in this moment.

"Harder," you cried out, urging him on. Your breath was shallow and your body trembled as you felt him pound into you, the heat of his skin against yours driving you wild with desire.

With every thrust, Rafe's eyes seemed to darken, his gaze locked onto yours as if he were the only thing that mattered in the world. The room around you began to fade, replaced by the intense passion burning between the two of you.

In that moment, your heart thundered in your chest, matching the rhythm of his hips. Every cell in your body seemed to chant, begging for release. You arched your back, your nails digging into his shoulders as you met each thrust, each stroke of his body against yours.

The air grew thick with wanting, the scent of sweat and skin mingling as you moved together in perfect harmony. The bed creaked beneath you, struggling to contain the force of your union. You cried out again, your voice a mixture of pain and pleasure.

"Take it, baby." Rafe whispered, his voice low and gravelly. "Take all of me."

You gasped, his words sending a shockwave of desire through your body. Your eyes locked onto his, both of you caught in the throes of passion. You met him halfway, lifting your hips to meet his every thrust, your nails digging into his skin, marking him as yours.

The room seemed to spin around you, the world melting away as you sank deeper into each other. Your bodies moved as one, a perfect symphony of lust and desire. The air grew thick with the scent of your mingled sweat, a heady perfume that intoxicated you both.

As Rafe continued to thrust, the room around you began to blur, until it seemed as if you were the only ones in existence. Time lost all meaning, the world reduced to the two of you, lost in a whirlwind of passion.

You cried out once more, your voice a fierce, guttural sound that echoed through the now empty room. Rafe's eyes were wild, his body tensed as he drove into you with a fierce intensity that left you breathless. 

Your body shook and trembled, the pleasure and pain melding together into one overwhelming sensation that consumed you both. Your nails dug deeper into his skin, leaving red marks that would serve as a reminder of this moment for eternity. 

And as the moments stretched on, you felt his hips start to shudder and quiver, the telltale sign of his release approaching. The creaking of the bed grew louder, struggling to hold the weight of your combined passion. Your own body felt like it was on the precipice of explosion, every nerve ending tingling with anticipation.

With one final, powerful thrust, Rafe let out a guttural cry, his body shuddering as he finding his release. The sensation of him inside you was unlike anything you had ever felt before – wild, untamed, and all-consuming. 

You shook beneath him, your hands clawing at his back in a desperate need to feel closer to him. You could feel his hot breath on your neck, his words barely audible as he whispered your name.

As the last of his orgasm subsided, you lay there, heart pounding in your chest, skin glowing with the heat of your passion. The room was still, save for the faint sound of your heavy breathing and his soft sighs. You both lay entwined, our breaths mingling as the afterglow washed over you.

Slowly, Rafe started to pull out of you, the lack of friction leaving you both feeling hollow. He rolled off of you, leaving you to enjoy the sensation of his body against yours for just a moment longer.

You turned onto your side, facing each other, the warmth between your legs making you slightly uncomfortable. But it was necessary. Your bodies were sticky with sweat and arousal, but the connection between you was still unbroken.

Rafe reached out, brushing the hair from your forehead. "I love you," he whispered.

You smiled, knowing that he felt the same way. "I love you too."

A sense of peace washed over you both, as the weight of your desire seemed to dissipate into the air. The room remained silent, except for the occasional creak of the bed as it struggled to hold your combined weight.

As you lay there, entwined in each other's arms, you began to feel a new emotion bubble up within you - a feeling of contentment that you had never experienced before. It was as if the intensity of the passion had given way to a profound sense of love and trust.

Rafe's fingers continued to brush soothingly across your skin, his touch as gentle as the evening breeze. You could see the love he had for you reflected in his eyes, and you knew in that moment that you would do anything to protect and cherish him.

As you drifted off to sleep, you held each other tightly, your bodies still connected in a way that felt unbreakable. In the stillness of the night, the only sound was the rhythm of each other's hearts beating as one, a testament to the bond that had formed between you. The rest of the world seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you in a private sanctuary of love and devotion.

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[your-bestamericangirl]

Midnight Love || ch. 4 - april

Paige Bueckers x Uconnwbb!reader

previous: 3. - white ferrari || next: n/a || masterlist

now playing: hornylovesickness by girl in red

The asphalt beneath her fingertips was rough and warm, heated by the midday sun. She sat on the curb, her back against a lamppost, staring down at the offending object that had torn a gash in her mood—a shattered keychain with a small mirror dangling from its remains. The mirror, now cracked and clouded, reflected back at her the words "You're beautiful," a truly welcoming statement regarding her predicament.

As she sat there, the noise of the city buzzed around her—a symphony of car engines, distant chatter, and the occasional honk of a horn. Passersby cast a sympathetic glance her way, their expressions a mix of curiosity and pity, but she paid them no mind.

(Y/n)'s gaze fell upon her phone, its dimming screen a flickering beacon of her waning hope.  Clutching it with a mix of frustration and resignation, she scrolled through her contacts, knowing deep down that her teammates would gladly come to her aid if she reached out. Yet, the irony was not lost on her—she didn't have their numbers. As for KK, a dependable friend but unable to drive, she was out of the equation.

As the last flickers of battery life on her phone threatened to fade into darkness, (Y/n) found herself wrestling with an idea she had stubbornly resisted for far too long. Finally, with a resigned sigh, she yielded to the persistent nagging in her mind and dialled the number she still knew by heart, despite the passage of time.

The distant hum of traffic melded with the rhythmic thud of her own heartbeat, her hand perilously close to crushing her phone. Time slipped away, leaving (Y/n) with no room for hesitation as her call for help was promptly answered on the first ring.

“Hello?”

A faint buzz filled her ear, the silence on both ends stretching with each passing moment after the initial greeting. Caught off guard, Mayari's breath hitched, the reason for her call momentarily escaping her.

“(Y/n)?”

The sound of Paige's voice snapped her back to reality, jolting her out of her daze. "Yeah, sorry. Hey, Paige," she managed to reply, her voice tinged with a mixture of relief and apprehension. The rush of emotions threatened to overwhelm her, leaving her struggling to maintain her composure.

“You’re good, don’t worry…” Paige's reassurance sounded distant, the weight of their unspoken history hanging heavy in the air. (Y/n) couldn't shake the feeling of uncertainty that lingered, the fear of rejection clawing at her from the shadows of her mind.

“So, what’s up?” Paige's voice broke the silence, but the question hung in the air, laden with unspoken tension. (Y/n) hesitated the weight of her request heavy on her shoulders. "Can you help me out?" she finally blurted out, the words tumbling from her lips before she could stop them.

The shift in her voice swiftly caught Paige's attention.

“Yeah, always. Where are you? What do you need?”

(Y/n) sighed, grateful that Paige was willing to help. 

“Okay so, I’m on the corner of Royce. Like by Barnes and Noble-”

“I’ll be there in five.”

As the call ended, (Y/n) couldn't shake off the weight of Paige's swift agreement. It wasn't merely the fact that she had called Paige, but rather the ease with which Paige had offered help, oblivious to the nature of the situation. A mix of relief and apprehension flooded (Y/n)'s senses, leaving her torn between gratitude for Paige's willingness and uncertainty about their relationship.

Closing her eyes, (Y/n) tried to untangle the web of emotions swirling within her. Two years apart had reshaped their lives in countless ways, yet the core of their connection remained elusive. The familiarity of Paige's voice stirred memories and emotions long buried, prompting a flood of questions about where they stood now.

She couldn't help but wonder if Paige felt the same accumulation of emotions, or if she was merely offering assistance out of habit.

The thought lingered, casting a shadow over (Y/n)'s gratitude while dragging the corners of her lips into a small frown. Beneath the surface, a nagging fear whispered of the possibility that Paige's swift response was driven by duty rather than genuine concern. The realization left (Y/n) feeling more alone than ever, grappling with the uncertainty of where she stood within Paige's solar system.

(Y/n)'s gaze shifted to the worn pavement beneath her feet as she awaited Paige's arrival. The minutes stretched on, each second feeling like an eternity as she grappled with the whirlwind of emotions swirling within her. Finally, the sound of approaching footsteps broke the silence, and (Y/n) looked up to see Paige striding toward her.

"So, who did you piss off this time?" Paige's teasing remark cut through the silence, drawing a puff from (Y/n). Despite everything, there was a comfort in the familiarity of their banter.

Her eyes met Paige's familiar gaze, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still.

As she sat on the curb, taking the blond in from head to toe, (Y/n) concluded: Paige would never be a stranger in her eyes. 

Her golden hair glowed in the sunlight, casting a halo of warmth around her. Every curve of her smile, every glint in her eyes, was etched into Mayari's memory.

Paige’s expectant, but questioning expression brought (Y/n) back down to the reality of why they both were here in the first place.

After she cleared her throat, (Y/n) rolled her eyes at Paige’s greeting. “Very funny, Bueckers.”

“C’mon, valid question” Paige defended. She brought herself down to inspect the slash in (Y/n)’s tire, situating herself beside a piece of her past. 

A soft “whatever” escaped her lips in her mumbling of disagreement. She found herself studying Paige’s profile, admiring the subtle slope of her nose.

“Do you not remember what I taught you?”

As Paige knelt beside the tire, she couldn't help but be drawn to the effortless way she moved, the confidence in her actions a stark contrast to the uncertainty that clouded (Y/n)'s mind.

"Of course, I remember," (Y/n) replied, her voice tinged with annoyance. "I just didn't think I'd have to put those skills to use today."

Paige shot her a teasing grin, her fingers deftly working to remove the offending keychain from the tire. "I hate to say that I’m disappointed, (L/n)."

(Y/n) couldn't suppress a small grumble at Paige's teasing, the tension that had been lingering between them easing ever so slightly. Despite the circumstances, there was a comfort in the familiarity of their banter, something (Y/n) hadn’t realized she’d been missing.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever, P,” (Y/n) sighed.

At the nickname, Paige visibly flinched, her heart skipping a beat. It had been a while since she heard something as close to a term of endearment from (Y/n)’s lips. The comment left her shellshocked, a mixture of surprise and longing flooding her senses.

“Just do what I called you for,” she continued, oblivious to the effect her words had on Paige. 

Paige quickly composed herself, masking her momentary vulnerability with a playful smirk. "Anything for you, Your Highness," she replied, her tone light but tinged with a hint of something more.

After an hour of determined effort, (Paige) they had successfully managed to mend the torn tire, hands bearing the grease and grime of the task. As they stepped back to admire their handiwork, a sense of accomplishment washed over them, small smiles blooming on their faces at the sight of the finished task.

"Looks good," Paige remarked, breaking the silence that had settled between them. (Y/n) nodded in agreement, a genuine sense of gratitude softening her features.

“Thanks,” (Y/n) said, her voice filled with appreciation as she directed her gaze toward Paige.

Paige returned her smile with a nod. “Any time.”

But before (Y/n) could express further gratitude, Paige swiftly unhooked the car keys from her belt loop and hopped into the driver’s seat. Confusion flickered across her features as she followed Paige to the door, only to find it locked. She jiggled the handle in frustration, her eyebrows furrowing in irritation.

“Open the door, Bueckers” (Y/n) demanded, her tone laced with annoyance.

Paige pretended not to hear, her attention seemingly fixed on the task of starting the engine. (Y/n) crossed her arms, her frustration mounting as she watched Paige feign obliviousness. With a huff, she tapped on the window, her irritation palpable.

“Paige, seriously?” her voice held a note of exasperation as she waited for Paige to relent.

(Y/n)'s frustration simmered beneath the surface as Paige continued to feign ignorance, her patience wearing thin with each passing second. With a deep sigh, she resigned herself to the situation and made her way around to the passenger side of the car, sliding into the seat beside Paige.

"What are you doing?" (Y/n) asked, her tone tinged with annoyance as she shot a pointed look at Paige.

Paige's lips curved into a mischievous grin as she turned to face the shorter girl, a playful glint dancing in her eyes. "Just taking a little detour," she replied, her voice laced with amusement.

“What kind of detour?” (Y/n) asked, skeptical at Paige’s tone.

“You’ll see, you owe me now.”

The scene unfolded with a sense of tranquil ease as Paige guided the car onto the road, the smooth purr of the engine providing a soothing soundtrack to their journey. Each passing car adds a gentle rhythm to the ambiance, further enhancing the serenity that envelops them.

In a seamless motion, (Y/n) reaches out to connect her phone to the car's audio system. The soft click of the connection is almost musical in itself, heralding the arrival of their chosen melodies. As the first notes fill the cabin, the music wraps around them like a warm embrace, it's familiar tunes weaving a tapestry of comfort and nostalgia.

As the landscape outside blurred into a mesmerizing kaleidoscope of colours, (Y/n) leaned back in her seat, surrendering to the peaceful rhythm of the road. The gentle sway of the car lulls her into a state of blissful relaxation, each passing mile easing the weight of the world from her shoulders.

Lost in the soothing embrace of the music, (Y/n)'s mind drifts back to the moments they shared while changing the tire. The memories dance through her thoughts like wisps of smoke, each one carrying the echo of their time together.

The words of encouragement that Paige had spoken were trapped within her brain, unwilling to be forgotten. 

“Atta girl.” She praised, just as (Y/n) had successfully jacked up the car. Her voice had caught Mayari off guard, cheeks flushing in response to the comment.

Just as she begins to lose herself in the nostalgia, Paige's voice pierces through the music, pulling (Y/n) back to the present moment. The warmth in Paige's tone is like a gentle caress, grounding her in the here and now.

"You still have the same taste in music," Paige remarks, amusement dancing in her eyes as she glances over at (Y/n).

She felt a surge of warmth at Paige's words, a sense of connection blossoming between them. Despite everything that has changed, there is still something familiar and comforting about their shared experiences.

"Yeah, some things never change," (Y/n) replies with a soft smile, her gaze briefly meeting Paige's before returning to the road ahead.

As the last notes of their conversation faded into the air, the sudden rhythm of a familiar song filled the car, catching both teammates by surprise.

“It goes Halle Berry or hallelujah

Pick your poison, tell me what you’re doing

Everybody gon’ respect the shooter, but the one in front of the gun lives forever.”

Paige's fingers taped lightly against the steering wheel, following the beat of the drums, while her lips moved silently, forming the words to the song. The percussion sparked a rush of memories, transporting them back to a different time, a time filled with laughter and shared moments.

(Y/n)'s eyes light up as she recognizes the tune, a slightly nostalgic grin spreading across her face. She watched Paige's subtle movements, how her fingers danced to the rhythm, and how her lips moved in sync with the lyrics.

The bassline kicks in, pulsating through the speakers, sending vibrations through the car that resonate in their chests.

With a smile, she begins to recite the lyrics softly, her voice blending with the music as they drive down the familiar streets. The lyrics roll off her tongue, each word carrying memories of moments shared with Paige.

“Money trees is the perfect place for shade and that’s just how i feel”

Paige's eyes flicker to (Y/n), a surprised yet delighted expression crossing her face as she realizes they are both singing the same song. Without missing a beat, she joins in, her voice threading with (Y/n)'s as they enter the chorus together.

Their voices fill the car, rising and falling with the music, creating a symphony of sound that seems to surround them. The lyrics reverberate off the walls, enveloping them in a cocoon of sound. 

For a while, there was nothing but the music, the beat of the song mingling with the hum of the engine, creating a symphony of sound that seemed to echo through the streets.

Where had the time disappeared to? At this moment, it felt like just yesterday that (Y/n) and Paige were blasting this song with the windows down for the whole world to see. However, she forced these thoughts out of her mind. She wouldn’t miss this rare moment she was sharing with Paige to reminisce about a past that wouldn’t be.

And as the song faded into silence once more, their voices trailing off into laughter, they exchanged a knowing look, a silent acknowledgment of the memories they had just revisited together.

With a sigh, (Y/n) directs her gaze back to the road ahead. “Never gets old,” she speaks, her words flowing out in ragged puffs, carried away by the gentle breeze slipping through the open window.

“It’s been way too long,” Paige agrees, her voice barely audible, almost lost in the soft hum of the car and the distant sounds of the city. There's a weight to her words, a hint of nostalgia that lingers in the air between them.

The two girls fall back into a comfortable silence, the only sound the occasional soft hum that escapes from one of them, blending seamlessly with the music filling the car. Memories of the past flicker through their minds, tugging at the corners of their consciousness, but they push them aside, focusing on the present moment.

As they round a corner, the glow of two golden arches catches their eye, signalling the approach of a familiar destination. (Y/n) raises her eyebrows with a laugh, drawing a playful side-eye from Paige. She waves her off with a shake of her head, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. (Y/n) hadn't expected their reunion to involve a quick McDonald's run, but somehow, it felt oddly fitting.

However, before (Y/n) can dwell on the unexpected turn of events, her stomach chooses that moment to loudly announce its presence, a rumble of hunger breaking the silence. She chuckles, shooting a glance at Paige. At least this impromptu trip would benefit both of them.

Paige rolls down the driver's side window as they pull up to the speaker, the cool breeze carrying the scent of fries and burgers into the car. (Y/n) leans back in her seat, taking in the familiar surroundings with a sense of contentment. Despite the twists and turns of life, some things never change.

now playing: april by beach bunny

"You’re joking," Paige gaped, earning a whine of protest from the girl in her passenger seat.

Windows down, music blasting, the two girls sat in the last row of the McDonald's parking lot. The sun’s fleeting rays cast their final goodbyes as they slowly made their descent over the horizon.

In return, (Y/n)’s brows furrowed, her words coming out in a grumble. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

The blond’s expression was truly troubled at the notion, her eyes scrutinizing the girl with her mouth full of her most recent bite of McFlurry. Paige had taken full personal offence to the comment.

“You've never had fries with ice-cream?” Paige’s incredulity was evident in her voice as she leaned back against the seat, her mind struggling to comprehend (Y/n) revelation.

(Y/n) shrugged, a small smirk playing at the corner of her lips. “Nope, never even crossed my mind.”

Paige shook her head in disbelief, a playful grin slowly spreading across her face. “Well, I’m ‘bout to do you a favour,” she declared, reaching over to grab a handful of fries and dipping them into her McFlurry.

She held the makeshift utensil out to (Y/n), a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Try it. Trust me, you'll thank me later.”

With a mixture of curiosity and skepticism, she accepted the offering, taking a tentative bite of the McFlurry-coated fry that the blond held out. The combination of sweet and salty flavours danced on her taste buds, eliciting a surprised expression from her that Paige couldn’t help but admire.

Though, as soon as she glanced at Paige, whose face held the smug expression of ‘I told you so’ (Y/n) soon schooled her features into a meer facade of contentment. 

“Okay, that's actually pretty good,” she admitted her words leaving no further room for discussion.

Paige grinned triumphantly, her point proven. “You owe me now, Princess,” she teased, taking another bite of her own McFlurry-coated fry.

“Yeah,” (Y/n) rolled her eyes, though a curve in her lips indicated otherwise at her annoyance. Though, even if she didn’t owe Paige, she would drop whatever to be at her beck and call without hesitation, “whatever.”

As the car jolted slightly over a bump, (Y/n) was brought back to the present moment, realizing they were already driving away from the payment window. A momentary confusion crosses her features as she glances around, wondering why Paige hadn't mentioned that she had completed their order. (Y/n)'s brow furrows in mild perplexity as she processes the situation, her mind swiftly shifting from memory to the present task at hand.

“Good to have you back,” Paige smirked, obviously amused at (Y/n)’s zoned-out phase.

Though she didn’t answer, her mind was too occupied with piecing together that not only had Paige paid for her order, but also that she hadn’t been able to order something. The realization had triggered the corners of (Y/n)’s lips to drag down into a small pout.

At the sudden change in mood, Paige’s expression turned to confusion (and worry but she wouldn’t let (Y/n) know that), “You good?”

(Y/n) looked up to find Paige’s gaze already honing in on her, her head cocking to the side.

“Yeah…” she trailed, formulating the sentence in her head, “you know, kinda wanted to order some stuff too…”

Paige glanced at (Y/n), a knowing glint in her eye as she grinned. “Yeah, you were being too slow so I just ordered for you,” she explained casually, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

(Y/n) felt a sense of relief wash over her at Paige's easy explanation, her confusion giving way to satisfaction. “Oh, okay,” she replied, a hint of delight colouring her tone.

(A moment later, (Y/n) had discovered that Paige still remembered what her favourite order was.)

"So... do I still owe you or?" (Y/n) asked, her mind drifting back to the purpose of their trip and the fact that Paige had been the one to pay.

At the question, Paige gave her a look, her eyes sweeping to the side to lock onto (Y/n)’s eyes as if to say ‘Are you dumb?’.

“Duh.”

“Damn, okay!”

Their banter continued as they merged onto the freeway, the rhythm of the road easing the tension between them. The familiar sights and sounds of the city rushed past them as they settled into the comfort of each other's company, the lingering tension from their earlier exchange fading into the background.

Paige hummed along to the radio, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel in time with the music. (Y/n) watched her out of the corner of her eye, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips as she took in the sight of Paige lost in the music.

But as they approached a steep hill, (Y/n) couldn't help but slip into her usual role of making sure Paige’s driving wouldn’t kill them both. 

"Uh, make sure you don’t ride the breaks," she chimed in, her tone laced with a hint of concern.

Paige's knuckles whitened as she fought the urge to snap back, but the tension in the air was palpable. Finally, unable to contain herself any longer, Paige muttered under her breath, "God, one hour in and you're already so controlling."

(Y/n)'s eyebrows shot up in surprise at the unexpected comment. "Woah. Sorry, what?" she asked, turning to face Paige with a mixture of confusion and irritation.

Paige's grip on the steering wheel tightened as she felt (Y/n)'s gaze on her. She pressed harder on the gas pedal, the tension in the car growing palpable. The rush of wind through the slightly open windows added to the feeling of acceleration, the city blurring past them in a dizzying haze.

The streetlights flickered overhead, casting intermittent shadows across the dashboard as the car sped along the deserted freeway. The distant hum of traffic filled the air, a constant reminder of the world outside their enclosed space.

"It's nothing," Paige muttered, her tone clipped as she avoided (Y/n)'s eyes, a faint furrow forming on her brow.

"No, tell me," (Y/n) insisted, her voice firm but tinged with frustration.

Paige's jaw clenched as she struggled to find the right words, frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. "God, it’s not a big deal, stop being so sensitive," she finally snapped, her tone sharper than intended.

(Y/n)'s eyes widened in disbelief at Paige's words, a flash of hurt flickering across her features before she quickly masked it with a forced smile. She knew all too well the sting of being called "sensitive" – it was a label she'd been saddled with her entire life.

"Fuck, no. You know I didn’t mean it like that," Paige said suddenly, her voice softer now, tinged with remorse.

"Are you sure?" (Y/n)’s voice rose with incredulity, her eyes narrowing as she awaited Paige's response.

Paige glanced at (Y/n) briefly, her jaw tightening with frustration, her guilt gone in a flash. "You've always been like this," she retorted, her tone tinged with accusation.

The accusation hit (Y/n) like a slap in the face, leaving her momentarily speechless. She could feel her anger boiling beneath the surface, threatening to spill over at any moment.

"Like what?" (Y/n) finally responded her voice barely above a whisper, her hands gripping the edge of her seat tightly.

Her heart pounded in her chest as Paige's comment hung in the air, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, trying to process the accusation without letting her emotions get the best of her.

Paige's grip tightened on the steering wheel, her knuckles turning white as she grappled with (Y/n)'s question. She took a deep breath, trying to steady her racing thoughts.

"You always want everything to be perfect," she finally admitted, her voice tinged with frustration.

(Y/n)i's stomach churned at the statement, a surge of anger or guilt rising within her.

"Perfection?" she repeated, her voice laced with incredulity. "Since when is wanting things to go smoothly a bad thing?"

With a heavy sigh, she sank back into her seat, the tension in the car suffocating. The silence that followed was deafening, each passing moment filled with unspoken apologies and unresolved pain.

Paige's shoulders sagged as the weight of her words settled in the air, the tension in the car almost palpable. Her gaze flickered to (Y/n), a flicker of vulnerability flashing in her eyes before she looked away.

"I couldn't— fuck. I can't always be perfect for you," Paige muttered softly, her voice barely above a whisper. It was a confession tinged with regret, a glimpse into the insecurities that lurked beneath her confident facade.

(Y/n)'s heart clenched at Paige's words, a pang of guilt washing over her. She hadn't realized the extent of the pressure she had unknowingly placed on Paige, the weight of her expectations bearing down on them both.

"I never asked you to be perfect," (Y/n) replied softly, her voice tinged with sadness, “I just wanted you to be there.”

The silence was deafening. The air stood still, piercing with the occasional hum of the moving car. 

The familiar sights of the city passed by in a blur, each streetlight casting long shadows across the car's interior. (Y/n)'s gaze drifted out the window, her mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. She focused on the passing scenery, trying to distract herself from the tension that lingered between them.

The soft hum of the engine filled the car, a constant companion to their silent conversation. The rhythmic thud of tires against asphalt reverberated through the vehicle, adding to the weight of the unspoken words hanging in the air.

Paige's knuckles whitened as she gripped the steering wheel, her eyes fixed on the road ahead. The soft glow of the dashboard illuminated her profile, casting shadows across her features. She could sense (Y/n)'s eyes on her, the weight of their recent argument hanging heavily in the air.

With a shaky breath, Paige finally broke the silence, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry," she murmured, the words laden with.

(Y/n)'s heart clenched at the apology, but she kept her gaze fixed on the passing scenery, unwilling to let her guard down just yet. 

"I know," (Y/n) replied softly, her voice barely audible over the hum of the engine. "It's okay."

Paige glanced to the side briefly, a flicker of gratitude flashing in her eyes before she turned her attention back to the road. They drove on in silence, the tension between them slowly easing with each passing mile.

The car sped up, the rush of wind against the windows drowning out the sound of their breathing. (Y/n)'s hair danced in the breeze, strands whipping across her face as they hurtled down the empty streets.

As they pulled up to Paige's dorm, her heart sank at the thought of saying goodbye. 

"Are we okay?" Paige asked quietly, her voice tinged with uncertainty.

(Y/n) nodded, her gaze fixed on the ground. "Yeah, we're gonna be," she replied, her voice steady despite the turmoil swarming inside her.

Paige reached out to touch her friend's teammate's hand, but stopped herself at the last moment, the distance between them feeling insurmountable. "You know you can call me anytime, right?" she said softly, her eyes pleading for understanding.

(Y/n) forced a small smile, her heart aching at the sight of Paige's vulnerability. "Same goes for you," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Promise you'll call?" Paige asked, her voice barely audible over the sound of the car idling.

"Pinky promise," (Y/n) replied, a small spark of hope igniting within her. Despite everything, she knew that they would find their way back to each other eventually.

With one final glance, Paige stepped out of the car, leaving her alone with her thoughts. As she watched Paige disappear into the darkness, (Y/n) couldn't help but feel a sense of loss wash over her. 

The sight of Paige leaving her behind had been a sight long forgotten, but familiar enough. 

Hopefully, this time would be the last.

Unexpected Reunion: (Y/n) and Paige Spotted Together at Local McDonald's Drive-Through

In an unexpected turn of events, basketball stars (Y/n) and Paige were spotted together at a local McDonald's drive-through, much to the delight of fans and fast food enthusiasts alike.

A McDonald's worker, who asked to remain anonymous, shared with our reporter their excitement at serving the two athletes at the drive-through where they worked. "I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw (Y/n) and Paige together! I'm a huge fan of both of them, so it was a dream come true," the worker exclaimed.

However, the sighting raised eyebrows due to (Y/n)'s contractual obligations with Jollibee, making it somewhat scandalous for her to be seen at another fast food establishment. Despite this, many people took to social media to express their joy at seeing the two athletes reunited after a long time apart.

"It's so heartwarming to see (Y/n) and Paige together again. They have such a special bond, and it's clear that their friendship transcends any contractual obligations," one fan tweeted.

As speculation swirls around the nature of their reunion and the implications for (Y/n)i's sponsorship deals, one thing is certain: the sight of the two athletes together has brought smiles to the faces of many.

a/n: SORRY FOR THE LONG WAIT anyways you could probably tell that i had a hard time writing this chapter... anyways next chapter we're gonna get into the first game of the season yay!!

Thank you for all the comments they make me smile love youuu

taglist: @kenzie-luvzz , @juphey , @h34rtsformilli , @pinkandlilacroses , @i-bribri-i , @thatonemarvelfan03 , @girlokwhatever , @ihrtthotdads , @kc88888888 , @nfleditsrjustbetteridk , @imsobabygiirl , @vi0lentb3rry , @sejus-wife , @katemlk , @littlelesbianinternujung, @ktaerssoi, @evangelinexo , @c999sh , @yazmunson , @choibeomkai , @ekisokay @queenmendes , @euphoric-rush

lmk if you wanna be added <3

[prismatic-bell]

So I want to start this post with the understanding that it is based ONLY on my personal experiences as a 35-year-old American and what I saw as a teenager. It should not be taken as a prognostication of doom—it’s a call to keep your eyes open.

So right now, one of the biggest (and very justified) criticisms of what’s happening in Gaza is that the head of Hamas isn’t even in Gaza. He is in Qatar. This is a known and established fact. If the goal is to take out Hamas, then they’re shooting in the wrong place.

Now I want to take you back to 2003.

George W. Bush has just announced that Iraq has 48 hours to turn over Osama bin Laden, or the United States will invade. They did not turn him over. We invaded.

If you’re too young to remember this, then the anti-Iraq/Afghanistan-war number you’ve most likely heard is “over a million dead civilians.” That number is true, but as someone who lived through it, I want to add some stuff you may not know or have heard of.

There was constant fear of the draft, and enlisted soldiers were often “back door drafted,” meaning when their contract was over it was reupped without their consent and they had no recourse. This led to a lot of families being torn apart and living in a constant state of uncertainty and fear. THIS, in turn, led to radicalization of soldiers who came home with no more support network and no assistance to readjust to civilian life. You want to know where all the Millennial MAGA came from? I’d be willing to bet a nickel almost all of them either were soldiers in Iraq/Afghanistan, or knew somebody who was. I knew someone who’d enlisted because his family had been enlisted men all the way back to the Civil War and he genuinely believed he was doing a good thing, and after what he saw on his first tour he re-enlisted twice, as fast as they’d take him, actively trying to get himself killed due to guilt and severe trauma. I guarantee he wasn’t the only one.

We had Blackwater. We had “enhanced interrogation.” (Translation: waterboarding and sleep deprivation, among other forms of torture.) There were photos and videos released of soldiers gone absolutely crazy with power doing stuff like peeing on prisoners and mocking them. One image that will haunt me forever is a copy of the Quran smeared with pork. There’s no need for that. It saves no lives, it produces nothing but pain, it occurred only to be cruel.

Iraq and Afghanistan caused over a million civilian deaths. It also caused the mass insanity of a country.

…..oh.

Did I mention Osama bin Laden was in Pakistan the whole time?

Yeah.

We invaded two countries, murdered over a million civilians, tortured thousands of people….and all of it was for nothing. Yeah, we got rid of Saddam Hussein and that’s a good thing, but it opened up a whole different can of worms in the region, and also led to the US being the first democracy in the world to invade another nation without being attacked first. You can imagine that looked just GREAT for our position on the world stage.

So, uh.

Israel’s bombing the shit out of Gaza. The heads of Hamas aren’t in Gaza. They’re in Qatar.

Do you see where I’m going with this?

So two things of importance here. One, keep an eye on Qatar, and if you hear a PEEP about any potential “military operations” there, remember Iraq and Afghanistan. And two….you’re not going to like this. But it has to be said.

Iraq and Afghanistan occurred under a Republican president and Trump is currently the Republican front runner. To remind you, Trump said multiple times he wanted to start a nuclear war, and his party is full of Christian dominionists who want Israel to take all of Palestine because they believe this will trigger the Second Coming. In other words what Biden is doing is extremely bad but he can be pressured to do what’s right (we’re seeing it happen right now, with his officials admitting he’s feeling the pressure for a ceasefire). Trump WANTS TO DESTROY THE ENTIRE PLANET ON PURPOSE, and has backing from his party. You have to vote against him. You have to. I do not condone what Biden is doing but I also enjoy living, and I’m pretty sure you also would prefer to be here rather than not.

Keep an eye on Qatar. Vote against Trump and keep the pressure on Biden. You really want to help and don’t mind playing dirty? Find some left-wing Israeli organizations you can donate to. The party responsible for what’s happening, Likud, is far-right (Netanyahu is buddies with Trump and that should tell you a lot), and there have been sustained protests against them for almost a year. The fastest way to Palestinian peace is to get the wannabe-dictator and his coalition out of power, topple Hamas (not the Palestinian people, explicitly HAMAS), and restart peace talks. We’ve been EXTREMELY CLOSE to peaceful solutions before, and by peaceful I do not mean “because one side is dead,” I mean “because the two sides were ready to work together.”

(No, I am not saying you shouldn’t donate to Palestinian charities—you can in fact do more than one thing at a time. Although I will tell you to do some double-checking on any Palestinian charities you donate to because apparently right now money is having a really hard time getting through. Make sure you’re working with a legitimate organization and not getting scammed by some asshole in Canada looking to capitalize on a tragedy.)

Peace can happen, and in our lifetimes. I would love to see a world where al-Aqsa and the Third Temple stand proudly side by side on the Mount as a reminder of what peace can do. But we have to keep an eye on all fronts. And that means learning from history.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 13: Condemned From The Start] [Series Finale]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra’s wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother’s life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting…

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, violence, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, references to sexual content (18+), death, angsttttttt, more children than usual, Wolfman!

Series title is a lyrics from: “7 Minutes In Heaven” by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Sophomore Slump or Comeback of the Year” by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 8.1k.

Link to chapter list: HERE.

Taglist (more in comments): @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauraneedstochill @not-a-glad-gladiator @daenysx @babyblue711 @arcielee @at-a-rax-ia @bhanclegane @jvpit3rs @padfooteyes @marvelescvpe @travelingmypassion @darkenchantress @yeahright0h @poohxlove @trifoliumviridi @bloodyflowerrr @fan-goddess @devynsficrecs @flowerpotmage @thelittleswanao3 @seabasscevans @hiraethrhapsody @libroparaiso @echos-muses @st-eve-barnes @chattylurker @lm-txles @vagharnaur @moonlightfoxx @storiumemporium @insabecs @heliosscribbles @beautifulsweetschaos @namelesslosers @partnerincrime0 @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @yawneneytiri @marbles-posts @imsolence @maidmerrymint @backyardfolklore @nimaharchive @anxiousdaemon @under-the-aspen-tree @amiraisgoingthruit @dd122004dd @randomdragonfires @jetblack4real @joliettes

Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoy the finale.🦀💚

In the Eyrie, one of Rhaena Targaryen’s three dragon eggs has hatched at last; the creature is small and pink, and she has named it Morning. When Rhaena’s tears fall onto the scales of her diminutive wings, they glitter like flecks of rose quartz. Deep within the snow-laden labyrinth of the Mountains of the Moon, Nettles is in hiding with Sheepstealer; already the nearby clans are bringing her offerings of meat and treasure, axes and clubs and daggers, hairpins carved from the ribs of enemies and necklaces made of bear teeth. Silverwing is settling into a lair on an island in the Red Lake at the northwestern corner of the Reach. Word of this has travelled back to King’s Landing, and Borros Baratheon implores Aegon II to seize Silverwing for himself; but the king does not want a new dragon. He wants Sunfyre back. That grim truth aside, Aegon is unable to trek across the continent to tame the beast anyway. Some days he cannot even cross a room. At the bottom of the Gods Eye, bodies are dissolving into bones, threads of long white hair breaking loose to flow in the currents like weightless strands of spider webs torn free by cold drafts. And only a few miles from the border of the Crownlands—preparing to cross the icy waters of the Blackwater Rush—the army of Northmen camps under a full moon in a clear, indigo sky heavy with stars like glinting coins.

“There are passageways under King’s Landing,” Clement Celtigar says. He stands by the bonfire with his sword in his hand, his face flame-bright and eager, forever licking up drops of the Kingmaker’s approval, a stray cat lapping milk splashed in an alley. Increasingly, Cregan Stark finds him tiresome. Clement is brash and dramatic, forever swearing vengeance, reveling in his newfound position as the head of his house. The Warden of the North has never had to beg for attention, admiration, acclaim. These things come to him like snow falls to the earth in winter: effortlessly, inevitably. Yet Cregan tries to be patient. Clement is soon to be his brother-in-law, and it is dishonorable to fail to extend courtesy to one’s kin. Furthermore, it seems, Clement has his uses.

“Are there really?”

Clement nods. He wears the banner of his house on a strip of fabric looped around his upper arm: crabs red like blood, a backdrop of white like snow. “That monster’s disciples used them to kidnap my sister from the Red Keep. But she fought hard. When we searched her rooms, all the furniture was upturned and the sheets ripped from her bed.”

“She is brave,” Cregan murmurs in agreement, though he is distracted now. The air tastes like smoke and ice, the wind rubs raw spots into the soldiers’ faces. They are arriving just in time. The depths of winter is no time to wage war. Cregan Stark imagines how you will greet him when he liberates you: a desperate embrace, hands that refuse to let go, whispered gratitude and breathless kisses on his earth-stained knuckles, bones of steel softened by the innate weakness of womanhood. You will love him, of course you will, fervently and entirely. Then when the realm and succession are secured, the Kingmaker will take you North and wed you in the tradition of his people, under the heart tree where the Old Gods can witness it. And then there will be the wedding night. In Cregan’s understanding, women receive little pleasure from the act itself. It is a burden they bear for the men they love, for the children they are divinely tasked with bringing into existence. Cregan Stark intends to alleviate your suffering in this regard as much as possible…yet he has already begun to choose the names of the sons he will make with you. He especially likes the sound of Brandon, sturdy and grounded and thought to mean leader or prince. “This is the last night your sister will ever spend in the clutches of the Usurper.”

“Praise the Seven.” Then Clement adds diplomatically: “And the Old Gods too, of course.”

“It’s the end of the world,” Cregan Stark says, gazing up into the night sky where constellations tell the stories men deem worthy of remembering. “And the start of a brand new one.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“How did you learn to braid hair?” little Jaehaera asks you in her lilting, reedy voice like a bird’s. You are sitting behind her on the floor in Alicent’s bedchamber. Nearby, Autumn is flipping through a child’s book with Rhaenyra’s ever-solemn son, murmuring as she points to colorful illustrations of ravens, dolphins, bears, dragons, crabs. They are learning to read together.

“My sisters taught me,” you tell the princess. Firelight turns her silver hair to gold, her pale skin to flames. Logs crack and pop as they melt to glowing embers. Alicent glances over at you and sighs despairingly. The dowager queen, so thin she might disappear, is hunched in a chair by the fireplace. She has an unshakeable, rattling sort of cough that reminds you of how Sunfyre sounded on Dragonstone when he was near the end. Her long auburn tresses are falling out in handfuls. She will not survive the winter, this is a certainty.

“You have sisters?” Jaehaera says, surprised. “How many?”

You smile faintly as you weave her hair into one thick braid like the kind Aemond once wore when he went to battle. “Three. Piper, Petra, and Penelope.”

“Where are they now?”

“Back on Claw Isle, where I came from. With our mother.” Mourning Father, mourning Everett, writing letters to Clement to keep his spirits high as he and the Warden of the North march towards King’s Landing to slay the Greens’ king and bind me to a different man’s will.

“What’s Claw Isle like?” Jaehaera asks with a child’s clear, boundless curiosity.

“Rocky, misty, grey. But the ocean is beautiful.” You think of Aegon’s eyes, the same as his daughter’s, a murky storm-blue that is deeper than it looks.

“What brought you here?”

You consider this before you answer. You see it, you feel it: cinders like dark snow in the air, Aemond’s iron grip on your forearm. “When your father was burned at the Battle of Rook’s Rest, he needed someone to help heal him. Your uncle Aemond found me.”

“And he asked you to stay with us?”

He would have slit my throat if I said no. “Yes, he asked very politely, as any gentleman would. And of course I agreed. I wanted to make the king strong again. I wanted to take his pain away.”

Jaehaera stares down at her tiny hands, palms crossed with lines that are long and shadowy in the shifting firelight. She does not speak of Aegon. She does not know him, and he frightens her: the burns on his skin, the suffering in his glazed eyes. She has no memories to impress his true character upon her. If she does not make them herself, she will believe whatever she is told. “I miss Aemond. I miss Daeron.”

“I know, sweetheart.” They were formally laid to rest yesterday on two funeral pyres. Daeron’s bloodied, charred, seafoam green cape was burned to ashes on one. All that was left of Aemond—his favorite books, his quills and ink, small leather eyepatches from when he was a boy—were torched on the other. “I miss them too.”

Jaehaera’s braid is finished. You reach into a pocket of your emerald green velvet gown to retrieve what you have brought for her: a thin golden chain necklace with Aegon’s ring as a pendant. He can’t wear it anymore. His fingers are too swollen. “What is this?” Jaehaera says as you place the chain around her neck. She lifts the ring and peers at it, gold wings and jade eyes.

“It’s supposed to resemble Sunfyre,” you explain. “Your father loves you very much, Jaehaera. He wanted you to have this ring and keep it with you always.” Aegon didn’t say that; he rarely mentions Jaehaera at all. Sometimes you think he forgets she exists. But she is a part of him, she is his legacy, and you cannot look at any piece of her without seeing the man you love.

“He gave it to me? Like a gift?”

“Yes. A gift.” A gift, an inheritance, a relic, a reminder.

Jaehaera turns around and looks up at you hopefully, vast wave-blue eyes like winter oceans. “Do you think I’ll have another dragon someday?”

Her own infant beast, Morghul, was killed in the Dragonpit before Rhaenyra fled the city. “Maybe,” you tell her. “There are eggs that could hatch someday. And there are a few unclaimed adults left, Silverwing and the Cannibal. Perhaps you’ll tame one.”

She wrinkles her nose in confusion. “What’s a cannibal?”

Someone who murders, devours, fuels their body to the detriment of their soul. “Someone who eats their own kind. Like a dragon who feeds on other dragons.”

“So just like in the war. Dragons killing dragons.”

“Exactly,” you say, a shiver crawling down your spine. “Now go show your new necklace to Grandmother.”

Jaehaera wobbles to her feet and dashes across the firelit bedchamber to where Alicent is slumped in her chair. “Look, look! It’s Sunfyre!” you hear Jaehaera chirping. Alicent examines the ring—skeletal hands trembling, large dark eyes slick with tears—and dutifully fawns over it, telling the little girl how beautiful she looks, how brave she has been. Then she bundles Jaehaera into her boney arms and holds her like she’ll never let go. Autumn catches your gaze from the other side of the room, and when you leave to return to Aegon she follows.

“What is your plan if the Greens lose the battle?” she says in the hallway under an arc of grey stones. Her tone is urgent, her hazel eyes sharp. Everyone knows the Northmen are within days of King’s Landing. Borros Baratheon—a large, loud, abrasive man, but with a bottomless appetite for combat—and his soldiers will march out of the city tomorrow to meet Cregan Stark’s army on the fields of the Crownlands, sparse and grey with winter. The Lord of Storm’s End has spent hours locked in the council chamber discussing strategy with Larys Strong, Corlys Velaryon, and the misfortunate yet courageous Tyland Lannister, maimed by his months of torture at the hands of the Blacks.

“We won’t.” We can’t.

Autumn slams her palm against the wall behind you; the sick thud of flesh against stone reminds you of the day Helaena died. “Wake up. We might. You’d better have your options figured out.”

And you recall Larys’ words on Dragonstone: I think it’s time for you to consider what your options are if a Green victory no longer appears to be viable. “We’ll run,” you say weakly. “We’ll take Aegon and we’ll escape through the corridors under the Red Keep, just like he did before. Cregan Stark will kill Aegon if he finds him. I can’t let that happen. We’ll have to run.”

“Run where?” Autumn snaps pointedly, pushing you towards a conclusion you refuse to acknowledge.

“I don’t know.”

“Where? Where could we go that is beyond the grasp of your wolf if he seizes the capital?”

“Dorne, Essos. Somewhere, anywhere.”

“The king won’t survive a journey like that.”

You cover your face with your hands, feel the biting cold of snowflakes melting in your hair, see the stains of earth on your thighs as Cregan Stark forces them apart. How can I lie with a man who hailed the deaths of people I loved? How can I spend the rest of my life listening to him being called a hero for killing Aegon? How can I give him children? How could I love a baby that was half-made of him? “We ran before. We’ll have to do it again.”

Autumn scoffs. “You have no idea what it means to be a woman on your own in the world. What will you become without a great house, without protection? A prostitute? A peasant? Will you eat scraps covered with rot or mold? Will you live in a tree? Will you beg some family to take you in? And then when the father who is oh-so-gallant in daylight starts fumbling under your blankets once the candles are blown out, will you let him inside you? Or will you fight him off and risk a blade in your guts, your throat? You have no fucking idea what it’s like out there.”

“I don’t care what happens to me if Aegon’s gone.”

“You would abandon Jaehaera? You would abandon me?” Autumn demands. “You speak for us now. You are the only one who can. Our fates are twisted up with yours.”

That’s true. And I promised Helaena I would look out for her daughter. You can’t imagine a life without Aegon; there was a time when he was only a name—and an infamous one, a terrible one, soulless and monstrous—but now he has broken down the eaves of what you were once resigned to call your life and painted colors in the sky you’d never glimpsed before, never even dreamed of. You ask Autumn with genuine, painful bewilderment: “What is the point of learning that something exists only to have it taken away? Why would that happen? Where is the justice in it, where is the reason?”

Autumn smiles, sad and patient. “Ah, this is an affliction of the highborn. You still believe that there is a design, and that life has some amount of fairness in it. There is no divine judgment being passed, my lady. There is no god weighing the worth of your dragon or your wolf or yourself. Life is random, and it is ungovernable, and it is very often cruel. And that makes it all the more remarkable that you knew the king for the time you did. That you ever met him.”

It wasn’t enough. And I can never go back to who I was before. “I’m sorry. I should not complain to you. Your losses have been terrible.”

“It is no contest,” Autumn replies, weary now. “But I should go back to check on the children. They need me.”

“No. They love you.”

And now she beams, sparkling eyes and copper ringlets. She doesn’t need to say it, you can both feel it in the winter-cold air. She loves them in return. She loves them fiercely. As long as they live, she will have reasons to.

When you reach Aegon’s bedchamber, Grand Maester Orwyle is just leaving. He bows to you and grins, pleased that you have both survived the fall and retaking of King’s Landing. He is haggard from his months in the dungeons when Rhaenyra ruled the capital, but he endured. Who would have guessed at the start of this war that the old man had more years left than Aemond or Daeron or harmless little Maelor? You wait in the hallway for the maester to amble sluggishly by, but then when he is gone, you peer through the slit of the half-open door to see that Lord Larys Strong is speaking to Aegon, who is propped up in bed on a mountain of pillows and wearing only his cotton sleeping trousers. He is thin, frail, ghostly pale with the exception of the scars that are a mosaic of white and scarlet and bruise-like violet. Aegon and Larys have not noticed you. You linger just outside the doorway, watching, listening.

You can take care of Aegon as much as you wish now: feed him, clothe him, clean sweat from his brow, dose him with milk of the poppy, rub rose oil into his scars, stretch his legs, test the heat of his skin for fever. He’s too weak to stop you. He can’t walk, can’t stand, can’t stay awake for more than an hour or two at a time, can’t even pour his own wine or milk of the poppy; the glass bottles are too heavy when full. Yesterday, Aegon had to be carried outside in a litter to see the remnants of his brothers burned on the pyres. And he had exchanged a brief, somber glance with Autumn that you neither anticipated nor understood. He acknowledges her so rarely. And yet her small hazel eyes had been alarmed, knowing.

Larys is saying with a grave expression and his restless hands propped in the handle of his cane: “Lord Borros Baratheon is asking for your assurance that as soon as the war is won, you will take his eldest daughter Cassandra as your wife.”

Aegon stares at him, incredulously, impatiently. Aegon has not called you his wife in the company of others since his homecoming. You do not ask why. You already know. It is not because his intentions have changed; it is because if he is not the victor, your life is in less danger as his captive than as his queen. “Surely even a man as brainless as Borros can surmise that there would not be much benefit for the lady now. I am a worm. Useless, pathetic, deformed, no longer virile.”

“He is willing to take the chance, I gather. And he is placing his eggs in more than one basket. He would like another daughter, Floris, to be married to me.”

“Seven hells,” Aegon mutters. Then he turns determined. “I cannot marry another. I won’t do it. I am claimed already, body and soul.”

“I fear how enthusiastically Borros’ men will fight for you if you do not agree to the match. He is risking his life for your cause. He will expect generous repayment.”

Aegon is quiet for a long time. He stares fixedly at his bedside table: a full cup, a large glass bottle of milk of the poppy. His dagger is still there from when you cut and braided his hair for him this morning; he cannot do it himself anymore. At last Aegon says, almost too low for you to discern from the doorway: “He’s not cruel, is he?”

“Who? Borros Baratheon?”

Aegon glares at Larys. “No.”

After a moment, Larys realizes what his king means. “Cregan Stark isn’t cruel. I’ve heard many whispers from many mouths, but I’ve never heard that.”

“Look at me. Don’t lie to me.”

“He isn’t cruel,” Larys says again. “Perhaps the truth is worse. He is measured, competent, merciful, wise. He is honorable. The Manderlys want to torture everyone and the Boltons itch to sharpen their flaying knives but Stark forbids it. He respects the laws of war. He tries to avoid the slaughter of noncombatants. He forbids his men from burning farms or raping women. He is devoted to the woman you call your wife. He takes no mistresses, visits no brothels. Cregan Stark is not a monster. He’s not soulless. He’s just on the wrong side.”

Aegon nods slowly, then his face breaks into a humorless smirk. “Tell Borros Baratheon that I’ll marry whichever daughter he wants me to when the war is over. I’ll marry all four if that is his preference, and bed them all on the wedding night too, one right after the other. Agree to anything he asks for. It doesn’t matter anyway.”

It doesn’t matter because none of it will ever happen, even if the Baratheon army does win the Iron Throne for the Greens. It doesn’t matter because Aegon does not believe he’ll still be here in a month, or two weeks, or perhaps even days.

But he can’t mean that. He’s not thinking clearly. He’s confused, he’s exhausted, he’s in pain, you tell yourself, before remembering that Aemond said it first.

“Yes, Your Grace.” Larys is subdued, sorrowful. He bows deeply to his king. Then he turns to depart.

“One more thing,” Aegon says, gesturing to something on the side of his bed you can’t see from where you’re standing. “I hate to impose upon you further, but I can’t manage it myself. Can you take that and empty it somewhere? I don’t care where. But you must keep it hidden from my wife. The red-haired girl Autumn knows, and so do the maesters now. They are all sworn to secrecy. Can I trust you to exercise the same circumspection?”

Larys is gaping down at an object that is a mystery to you. He begins to stammer out a reply, stops to collect himself, and starts again. “Yes. Yes you can.”

“Good.”

Larys picks up the object; you are puzzled to discover that it is a chamber pot, white and porcelain. And as he navigates around Aegon’s bed and towards the door where you wait, you see that the vessel is full of blood.

You gasp before you can stop yourself, a razor-sharp inhale of breath that both men hear. They spot you, lurking in the doorway like someone lost, someone far from home. Shock bolts across Aegon’s face, and then frustration, and then defeat, and then profound misery.

“I didn’t want you to worry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to lie to you, I just knew…I knew you’d be upset and I…I didn’t want to hurt you. I’ve never wanted to hurt you.”

“How long?”

“It doesn’t matter, Angel.”

“How long?” you ask again. “Just since this morning?”

“Four or five days now.”

“Four or five…?” Your mind whirls like storm winds. He’s dying. He’s really dying. His kidneys are failing and there’s nothing I can do. I can’t cut him open and stitch him back together. There’s no wound to scrub clean with vinegar and then bandage with honey and linen. There’s no brew that can restore the rhythm of his blood and bones and nerves. He’s just dying. That’s all there is. That’s the beginning and the end of it.

“Please don’t cry,” Aegon says, reading your face. “Don’t do that, please don’t, I’ve hurt you enough already.”

His hands stretch out to close the space between you, and as Larys slips from the room you go to Aegon, climb into bed beside him, collapse into him as his arms catch you and rest your head against his bare, scarred chest, his feverish skin mottled with the history of wounds you helped close all those months ago. “I’m sorry,” you sob. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have let you go after Baela and Moondancer on Dragonstone. I should have stopped you. I should have dragged you inside the castle to wait until Aemond and Vhagar could help you. I shouldn’t have let Aemond go to Harrenhal. I shouldn’t have let Daeron fly south. I shouldn’t have let Autumn go back to King’s Landing, and I shouldn’t have let Everett stay there. I shouldn’t have let Helaena leap from the window. I should have stopped Maelor from being sent to the Reach. I should have stopped Rhaenys and the Red Queen from taking flight to burn you in your armor at Rook’s Rest. I should have stopped this! I should have done something! The only good thing I’ve ever had to offer the world was healing but I can’t save anyone, I can’t stop their suffering, I can’t do anything!”

“None of it was within your control, and none of it was your responsibility. I am the king. The fate of my kingdom and my followers rests with me. I wear their spilled blood, not you. I am so full of red I’m overflowing with it.” And he chuckles, sardonic, exhausted. He’s already battling unconsciousness again; you can hear his heartbeat slackening, the slow laborious expanding and contracting of his lungs.

“Aegon,” you say softly, as if afraid to speak it into existence. “What happens if the Baratheons don’t win tomorrow?”

“They will. They have to. There’s nothing I can do for you if they lose.” Then he winces and groans. It’s his back again, his failing kidneys, overrun with so much ruin—burns and breaks and pressure and heartache—that their cadence faltered and then ceased. You grab his cup of milk of the poppy and tilt it against his lips; and how many times have you done this since you met him, burned nearly to death and half-mad at Rook’s Rest? A hundred? Aegon drinks it down, his arms still tight around your waist. They do not loosen until he’s out like a snuffed candle.

You refill the cup on his bedside table with milk of the poppy in case he needs more when he wakes, pick up the dagger you use to cut his disheveled hair, take it to the dresser. And in the cascade of silver moonlight flooding in through the windows, you practice laying the gleaming blade against your wrists, pressing it to the throbbing arteries of your throat, angling the sharpened point of it between a gap in your ribs and towards your racing heart.

Autumn. Jaehaera. Aemond’s child that Alys carries. I still have promises to keep. I still have tasks that cannot be left unfinished.

Helaena’s words surface like a drowned man dredged from the waves: You must whisper into the right ears.

You set the dagger down on top of the dresser and roam to the castle library where Aemond once spent so many hours. You collect a stack of anatomy books and carry them back to Aegon’s bedchamber. There, before the roaring fireplace, you devour them for any scrap of hope, any last resort. You turn pages until one illustration stops you. It is an unclothed man, his major veins etched in blue and his arteries in red, his nerves a faded yellow, his bones white and unshattered, his body a roadmap of the bricks and mortar used by the architects of nature. You have seen this image before. It is the same page Aegon teased you for studying when you were travelling by carriage back to the capital from Rook’s Rest.

You rip out the page, crumple it violently, pitch it into the fire and watch it burn.

~~~~~~~~~~

At dawn, Lord Borros Baratheon leads his men out of the city. You hear them through the glass panes of the windows, closed against the winter chill and flecked with frost: boots marching, hooves of warhorses clomping against cobblestones. They carry with them swords and spears and bows and morning stars like the one Criston Cole was famed for using. Meanwhile, throughout the city, civilians are arming themselves with anything they can find to ward off an invasion of Northmen, creatures they believe to be bestial and mindless. Men carry kitchen knives and clubs fashioned out of bits of furniture or driftwood. Women hide their young children in cupboards and under creaking wooden floors.

“I should be going with them,” Aegon says. He’s just taken another dose of milk of the poppy and is struggling to keep his eyes open. His long, slow blinks close his vacant eyes for ever-increasing intervals. You’ve changed his clothes and cleaned the sweat from his skin as best you can, but he’s burning from the inside out.

“You’re not able to fight, Aegon. Nobody faults you for that. Everyone knows you were wounded in battle.”

“They must think I’m a coward.”

“No, you inspire them. They love you. I love you.”

Aegon doesn’t say it back. He never says it back. He only offers you the same drowsy, mournful phrase of High Valyrian he always does, not knowing that Aemond told you what it means: To your misfortune.

Autumn is with the children in Alicent’s rooms. The castle is tense and as quiet as a crypt—Alicent weeps soundlessly, Larys paces the halls with Corlys and Tyland Lannister, everyone peeks out of windows constantly to see if bannermen of the victor have appeared on the horizon—but she keeps them distracted with stories and games. You cycle between Alicent’s bedchamber and Aegon’s. He is in and out of consciousness; sometimes you perch beside him on the bed, sometimes you lie curled up against him counting the beats of his heart, sometimes you help Autumn read to Jaehaera and Aegon the Younger. It is just after noon when the city bells begin to toll and screams rise from the streets outside the Red Keep. You and Autumn hurry to a window. In the distance, beyond the city gates, there is a swarming mass of infantry, cavalry, archers. Their banners, when you strain your eyes to decipher them, are not the brazen, vivid yellow of House Baratheon. They are night black and an icy, steely grey. They are the colors of House Stark.

“No,” Autumn says, denial in a protracted, helpless exhale. Alicent shrieks, frightening the children. You grab Autumn’s hand and lead her out into the hallway to warn the others if they don’t know already.

Lord Corlys Velaryon comes bounding up a staircase. “There are soldiers down in the secret passageways!” he booms. “Northmen! Armed! I’ve helped our guards bar the doors, but that won’t hold them back forever.”

Autumn looks to you. “Get the children ready to travel,” you tell her. “Find Larys and inform him.”

“Yes, my lady,” she says, and is gone. You sprint in the opposite direction towards Aegon’s bedchamber. You blow the door open like a strong wind, and Aegon startles awake. You rip through his dresser for things he will need: warm clothes, boots, his dagger, bottles of milk of the poppy.

“Get up, Aegon. We have to go. We’ll run, we’ll flee, there are Northmen in the tunnels but we’ll find another way out, we have to try, we have to, if they catch you they’ll—”

“Come sit with me,” he says from the bed, calmly, like you have all the time in the world. He is reaching out for you with one hand.

“What? No, we have to hurry—”

“Angel,” Aegon says. “I need you to come sit with me now.”

Why isn’t he afraid? Why isn’t he frantic? You cross the room with slow, numb footsteps. When you reach the bed, Aegon takes both of your hands in his own. And suddenly you know exactly what he is going to say. You remember what he told his brother in High Valyrian the last time Aemond left Dragonstone. Your voice is trembling and hoarse. Your throat burns like embers. “Aemond was supposed to be here to help us win. But he’s gone. Daeron, Criston, Helaena, Otto, Everett, Jaehaerys, Maelor, Autumn’s baby, so many people are gone.”

Aegon whispers, smiling softly as tears spill down his cheeks, one scarred and the other pure: “I’m not going to get better this time.”

“No,” you moan. “No, Aegon, no. You can’t say that, you can’t tell me that—”

“I’m not going to get better.” Now his palms cradle your face, forcing you to listen. “I’m not. And it’s okay. I’m not angry, I’m not scared. You’ve done everything you could and you’ve bought me more time and I’m so grateful. But I don’t want it to hurt anymore. I’ve been in pain for so long. I’ve been in pain my whole goddamn life.” He kisses you, like tasting something rare and fleeting. His thumbprint skates along the curve of your jaw, memorizing the angles of your bones, the rhythm of your pulse. “Please, Angel. I don’t want to try to run and die on the side of the road somewhere. I don’t want to die with Cregan Stark’s blade at my throat.”

You shake your head, unable to believe, unable to understand.

Aegon glances to the empty cup on his bedside table, to the large glass bottle of milk of the poppy. Then his eyes return to you. “You know how to do it.”

No. Never. But beneath those cold, dark, stormy waters: It would be painless. “I can’t,” you say, overwhelmed with horror.

“Listen, listen to me—”

“No—”

“Angel.”

“I can’t do that to you. Not to you. I can’t, I can’t.”

“When I’m gone, go to Cregan Stark,” Aegon says. “He is an honorable man, he will ensure your survival. He is the only person who can now. He wants to put his mark on the world. He wants to play Kingmaker. Let him. He can decree that my daughter will marry Rhaenyra’s son and ascend to the Iron Throne. He can end the war. Cregan will keep you safe. Tell him that I kidnapped you, that I forced myself on you. Tell him that I wanted an heir with Valyrian blood. Tell him that I was a drunk, a degenerate. Tell him whatever he wants to hear.”

“You would become a monster?”

“To protect you? I would become anything.”

He’s holding you, he’s pulling you into him until you can feel the fever bleeding from his flesh into yours, until you can number the knots of his spine and the ladder-rungs of his ribcage, counting them with your fingers through the sweat-drenched fabric of his cotton shirt. You draw back to look at him, to really look at him, sunken bloodshot eyes and rasping breaths, scar tissue of the body and the soul. You remember the day you met him, how he’d begged to die and been refused, how you brought him back. You postponed a debt, but you never paid it. It’s not possible to ever pay enough. You stack up gold coins in a vault until they touch the ceiling and still the Stranger comes knocking, jangling his purse sewn with scorched skin and chanting: more, more, more.

Aegon glances to the cup again. “How much?” he asks you, hushed like a prayer.

You don’t answer. Instead, you stand and go to the dresser. You open a small wooden door beneath the mirror. Your reflection is a woman you don’t know, someone who walks through fog and memory, someone made of ghosts. You take four clean cups from the cabinet and set them on Aegon’s bedside table. As he watches—eyes glassy with agony, lungs rattling—you fill them all with smooth, pearlescent, lethal liquid, as well as the empty cup that was already there. “Five,” you say, and it sounds nothing like you. “I think three at once would be enough. Five to make sure.”

He sobs with relief, and only now do you realize how badly he needed this. “Thank you. Oh gods, thank you.”

Your own words come back like an echo: I preserve life, I don’t take it. But that was a different lifetime, a different you. Aegon’s fingers are lacing through yours. He is drawing you back onto the bed, he is brushing your hair back from your face, he is kissing the path of tears down your cheeks so he doesn’t waste a drop of you. He’ll never get another taste, another chance; not in this life, not on this earth.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to the end with you,” he says. “I really tried.”

“I know, Aegon.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough.”

“You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known.”

He looks down at his left hand, then remembers where his ring has gone. He chuckles, darkly, bitterly, dismayed by all the failings he is built of. “I don’t even have anything to give you.” Then he remembers. “My dagger. Can you get my dagger?”

You are petrified. “Why?”

He grins, dull teeth beneath dazed eyes. “I’m not going to hack off a finger or my exemplary cock or something. I promise. Just get it.”

You fetch the dagger and bring it to the bed, and only then do you realize what he means for you to have. He points to it, then threads it through his pale, swollen fingers: his thin lock of hair that you’ve been weaving for him since the day you met. He wants you to take his braid.

“You’ll have to cut it yourself,” he says. “I don’t think I can.”

You hook the blade beneath the top of his braid, and with a few cautious slices of the dagger it is free. You tuck the braid into a pocket of your gown, thick black velvet to guard against the winter cold. Then you lay the dagger on the bedside table and pick up one of the cups filled to the brim with milk of the poppy. Your tears are scalding and torrential; it is almost impossible to see through them. You smooth back Aegon’s white-blond hair as you pour the blissful, deadly brew through his lips and down his throat, hating yourself, knowing it is the kindest thing you can do for him.

Suddenly, when the cup is half-drained, Aegon pushes it away. “You don’t have to be here. You don’t have to watch,” he says. “I can do the rest. Go, now. Right now. If the Boltons or some other house finds you before Cregan does, they might not recognize you. They might not care. You’re only safe with Cregan Stark. He has to find you first.” Aegon takes the cup with one shaking hand and presses a palm to your shoulder with the other. You haven’t moved. You can’t move. “Go. Leave me. Now. Please go. I love you, but you have to go now.”

“I can’t,” you choke out.

“You have to.”

“I’ve never wanted anyone but you.”

“Angel,” he says tenderly, smiling. “I’ll see you again. Just not too soon.”

“Okay,” you whisper, and you kiss him, traces of milk of the poppy on his lips that deaden the thunderstruck horror faintly, powerlessly, like small clouds drifting over the sun.

“If there’s anything interesting on the other side, I’ll find a way to let you know.”

The dreams, you think. “Okay,” you say again, barely audible.

“Now go. Right now. Go.”

You wipe tears from your face with your sleeve as you turn away from him. You can’t look back; if you do, you’ll never be able to walk out of this room. You take the dagger from the bedside table. Your bare feet pad across the cold floor. As you step through the doorway, on the periphery of your vision you can see Aegon swallowing down each cupful of poison as quickly as he can. It won’t take long to stop his heart. Minutes, perhaps. Seconds. You walk into the hallway. Autumn has just arrived with Jaehaera’s tiny hand clasped in her own. A few paces behind her, Alicent and Larys stand with Rhaenyra’s son. Two orphans without choices, two pawns in a much grander game.

Autumn is panicked. “Where should we go? What should we do?” Then she takes another look at your face. Her eyes go wide with terror. “What? What happened?”

“Follow me.” Your voice is low, flat, dark like deep water. Your eyes flick briefly to Lord Larys Strong. “Keep the boy here. He’s not safe with the smallfolk yet. But the Northmen won’t harm him.”

Larys knows. It’s over. He is devastated; and yet you think a part of him might be relieved as well. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“I’m not the queen anymore. I never really was.” You give him Aegon’s dagger. “I don’t think you’ll need this, Lord Larys, but now you have it in the event of any danger. Or in case I can’t convince Cregan Stark to spare you and you decide you’ve had enough of this world. You should get a say in how your life ends. You’ve earned it.”

Then you break away from them and glide through the Red Keep, Autumn and Jaehaera trotting swiftly behind you to keep up. You pass the rookery where Aemond wrote his letters. You sweep through the gardens where Helaena loved to collect her insects. You gaze down to the beach where Daeron landed on Tessarion under a dazzling sun before winter came like a plague to King’s Landing. From inside the castle, you can hear Alicent wailing as she discovers her last child’s lifeless body. What was all of this for? Why did this have to happen? Why didn’t anybody stop it?

Out on the streets of the city, the smallfolk have flocked with their makeshift weapons to defend their homes from the Northmen. But their eyes are darting everywhere and their faces are uncertain as they clutch their clubs made out of the legs of chairs and their rusty kitchen knives. They haven’t decided if it’s futile. They don’t want to be butchered for nothing.

“That’s Autumn!” they shout and sigh, especially the women. “The mother of the king’s bastard son, the one murdered by the half-year queen!” They reach out to skim their hands over Autumn’s gown, her long coppery hair, as if she is a saint or a spirit who can impart good luck upon them, who can change their fates. They fall to their knees to bow to Jaehaera, their king’s only living child, and she blinks at them with benign confusion.

But the smallfolk have a different reception for you. You hear their venomous chattering: “Is that the Celtigar woman?” “Her family put this city through hell.” “They served Rhaenyra.” “She’s a traitor, she’s a thief.” A few of them venture close enough to tug at your gown, to strike at you. A woman’s knuckles rap against your cheekbone, raising a bruise there like lavender in a dusk sky. You think dully: I wonder if they’ll gouge out my eyes with those knives like they did to Everett.

“Get back!” Autumn hisses, shoving the smallfolk away. And when she speaks, they listen. “She is going to the Wolf of Winterfell. She is my protector. She is your protector now too. She is the best chance you have left.” And the crowds open up and the three of you pass through King’s Landing unimpeded, though cloaked in thousands of fascinated gazes.

The King’s Gate has been abandoned; the guards must have feared the Boltons’ flaying knives or Lord Stark’s dark justice. Autumn instructs several hulking men of the smallfolk to open the gate if they wish to be spared from the wolf’s wrath. They are reluctant at first, but do as she asks. When the massive doors creak open, the people of the capital huddle behind the wall and peer out skittishly as you, Autumn, and Jaehaera advance to meet the Northmen, who are bloodied from battle and now within a hundred yards of the city. Above, the sky is thick and iron-grey and frigid. Snowflakes—the first of this winter to touch King’s Landing—begin to fall and land in your hair, and you are reminded of how embers rained from the smoldering pine trees at Rook’s Rest.

“Can you catch one on your tongue?” Autumn asks Jaehaera, and the little girl giggles as they both try.

The Warden of the North rides an immense, shaggy warhorse at the head of what remains of his army. He recognizes you immediately, dismounts, approaches with determined, unbreakable strides. Clement is close behind him.

“You’re alive!” your brother shouts joyously. “And apparently not pregnant with a Targaryen bastard! Praise the gods!”

Cregan Stark does not act as if he’s heard this. The Warden of the North is not as you remember him; he is larger, heavier and broader from the muscles won in battle, coarsened by weather and war. His hair is long and dark and pulled back from his face. He wears a sword at his belt that is taller than you are when it’s unsheathed. He is entombed in leather and furs. He does not hesitate before he lays his hands you. You are betrothed to him, you are his property, would a man ask before he grabs his horses or his dogs?

The Warden of the North does not seize your forearm roughly like Aemond once did. Instead, his massive palms and fingers clasp your face as he marvels at you. You can feel the stains of dirt and ashes he leaves there. You want to scream when he touches you, but you can’t. You want to burn with rage and heartache until you crumble like ruins. Your life is already over. Your life has just begun.

“You have suffered greatly,” Cregan Stark says, a marriage of shock and reverence.

“You have no idea.” Perpetual Resurrection, you think. It doesn’t mean you come back better. It just means you’re still here.

“You are safe now,” Cregan swears. “The Usurper will never harm you again.” And it ends the same way it began: with a man mistaking your allegiance and beckoning you into a destiny that he wholeheartedly believes is greater than any you could have envisioned for yourself.

“He’s dead.”

This stuns Cregan. “When? How?”

“Today. Of old wounds sustained in battle.”

He looks at Jaehaera, noticing her for the first time. “Is that his daughter?”

“Yes,” you say. “She must always be treated with kindness. She must be protected.”

“You have an affinity for her,” Cregan notes, intrigued.

You hear Aegon’s voice, so clearly it cuts like a blade: Tell him whatever he wants to hear. “We have been through great trials together. We survived the same monster.”

The Warden of the North nods. This is a story he craves to be told. “Very well. If it is your wish that she not be discreetly disposed of as a Silent Sister, I will betroth her to Rhaenyra’s surviving son. They will unite the noble houses of Westeros and end this war.”

“The worst of the Greens are dead already. Those who remain should be shown mercy. Alicent is old and ill and broken from loss. She poses no threat. She should be permitted to remain in the company of her granddaughter. Corlys was loyal to Rhaenyra until she falsely imprisoned him for treason, and he belongs on Driftmark with Rhaena. Larys Strong, Tyland Lannister, and Grand Maester Orwyle, if no pardon can be arranged for them, should go to the Wall instead of the scaffold. And Autumn, my companion there with Jaehaera…she was a true friend to me. I owe her my life several times over. She must be permitted to stay with Jaehaera and Aegon the Younger as a caretaker, and reside in comfort in the Red Keep for the remainder of her days.”

“Who do you think you are, sister?!” Clement exclaims. “You’re speaking to the Kingmaker, not some handmaiden! You do not command him!”

“I am not commanding,” you counter levelly. “I am pleading for mercy on behalf of imperfect souls who showed me kindness during my captivity. If granted, I will consider these my wedding gifts.”

“She is remarkable, is she not?” Cregan Stark says, grinning to Clement and several other men who have ventured closer. They wear the sigils of Northern houses: Bolton, Cerwyn, Manderly, Hornwood, Dustin. They chuckle in agreement, stroking their wild beards with huge filthy hands. “Dauntless but merciful. Clever but obedient.” And then the Warden of the North claims your lips with his, chaste but overpowering, the first of a thousand kisses you never desired, a thousand acts of affection for a woman who isn’t really you, feigned resignation and bitten-back rage, eternal war with the interminable knowledge that there is something more, more, more…you just aren’t permitted to have it. It was taken from you, it was ripped from your hands like stolen treasure.

All your life you will have to murmur in wounded agreement when people recount the terrible sins of the Usurper. All your life you will have to praise Cregan Stark for killing millions to rescue you. And the days will pass, weeks, months, years, summers and winters, the births of your children and their own marriages; and when Cregan’s boy Rickon, born of his first wife, produces only daughters, your son Brandon and his descendants will become the heirs to Winterfell. In the desolate North—so far from the ocean, so far from everything Aegon ever knew—your greatest solace will be letters from Autumn as she learns to read and write, books that your husband orders for you from the Citadel, setting bones and treating burns, a tiny lock of braided silver hair that you keep in a hidden drawer of your jewelry box, dreams that you never want to wake up from.

But one day, decades after you leave King’s Landing, you will receive a raven from Queen Jaehaera Targaryen, and she will ask you: You knew the Greens in your youth, Wardeness Stark. You knew Aemond, Daeron, Helaena, Alicent, Otto, Maelor, Aegon the Usurper. What can you tell me of them? What was my father like? Who was he really?

And you’ll pick up your quill and begin writing.

[dark-and-kawaii]

𝐹𝓇𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉𝑒𝓃𝑒𝒹 𝐿𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒 𝒟𝑜𝓋𝑒

Haarlep x Reader/Tav

Summary: Haarlep is torn between their nature as an incubus and unexpected feelings for you as they comfort you through a nightmare.

Notes: This was supposed to be apart of the soft Haarlep series but I preferred it on its own. Maybe I’m wrong for that, but still enjoy our favorite incubus xoxo

Ao3

Haarlep stirs from their slumber as they sense your body wracked with silent tremors. Their groggy gaze, heavy with the remnants of the void, lands upon you. There, in the dim lighted boudoir, they watch your features contort in silent agony.

Your brows knitted in distress; eyes flickering in a frenzied dance behind their veils, fists clenched to the point of blanching, and oh, those delectable beads of sweat adorning your brow, rendering you a vision of tortured grace. Trapped in the clutches of a nightmare, how Haarlep’s dark heart revels in the sweetness of your fear. You looked beautiful like this.

Yet, as he languishes in the sight of your torment, a bitter reminder gnaws at them; you are Raphael's precious "little mouse”. A reluctant savior, the incubus nudges your shoulder, coaxing you back to the waking world of Avernus. Your eyes flutter open, brimming with tears that carve trails of sorrow down your cheeks.

"Such agony etched upon your face, a sight so deliciously tragic," Haarlep muses, propping themselves up on one elbow, drinking in the view of your disheveled form. Your breaths come in tattered heaves, your gaze locking onto theirs with a terror that suggests you're still ensnared by the nightmare's tendrils.

"Haarlep?" you whisper, the name a feeble breath of sound.

"Last I checked," Their tone laced with an edge of mockery.

You scan them, searching, clinging to the reality of their presence. "I... You were-,” You hesitated, your eyes twitching from the vivid nightmare, “You were dead…- taken from me in that nightmare…," you confess, your voice a fractured whisper as you burrow into their warm chest, seeking solace. "The fear was-, the thought of losing you… I-”

Those words strike a dissonant chord in Haarlep's shadowed heart. Their expression falters, unseen by you. Shouldn't your heart be laden with dread at the thought of losing Raphael, not them, a mere incubus bound to the infernal depths? The revelation is a torment all on its own, a twisted irony that stirs within their damned soul.

Your head remained buried in their chest, Haarlep could feel the cascade of tears soaking into their skin, each drop a testament to your fears. Your grip on them tightens, as if afraid to let go, as if desperate to anchor yourself to Haarlep to assure you of their existence. Fingers dig into their fiendish skin, a grasp so desperate it borders on pain, a silent plea for him to remain at your side, "It felt so real, Haarlep," you murmur against them, the weight of your sorrow imbuing your every word. "To lose you… I- I couldn't bear it… I was so scared."

How Haarlep longed to devour those precious tears, to gorge themself on your terror. But, there, in that moment, with your trembling form nestled against their chest, your words meant for them rather than Raphael, they feel the ache to embrace you, to soothe away the shadows of your nightmare.

"You should watch your words, dove," Haarlep purrs, stroking the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair. "What would Raphael do, should he hear these words?"

You stiffen at the mention of his name, your breath caught in your throat, but the tears continue to spill.

"What would you have me do?" Haarlep hums. "Would you have me vanquish the devil that taints your dreams?" They punctuate the question with a nip to your shoulder, savoring the flavor of your skin, your body responding with a shudder.

"Just… stay with me," you breathe. "Please. Don’t ever go."

Haarlep sighs. How cruel this night proves itself to be, taunting them with a morsel of desire and then robbing them of its sweet sustenance. But they oblige, allowing you to wrap yourself around their frame, their limbs coiling around yours.

"Sleep," Haarlep whispers against the nape of your neck.

Their command seeps into the air. It beckons to your consciousness, dragging you back into the realm of sleep. Haarlep watches as your muscles relax, a contented sigh escaping your lips. A smirk graces their lips, yet the expression fails to reach their eyes, an emptiness lurking behind their crimson gaze…

An emptiness that is foreign, unwelcome. A feeling unbefitting of a creature born of darkness and lust. Haarlep's nature dictates they relish in the despair of others, and feed off their pleasure, not offer comfort, not feel the pang of something akin to... concern? But as you lie there, clinging to them, Haarlep cannot deny the shift within, the stirrings of a sentiment they dare not name aloud.

In the quietude of the boudoir, with only the flickering shadows as their audience, Haarlep contemplates the enigma you've become. To them, you are Raphael's, yet, in this moment, you are undeniably theirs. The incubus is caught in a web of their own making, one thread of true care woven into the fabric of deceit and seduction.

"Little dove," Haarlep murmurs, their face pressing into your shoulder. You nestle closer, a silent affirmation of the security you feel in Haarlep's arms as you drift off.

Haarlep remains still, allowing the quiet rhythm of your breath to wash over them, a calming counter to the chaos of their thoughts. Soon a new day will bring reality, and with it, Raphael's return. Haarlep knows that when the time comes to relinquish you back to their master, the incubus will do so with a heavy heart, a heart that should know no such weight.

For now, they allow themselves this indulgence, to watch over you as you sleep, to be your silent protector against the night's terrors. And when you awake to greet Raphael, Haarlep will retreat behind their mask of indifference, their role as your companion tucked away like a shadow at daybreak.

Yet, as Haarlep's eyes finally close, surrendering to the weary pull of their own slumber, they cannot escape the truth that has been whispered in the dark: they do not wish to let you go. And that realization is perhaps the most terrifying dream of all.

[cyberpxnk]

'You always look so divine when you cum for Mommy'

Oh, I loved that bit so much!

Can I please request Pt. 3 when they actually have sex?

I just love mommy!hwa so much

thank you mommy | park seonghwa (3/3)

part one part two

♡ pairing: mommy!seonghwa x f!sub reader ♡ chapters: 3 out of 3 ♡ word count: 1.3k ♡ rating: mature/18+ (minors dni) ♡ plot: pwp, smut

♡ synopsis: mommy seonghwa is ready to reward you for all your good doings tonight.

♡ warnings/tags: mommy!seonghwa, dom!seonghwa, sub!reader, pet names, praise, dirty talk, fingering (f! receiving), creampie, unprotected sex

♡ author's note: hello! happy new year! ₍ᐢ. ̫.ᐢ₎ long overdue request. here is the finale of the mommy hwa requests.

You're unsure how much time has passed since your last orgasm. Since then, you've been teetering between smalls bouts of slumber and restlessness. The room is bathed in moonlight as you're shifting about the tangle of bed sheets.

From beside you Seonghwa admires your bare form as he idly traces shapes along your navel toward the peaks of your breasts until they trail along your face delicately.

His gentle touches lull you back to sleep, the familiarity of your lover's nimble fingers brushing aside your bangs as you let out a soft exhale.

A low chuckle falls from his lips as he allows you another moment of reprise. He knows you will need it for later as his sexual appetite is yet to be sated.

When you awake next, your eyes shoot open and a surprised gasp is torn from your lips. Your mouth is dry from sleep and you struggle to moan out in surprise, the noise of an unpleasant croak forming instead.

The sound would have embarrassed you if not for the abrupt entry of his lengthy fingers delving past your velvety walls. His thumb is already circling around your clit as he works his digits within you, pumping fast and hurriedly. He has no room for playing around anymore.

"Wake up, doll. Mommy needs you," he croons into your ear as your hips arch off the bed.

"Mmm…" You groan groggily in response, your mind reeling as you're trying to keep up with the pace of his actions.

Though you're barely comprehending his demands, your body responds with an eagerness as you grow wet from his ministrations. With every dip of his fingers, your arousal coats them until they're slick with your juices.

"Mommy?" He shushes you quietly, pressing his mouth to yours as his fingers work faster, scissoring within you as you begin to squirm against his lithe frame.

His hand holds you in place, thumb falling from your clit as his palm replaces the appendage, the skin of his hand meeting your bundle of nerves over and over.

It's obvious you can't keep up as you whine pathetically into his kiss, panting through your drool laden lips while you rut against his hand.

You feel your own heartbeat echoing in your ears, blood thrumming through your veins as his fingers are delving inside you. The world seems to narrow down to just these sensations, two bodies passionate and intertwining.

As Seonghwa pulls away from the kiss, leaving you panting and clinging, he whispers in your ear, "You sound so pretty, doll. I love how needy you are for me. "

With each word, your body tightens, your pussy clenching around his hand in anticipation. The building pressure grows unbearable, and you can feel the climax pooling in your core.

"Mommy," you cry out, "I'm close!"

"Not yet, darling." He feels the change in your body, your muscles tightening and the wetness of your arousal seeping onto his palm. Just as you're about to peak, he removes his digits from you, a desperate and wanton whine ripping from your throat.

Your fingers dig into his skin as your thighs shake, your climax looming closely, the pleasure rising and falling to the rhythm of your heavy breathing.

"It's Mommy's turn," he murmurs lovingly to you, tucking a stray hair behind the shell of your ear.

Your eyes flutter at his words, body tensing with anticipation as realization floods your senses. The tip of his head is pressed against your core, shaft thick against the wetness of your folds. He brushes himself against you, rutting along your clit as he elicits a gasp from you.

His actions urge you, causing your hips to buck with need as you grind against his hard cock. Teasingly the hot skin of his length continues to rub along your pussy, smearing the entirety of his erection with your juices.

"My good girl is so eager for Mommy's cock." Seonghwa's palm rests against your cheek, thumb stroking your lower lip as your mouth falls open in a soft moan.

You plead once more, his name falling from your lips as he presses cock against your slit.

"Mmm." He hums in appreciation at your lewd noises. "Shall I reward you for being so good"

"Y-Yes!" You squirm.

"Yes, what?" His tip delve past your walls, just barely spreading you around him.

"Yes, mommy!"

"So lovely and obedient." He coos as his cock sinks into you, filling your cunt with one fluid motion.

Seonghwa's eyes lock with yours, your eyes barely staying open as he slides deeper into your tight warmth. Your pussy clenches around him, clearly wanting more of his cock, but he holds himself back, teasing both of you with his sweet torment.

As he thrusts languidly within you, you cry out loudly and your back arches off the mattress, trying to meet his thrust with your own movements. He seems both pleased and unapproving of your reaction, his hands gripping both sides of your hips to pin you down as he begins to drill into you.

"My needy darling."

With his cock is buried inside you, he reaches down to tease your clit some more, his fingers gliding over the sensitive nub, driving you closer to the edge each time.

Every flick of his thumb tracing your little button has you keening, your hips bucking against him, seeking the sensation of his hard length. You can't help but moan, your voice hoarse and pleading for more.

"You're so wet, doll," he says, his voice low and full of teasing. "I don't think you can handle it all."

But you know differently. You need him. Your body craves the fullness of his cock as it stretches you.

"No, no… I can handle it! I need your cock, Mommy!"

"Are you sure?" He chuckled lowly, sweeping his hand over your side as your writhe.

You nod your head eagerly, hair bouncing in your face as you plead to him pathetically. He smiles and his hand settles on your side, squeezing reassuringly before he begins to fuck into you.

His pace is swift, deliberate and precise. Each thrust of his hips has you crying out, pounding against your gspot and driving you closer and closer to your orgasm. Long and velvety fingers find your abused clit, pinching and flicking until you're a moaning mess beneath him. His ministrations has your orgasm approaching too quickly, the sensation wracking your body immediately.

"Mommy!" You shout in ecstasy, cunt tightening and spasming around his cock as he fucks you through your orgasm.

"That's it, my divine. Come for me." He says between pants, his own peak looming closely as your pussy throbs around his cock.

Seonghwa's eyes roll back with pleasure as he watches your body convulse beneath him, feeling the contractions that ripple through your walls. He thrusts harder and faster, driving himself deeper into you, desperate to reach his own gratification. His balls tighten and his cock swells, ready to spill himself into your womb.

"My darling. Cum for Mommy, let it all go." He grunts, his voice barely audible over the sound of your skin slapping against each other.

Your orgasm peaks, and you gasp for breath as he continues his relentless assault. You reach up, clutching his shoulders, your fingers digging into his skin as you whimper into his ear.

"I want to feel you come, Mommy," you breath out, your voice punctuated by gasps. You beg him over and over, chanting his name as your core trembles from the shocks of your orgasm.

He doesn't respond, only grunting in response as he gives several more thrust before his hot seed is flooding within your walls, filling you with his release.

Then he holds you still, the two of you moaning against each other as his arms encircle your body. You're slouched against him, breathing heavily as your nuzzle your face into the crook of his neck. The sensation of his cock pumping heavy loads of his essence inside you subsides, leaving you feeling full of him.

It seems like an eternity before he slides of you, his cum slowly seeping out from between your legs as he withdraws just slightly to give you a moment. Seonghwa then cups both your cheeks, looking into your eyes as he presses a soft peck to your forehead.

"What do you say, darling?"

"Thank you, mommy."

[azsazz]

Break Up in a Small Town

Modern!Cassian x Archeron Sister!Reader

Summary: Based off of the song Break Up in a Small Town by Sam Hunt: You and Cassian have broken up and everything in town reminds him of you. It's inevitable that he sees you around, and it's hard for him to be okay when he sees you with your new man.

Warnings: Mentions of violence, drinking.

Word Count: 4,489

Notes: Small town Cassian giving me life rn.

_________________________________________

Cassian knew he would see you around.

It’s hard not to see someone he knows every time he leaves his house—the town has less than a thousand people for fucks sake. There isn’t a day that goes by where someone doesn’t stop to talk to him while he’s putting gas in his beat-down Ford Bronco or chatting him up while he tries to pay for his food in the drive through. 

And normally, he welcomes it. He loves to shoot the shit with people he’s known since he was young. He’d run into Tarquin the other day at Walmart while he was picking up a rack of beer for tonight's party. He hadn’t seen the team captain of the high school football team since he’d heard Tarquin received a full scholarship to Ole Miss. He was the only one on their team to do so, though Cassian also had recruiters watching him at games. Thanks to a nasty red-flag tackle by Jurian which left his ACL torn during the championship game, they’d pulled their offers back quicker than a greased pig. Hybern High went all for nothing that year.

He still looked sheepish when Azriel’s mother had checked him out at the grocery store, even though he’s been of age for a few years now. Cassian’s cheeks flushed under her knowing look: she’d caught them more times than he could count when they were teenagers trying to find a way to sneak booze without her knowing.

The party is in full swing. Drinks are flowing and Kallias has taken over the speakers to play his mixtape. The bass is so heavy Cassian can hardly hear the words, but Vivianne’s vocals are grating, pitched too high and not on key with the rest of the notes. He shares a look with Azriel, who cringes, but clinks his beer against Cassian’s before throwing the whole can back.

Cassian follows suit, downing the cheap beer like it’s his job. It’s not his occupation, no, that would be working on cars down at Bryaxis’ Axles, but it’s pretty much his secondary one. He trails Azriel into the kitchen, wading through people gyrating on the makeshift dance floor. They round the counter laden with alcohol—tequila, empty fruity vodka shots that Mor has forced him to take with her, and some concoction of juices and multiple alcohols that nearly burned off his nose hairs when he smelt it—and make way for the fridge where he’d stuffed his beer. It better still be in there or there will be hell to pay.

“When’s Rhys coming down again?” Cassian asks, taking the beer from Azriel as he rises. He tries not to let his fingers brush his quiet friends. They’re marred and Azriel doesn't like when attention of any kind is brought to them, even though Cassian and Rhysand had never held it against him.

A house fire was the rumor around town. But Azriel had only set it straight with him and Rhys at a sleepover one night, when it was going on four in the morning and they were sleep deprived and drunk off their first beers. Maybe Azriel had thought they wouldn’t remember the next day, but there was no way Cassian could forget that his step brothers had taken the lighter fluid form the garage and set his hands ablaze because of their sadistic tendencies.

Azriel’s mother had taken him and moved as far as she could with the money she was saving up, but they’d only made it a few towns over, and Cassian is thankful. Azriel’s father had never shown his face in the years he’s lived here.

“No idea,” Azriel responds, stepping aside to let Thesean into the fridge. The fucker dips his hand right into Cassian’s box of beer, pulling one out before diving in for a second. Cassian grits his teeth but when the other man straightens he notices how glazed over his eyes are, and Cassian knows his threats won’t land. “You know he’s got that internship up in New York.”

Right, while Cassian could only afford to go to their local college, Rhysand’s parents sent him to the most expensive one they could buy him into. And Azriel’s had a job since he was a teenager, when hacking into cameras around town for fun turned into something that made serious money. He bought his mother a house and everything, even offered a room to Cassian, but Cassian wants to make his own way, even if he is living in a run down apartment across town. It’s his, and he worked hard for it.

“Shit, you’re right,” Cassian sighs. It turns into a full on glare when the backdoor shoves open and Balthazar stumbles through, arm wrapped around Emerie for support. The man’s eyes light up at the sight of him and Azriel, while Emerie parts with a sour look in his direction, slinking off into the living room.

“What’s up?” Balthazar slurs, leaning heavily against the counter. He looks like he might slide right off of it, but neither he nor Azriel do anything about it.

“Hey, Balth,” Az greets, popping the top of his beer so he has something to do. They’ll be trapped with the talkative man if they don’t think of an excuse to leave soon. 

Balthazar’s eyes light up at the sound of the can cracking open, but neither of the men before him offer to get him one. No matter for him, he pulls a joint from the pocket of his jeans and a bat shaped lighter from the other, flicking it to life and setting the tip ablaze.

“You guys hear Feyre might be pregnant?” He says through a deep inhale of smoke. Cassian shares a look with Azriel, who never seems affected by any of the small town gossip. He never seems affected by anything, really.

His heart skips at the thought of Feyre. Not because of her and whoever the father of this maybe child might be, but because he’s reminded of you, her sister, the girl he’d lost. Gods, did Cassian fuck up royally when it came to you. 

He takes the bait. Anything to get his mind off of you. “No fucking way.”

Balthazar smiles smug, holding the joint out their way. Cassian declines with a wave of his beer, but Azriel takes a hit, obviously uncomfortable with how crowded and rowdy the party has become.

“Yup. Apparently it was a one night stand with ‘the most beautiful man she’s ever seen,’” he bats his eyes like a simpering girl, voice pitched high in his best impression of the youngest Archeron sister.

Azriel answers through a puff of thick smoke, his voice already scratchy with it. “But isn’t she with—”

“Tam? Yeah, man, I thought so too.” 

Cassian sighs, looking at his beercan. It’s full, so there’s no excuse for him to turn away and grab another. He’s wracking his mind for anything he can use as an excuse to escape the conversation, his night gone sour now that his mind is on you. It likely will be for the rest of the night too, and he’d rather sit on his futon and wallow by himself than to stay at this party.

“Speaking of Archerons,” Balthazar says, taking the joint back from Azriel. “How are you and—”

Fuck it, Cassian thinks, because Balthazar is totally drunk enough not to notice his full beer. “I think I need another drink,” he states, and Azriel glares as he abandons him with Balthazar. That man can gossip for hours, and luckily, silent old Azriel is the perfect listener.

“Isn’t the fridge right behind you?” he hears Balthazar ask Azriel as he retreats, but he doesn’t care. He shoves his beer onto the counter as he makes his way towards the front of the house where his Bronco’s parked.

He hasn’t had that much to drink yet, not even a slight buzz has kicked in, or it’s been dulled from Balthazar's painful topic of gossip. Cassian slips through the crowd as easily as a six foot five man can, girls trying to lure him onto the dance floor and guys clapping him on the back, rallying him for the next game of beer pong. 

Cassain politely declines, reaching for the knob just as it pushes open and his heart stops. 

It’s you. 

His breath is forced from his chest by your beauty. You look amazing as always, hair done up to perfection and eyes alight with the shots you’d taken for confidence, a part of you knowing that you might see him here tonight. You’re laughing with Elain and Feyre who cling to your sides, and Nesta brings the Archeron clan to a close. Your steps falter and grin drops when you meet Cassian’s eyes.

Your mouth parts as if to say something, but Nesta’s interrupting and shoving you inside with a grumble and a curse spat Cassian’s way. His heart shatters again as he watches you walk deeper into the living room without a glance back at him.

He clenches his jaw and steps out into the cool night.

⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅

You haunt him.

It’s a week later and Cassian hasn’t stopped thinking about you. How…good you looked, glowing and laughing whole-heartedly with your sisters when he’s hardly been able to even get out of bed. You’re still burrowed too deep in his heart. Your eyes, your nose, your lips, your hands, your—

He knows you haven't left town, but it feels like you have, with the way you’re avoiding each other. And you seem to be a professional at it, since it's been almost two months since the night you left him. He was a fool to let you go, not fight for you the way you surely wanted because he had accepted failure all too easily. You had made more than one good point. Cassian can’t be what you need.

Cassian hadn’t seen you at the football game tonight. The Velaris Stars had made it to the championship game of the season and everyone in town had come out for it, as the only exciting event for all to enjoy.

He’d gone with Azriel, of course, and even Rhysand had responded to his video of the winning touchdown. The popcorn had been fresh and the air was jovial, the night ending on a high note. The team is going to state.

Fiddling with the stations on his radio at the red light, he doesn’t realize that you’ve pulled up next to him until your giggles filter through the cracked window of your car and his heart stops. He thinks he hears you sometimes, telling him to knock it off when he’s had one too many beers or makes an ill-timed joke. The height differences in your small car compared to his tall one make it difficult to look, but he sits straighter and cranes his neck to see out the passenger window, and yep. It’s definitely you.

In your white Nissan he knows better than his own car. That thing is always breaking down. His heart pinches in his chest when he’s reminded of the time you’d taken it out into the fields to go stargazing. It wouldn’t start and your phones had died. Instead of walking ten miles back to town, you’d asked him to stay up with you all night under the stars, laughing and kissing like it was your last night on Earth.

Cassian wonders who's working on your car now that you’re no longer together.

He doesn’t know why you’re laughing, but he revels in the sound of it even though he feels like shit because he’s not the one making those noises coming from your mouth. Cassian wears a soft smile, thinking about all of the good times you’ve shared, until he notices the hand on your thigh.

The smile falls right off of his face.

His knuckles turn white from how hard he grips the steering wheel. The bright red of the streetlight pours into your car but he can’t see the passengers face, all he knows is that’s a man's hand holding your leg and soothing over it with his thumb. His teeth grind. 

You refuse to look his way. Surely, you must know that you’ve pulled up beside him at this Godforsaken light that for some reason will not turn the fuck green. No, they want him to sit here and see what he’s lost, how happy you are with someone new.

And when the light finally changes he can’t seem to move. He sees your fleeting smile as you take off and he’s left reading that silly bumper sticker Nesta had slapped on the back bumper when she was the one who owned the car, the ‘honk if you like reading smut’ in thick, bold letters laughing at him in the face.

⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅

The worst part about this breakup is, everywhere he goes reminds him of you.

You used to hang out with the same group of people but since the breakup happened Cassian didn’t want any of them to be stuck in the betweens of your fucked up relationship. He couldn’t even suggest trying to be friends because the thought of that alone made him want to throw up. He could never be friends with you, he doesn’t want to, because knowing you in the way that he did and not being able to touch you and hold you and fuck you like he did was much too painful. He kept Azriel in the breakup and let you have everyone else.

When he goes to the McDonald’s for lunch he sees the booth you’d spent almost two hours in, wrappers from ice cream cone strewn about the table because you asked shyly if he would judge you if you went back for a second cone and he grinned mischievously and asked if you wanted to bet on who could down more ice cream. He won, of course, but it had been a valiant effort from you nonetheless.

When he went to the library to return the book he hadn’t even cracked the spine of. He thought reading would help take his mind off of the breakup but Cassian didn’t have the energy. Gwyn was at the front desk, glaring up at him as he slid the book across the counter for her to return. The workspace was filled with art supplies, a post-it note with Feyre and your names scrawled on it and he remembered that the both of you host a arts and crafts day for the children in town once a month. Gwyn had caught his eye and shooed him away. Nesta would have been proud of the shy girl.

When he drives down the country curves, avoiding the crossroads to your house completely. All of the places he’d haphazardly pulled over when you were searching for a place to have sex. But there’s no privacy in these small towns so the back of his Bronco would have to do. It was spacious, but never the place he really wanted to take you in. He wanted to give you a proper bed and worship you like you deserved. If you’d only given him a few more years he would have his own place, though you merit a plush, large bed instead of his paper thin futon.

Cassian stops into Alice’s cafe. It’s fairly early in the morning, but the place is still packed because it’s one of the only restaurants in town. Somethings off about him today, though, and maybe it’s because his mind hasn’t stopped working overtime, trying to figure out who was in that car with you.

Why hadn’t he been driving? Did you want to drive or was he so pretentious that he wouldn’t take you around town? Does he even have a car? He can’t stop overanalyzing the situation and he’s sleep deprived. All he wants is a fucking coffee and the town doesn’t even have a Starbucks yet, so he has to park his car in the overflow lot and go inside. He doesn’t want to be bothered, but the cafe is crawling with townies, so it’s inevitable he’ll see someone he knows.

He doesn’t expect it to be you. 

It’s not like you’re sitting in any of the booths that line his path to the ordering counter. His eyes seem to gravitate towards you no matter where you are, and your playful flirting is unmistakable. He knows, he’s been happily on the other side of that banter before.

Cassian’s gaze locks on you first. You look perfect, unfazed by anything happening in the loud cafe around you. Dishes clang together as the waitress gathers them. It’s Cerridwen, and her twin Naula is manning the espresso machine, Cassian notices when the waitress nods her direction, letting you know that your latte will only be a few more minutes.

“Take your time,” you reassure, eyes sparkling as they move back across the table. Cassian wishes that Cerridwen would move out of the way so he can see who you’re smiling at. “I’m in no rush.”

And then she steps away and his world comes screeching to a halt.

He knows who was in that car with you because he’s sitting across from you right now, a fox-like smile on his face.

Eris Vanserra.

The most pretentious of the Vanserras, if Cassian does say so himself. They’ve never gotten along, mostly due to the fact that Eris is a raging, rich, dick and he’s from the boonies. The Vanserra’s are some of the wealthiest folk in town, their father, Beron, a successful farmer. They own half of the land in this town and then some.

He knows that Eris can take care of you, money wise, but does the asshole please you in bed? He looks like he’s all take and not give. He knows that Eris has a working car, a nice one too, so he doesn’t understand why you were driving him around that night, but it doesn’t seem to matter at the moment when all of the thoughts racing through his head incinerate with his anger.

Cassian’s fingers curl into fists.

Of course it’s Eris. Of. Fucking. Course. It. Is. It couldn’t have been anyone else? Not Bron or Hart or even Lucien? The nicest of the Vanserras? Cassian knows he’s been in a steady relationship with Elain since they were in middle school, but still. Isn’t it weird to be dating the brother of your sister's boyfriend? Cassian sure as fuck thinks so.

This is utterly ridiculous and he’s raging. He needs to get out of here before he picks up your latte and brings it over to you, shoving Eris further into the booth so he can slam his hands down on that table and yell, “Why him?”

Cassian abandons the idea of getting coffee and spins on his heel, ignoring some of the people who try to greet him, leaving the cafe as quickly as he can. 

⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅

“You knew?” he asks into the phone. The bite of pizza in his mouth turns to sludge and he feels betrayed, but he’ll let Azriel explain because surely his best friend hasn’t kept the fact that you’re seeing one of the Vanserra’s a secret from him. 

Azriel shrugs, and something shuffles across the line. “I uh, I’ve been talking to Gwyn.”

Ah. So he’s finally trying to make a move on the fiery redhead from the library. He’s proud of Azriel on the inside, but it doesn’t reflect in his tone because he’s hurt by the subdued man’s actions.

“And you didn’t think to tell me?”

“You never want to talk about her!” Cassian’s dumbstruck. He’s never heard Azriel so loud, irked by his sad nature. His mouth parts even though he doesn’t know how to respond but that’s more than okay because Azriel’s not finished yet. “It’s been months, Cass. You can’t expect her to wallow in sadness for the rest of her life.” And, ouch. That one felt like a direct shot at him. “She was bound to move on at some point and Eris treats her well enough, if that’s what you’re wondering.” It wasn’t, and that just stings more. 

Cassian’s reply is quiet, throat tight. “I’ve got to go.”

Azriel sighs down the line, sensing he’s fucked up. “Cass—”

“No, it’s cool, Az. I’ve just got shit to do. I’ll talk to you later.” He hangs up on Azriel’s protest, making a face at the half eaten slice of pizza in his hand. Cassian tosses it back into the box and sits further back in his chair, running his fingers through his almost too-long hair.

Fuck. He can’t sit around and think about you and Eris together or he’ll actually go nuts. With a grunt he stands, swiping his keys from the bowl by the door. He has to work out his frustrations, and there’s only one thing that can help him with that.

He’ll go to work.

⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱

“Cass?” Helion calls, “What are you doing here?” 

“Just need to work off some frustration,” Cassian says, cringing at the hard edge to his voice. He flings his keys on the top of the tool box before slipping into his grease-stained shirt. He shoves his finger into the button to raise his car on the lift, snagging his safety-goggles from the shelf and sliding them on. 

Helion appears, sliding back into the open doorway of his office, a teasing grin on his face. “You know, when I was your age, working off frustration meant—”

“Now’s really not the best time, Helion,” Cassian responds, taking his quarter inch wrench and walking beneath his car, examining the underside. He knows exactly what needs to be done, all of the parts that he can’t afford on his meager wages means that he has to purchase them slowly, one at a time, and it’s likely that the new parts will be worn in and rusted by the time he even comes close to finishing this project.

Fucking small towns.

“Girl troubles?”

Cassian shoots him a sour look that only makes the older man laugh. “Isn’t it always?”

“When I was young,” Helion starts again and Cassian rolls his eyes. The owner of the mechanics shop always starts his stories with variations of ‘When I was your age’ or ‘when I was young.’ It’s annoyingly endearing at the best of times, but right now, it’s down right infuriating, especially since Cassian wants to be alone. “I had a girl too. She was everything to me, and I had plans to marry her.” The older man's tone goes soft, longing, and Cassian pauses his work to look over. “A pretty thing, long, amber hair and all soft smiles…”

“What happened?” Cassian asks, but is weary, already sensing how this story might end.

Helion shrugs, as if after all of this time it doesn’t bother him. Clearly, it's not the case and Cassain wonders if this is his destiny, to end up like Helion, alone and longing for the woman he’s lost. His heart aches.

“She got away,” his boss answers sadly, eyes dull. “I couldn’t be who she wanted me to be, so she left me. Found herself someone better off than me.” Cassian wonders who it could be. Helion was born in this town and never left, never wanted to, but he’s not sure if it’s because the woman he is still so clearly in love with is here and he’s waiting for his chance to be with her, or if it’s because the man has nowhere else to go. 

“Sounds similar to what I’m going through right now,” Cassian sighs, shoving his goggles up on his head. He’s clearly not going to get any work done, so he slumps into the extra chair by Helion's desk, a frown on his face. “Helion? Is there something you would do differently?”

The older man sighs, assessing him deeply. It makes Cassian shift uncomfortably in his seat. 

And when he speaks, it’s exactly what Cassian needs to hear. “I would’ve gotten the hell out of dodge, had I been smart.”

⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱

The drink he had at Rita’s hadn’t been a good idea. His stomach is in knots, and the alcohol hadn’t helped loosen them in the slightest.

Is he really going to do this? 

He had the entire night to think about his plans, his future. Had Helion been honest when he said that he should’ve left town to avoid the heartbreak that plagued him? Could skipping out actually help mend his aching heart?

It might be worth a shot.

Cassian’s backpack is light, stuffed with only the necessities. He’d called Rhys on his drive back to his apartment, and he’d offered him the second bedroom at his apartment for the summer if the Bronco could make it all the way up to New York. 

It would be a change, a big one that makes his heart pound in his chest to even consider, but if fleeing town like a coward will help him heal from the breakup, it might be worth the shot. 

He decides that he has enough money to make it to New York, and he’ll call Azriel when he gets there, or when he’s on the road and bored of seeing only the highway. He knows Az will be hurt, upset that he didn’t tell him in person, but he’s still mad at the quiet man for keeping your relationship with Eris a secret.

Azriel was being a good friend to you, that Cassian knows, but it still hurts. It hurts to think about Azriel hanging out with you and your sisters and their boyfriends, how he might even actually get along with Eris somehow. The thought of being friends with Eris Vanserra has always been foreign to Cassain.

He takes a last look around his apartment. Azriel will send down the rest of his stuff later, he knows it. His lease ends soon anyway, so if he’s going to leave town, now is the perfect time.

There isn’t anything in this apartment he’ll miss. He’d thrown away the things he kept from your relationship in a fit of rage when he found out about you and Eris. He’d regretted it immediately after.

Cassian loses a breath. A fresh start in a completely different state. This is what he needs.

He shuts off the lights and turns the knob one last time before stepping into the new chapter of his life. New York, here I come.

The streetlight spills through the open crack, illuminating the figure on the other side, hand poised to knock. 

Cassian stills, hand so tight on the knob he thinks it might warp, the sight of you in his doorway a shocking surprise.

You’re twisting your fingers together nervously, shifting on your feet like you’re not sure what you’re doing here at all.

“Hey, Cass…”

[hookaroo]

Laden of the Torn (1 of 24?)

AO3 link Summary: After eight months spent separated from his daughter, trying every potential cure imaginable, Killian's heart is still poisoned and burdened with his every failure. An alleged cure leads him into an ambush and a grueling detour he did not plan on taking. Unlikely new allies offer a small glimmer of hope, but will it be worth all of the trouble in the end?

Chapter 1 notes: I've been working on this on and off (mostly off) for the past four years. Apparently pandemics turn me off of fiction for whatever reason? But I made a few breakthroughs earlier this year and finally believe I'll be able to finish this one! It's a little strange, but it is the wish realm after all ;) The first couple of scenes and cure idea are based on a dream I had, and later scenes were inspired by a segment of the TV show "What on Earth," where they featured a particular location and basically described it as a whumper's paradise XD I'll reveal the location in a note later on, once it becomes relevant. No sexual whump in this story, but plenty of emotional and physical pain for Killian, and healing methods appropriate to the time period, for the most part haha. Enjoy!

*****

No reasonable person would classify this as bread anymore, or anything even resembling it. Killian Jones would have brushed the whole quest off as a lost cause, except for the fact that the ceremonial cloth was exactly as described: woven, dyed, embroidered with specific patterns and symbols, and folded neatly. Or had been, until he had dug it up and peeled it open. In the early morning light, the contents of the cloth resting on his open palm looked like nothing more than a handful of powdery, gray dirt, or perhaps a rare variety of fine-grained sand he had once encountered on his travels. Grateful that very little breeze disturbed the dawn air, Killian gave the powder a dubious look as he carefully nudged it with the tip of his hook. This?! 

He felt rather foolish for having expected anything else, but in his defense, the witch doctor had called it ‘bread.’ Multiple times. 'Bread,' not 'decomposed spores of mold mixed with decades-old dust and grit.' How in blazes could this swill contain any magical properties whatsoever?

Perhaps he should expend the effort to search for another of this particular architect's buildings, one that was slightly newer. Allegedly, the designer in question performed the same ritual upon completion of every dwelling with which he had been involved. A blessing prayed over traditional flatbread, later buried against the south-facing foundation, would, according to this man's system of beliefs, bestow health and happiness on its occupants. And if consumed, its remnants could supposedly cure any ailment... including a poisoned heart.

That was all assuming that the local witch doctor could be trusted. And Killian had felt doubt about that even before digging up the handful of dusty crumbs he now sat examining. But he would try anything, no matter how unlikely, and eating dirt was hardly the worst thing he'd done in pursuit of a cure.

Hardtack in any variety was a challenge to swallow on its own; this powder would likely be doubly so. Good thing he'd come prepared... or had he? Killian laid the cloth on the ground by his knee, moving with extra caution, as if it held a gram of the world's most valuable spice instead of worm dung. Then he dug his flask from its pocket and gave it a shake. The damn thing tended to run on the empty side these days, for some reason. But no, from the sound and heft of it, it contained plenty of cheap liquor to do the deed.

As he popped the cork with an easy, practiced motion, Killian thought briefly of the mirror tucked away in an inside pocket. It would be significantly more fun if Alice could watch and laugh at the disgusted faces he would surely be making in the near future. And of course, he would put on a show for her, exaggerating his expressions in hopes of drawing out that sparkling grin which was becoming more and more endangered a sight within the confines of the beechwood-framed oval of reflective glass. But at this hour of the day, she would be tucked away, safe and sound in the bed he’d planned on enlarging soon, under blankets that probably needed patching, dressed in a nightgown too short for her blossoming figure…

He hoped she was there, at any rate. Listening to her body's needs and the common sense he'd attempted to instill in her, not reading half the night by the fire, which seemed to be her preference in situations lacking supervision. Not pacing, unable to quell her nightmares on her own, dealing with the same doubts keeping him awake most nights, forced to face a horrific reality that no one deserved, much less an innocent of her young age.

No. Alice was happily asleep right now, enjoying wonderful dream-adventures with the characters in her books that she loved so much, and it would be irresponsible of him to wake her for such a frivolous thing, no matter how desperately he longed to see her with every pulse of blood through his veins. Besides, though the dwelling beside him appeared unoccupied, he was technically trespassing. Probably stealing as well, so silence was the preferred soundtrack to this far-fetched hope.

Killian gathered a pinch of powdery grit and shoved it into his mouth, licking his fingers clean as bitter dust stuck to the roof of his mouth. A flavor faintly reminiscent of rancid goat's milk flooded his sinuses, and if there was magic there, he couldn't feel it.

As a young sailor, Killian had not always been fortunate enough to have anything other than filthy water with which to attempt to wash down the taste of moldering rations. He reflected upon this as he took a swig from his flask, then drizzled a measure of alcohol out upon the waiting breadcrumbs. A nasty paste would be easier to manage than fingerfuls of powder, and he feared the risk of losing the reported curative benefits if he missed any of the residue.

As he continued to choke down the supposed cure, Killian allowed himself to imagine their reunion and a sampling of the scenes that would take place.

They had 1 birthday and 262 unbirthdays to celebrate. Hugs to catch up on--those were harder to calculate, but must be well over 3000 by now. In between, he would share the properly embellished tale of how he’d achieved a cure for his heart, and gladly listen to plentiful imaginary exploits Alice had concocted to pass the time. And neither of them would ever again complain about their life trapped in the tower, because now they both knew how much worse it could get.

As a swig of burning liquid chased another mouthful of grainy mold dust, the distant rumble of hoofbeats drifted in from the direction of the road. Killian hunched closer to the building’s foundation, checking to be sure that no light source glinted off his hook, attracting attention. The road lay on the opposite side of the building from where he crouched, so in all likelihood, the approaching riders would travel past before noticing any hint of his presence.

But then a shiver of foreboding climbed his spine: the horses were slowing. Killian hastily shoved the remainder of the paste into his mouth and crumpled the cloth into a pocket, gagging and rising to his feet just as heavy boots dropped to the ground at the dwelling's front entrance. In a desperate attempt to clear the clay now sticking to the roof of his mouth, he drained the flask of its remaining contents, all while sidling along the wall toward the back garden and cover.

“Fan out,” commanded a stern male voice from amidst the new arrivals, and more boots trod the unkempt property. Several pairs in his direction. Whoever these men were, whatever they sought, they would see a running man as a guilty party to be chased, captured by force, perhaps even fired upon should they have pistols in their possession. So Killian took a steadying breath, suppressed an urge to hack up the sandy liquor burning the back of his throat, and dropped to his knees on the hard ground. 

Gods, he had to stop doing things like that; he did not have the body of a 30-year-old anymore. Fortunately, unlike the now-aching joints in his legs and back, his mind had retained its ability to work quickly. Just as three armored soldiers rounded the corner, Killian dug hand and hook into the dirt, pulling great handfuls aside to support the cover story he’d just invented.

The soldiers spotted him immediately and advanced with swords drawn, one holding a lantern to counteract the misty gray of early morning. 

“Let's see those hands,” another called menacingly. Killian obeyed, sitting back on his haunches and rolling his head from side to side as if experiencing a stiff neck. He allowed them to see his empty hand and his hook as he flashed a disarming grin.

“Good morning, gentlemen. Bit of a nippy one, isn’t it? Suppose we're coming to the end of the fishing season once again.”

The soldiers continued forward through his rambling, none of them showing any sign of relaxing. As the hook became more visible in the lantern light, the men exchanged glances. Killian noticed but decided to ignore it and continue to play the hapless fool.

“Not one sign of a single bloody nightcrawler, either. Do you reckon it's too cold for them already?”

The trio had now formed a triangle around him, a cautious distance away with swords at the ready. The one holding the lantern turned his face in the direction from which they'd come and shouted,

“Commander! We have him.”

Killian let his puzzlement show; if he were not mistaken, it sounded as if they were looking specifically for him. But how could that be? No one knew where he was, except perhaps the witch doctor, but even she couldn't have known the exact dwelling he would select for the experiment.

Killian kept up the charade of innocence. “Is there something I can help you lads with?”

Lantern smirked as he watched his commander appear around the corner. "Just sit there and don't cause a fuss…. Captain Hook."

Killian snorted a polite laugh, hoping it disguised his worry. “Nice one. Not the first time I've heard it.” He kept a wary eye on the swaggering officer, adding, “Although would you believe it, not everyone is joking when they say it? Which is absurd, of course. Who in their right minds... I'd have to be, what, 300 years old or thereabouts?” He raised an incredulous eyebrow, grinning up at the men surrounding him as if expecting them to laugh along with him and agree that those people were idiots.

The commander stopped a few paces in front of the group, holding a second lantern, although it was becoming less necessary as sunrise approached. He did not bother to draw his sword.

“Surrender your weapons,” came the imperious command. Slowly, Killian reached down and withdrew the small, tarnished dagger that was his only method of self-defense these days, apart from his hook. He kept the non-threatening, slightly silly smile as he laid the weapon at the soldiers’ feet.

“Sorry to disappoint, mates, but I can assure you I'm not the man you're looking for. I lost my hand in a farming accident, not one crocodile scale to be seen.” He huffed a laugh and tried to look pitiable. 

The commander’s stony gaze remained unchanged. “Is the hook detachable?”

Killian unscrewed the steel from its locking mechanism but kept hold of it momentarily as he looked up at the officer.

“I do hope you’re planning to return it,” he grimaced. “It's quite useful for digging up earthworms.”

With an impatient eye roll, the commander snapped his fingers and pointed to where the dagger rested at his feet. Reluctantly, Killian tossed the hook to join the other weapon. The officer nodded at an underling, who bent to take possession of both items.

“You can drop the charade. It will get you nowhere. Regardless of your identity as the Captain Hook of legend or merely a successor to the title, you are wanted for questioning concerning an illegal duel that took place some months back.”

Killian felt a shudder of fear rattle his insides; he'd hoped the matter would have blown over by now. 

“Preposterous,” he scoffed. “Do I look like the sort of fellow who would take part in something so unsavory?”

“The other party has been apprehended and is more than willing to identify you in person.” The man sneered. Then he addressed the second lantern-bearer. “Get him to his feet and search him for concealed weapons.”

Killian was gripped by the armpits and hauled up, shoulders and back protesting the harsh treatment. He knew that further lies wouldn't help at this point; neither would attempts to plead his case. So he kept quiet as rough hands patted him down and searched his pockets. They found his flask--"Bit early for this, isn't it?" taunted one, to which he replied tightly, "What's the old saying? It isn't early if you've never stopped?"--his treasured black rook, and the mirror.

The soldier who had found the mirror, who couldn't have been much more than sixteen, held it up with a leer.

“What's this for? An old man like you can't have a great deal to be vain about.”

Killian didn't want to attach too much importance to the item, for that would increase the temptation to destroy it out of spite. So he shrugged and explained,

“Just an old heirloom. Sentimental value only.”

The boy stashed it with the rest of Killian's confiscated belongings, and though he wasn't particularly careful, the glass seemed to remain intact. Killian could feel his heart pounding and cursed the fact that his one remaining link with Alice had to be so fragile.

“That appears to be all, sir.”

“Very good, soldier.” Their commander stood impassive, adding, “Now, as we discussed…”

Behind Killian came a brief clanking of armor. But before he even had the chance to guess at its meaning, the noise was drowned out by a resounding crack that rattled his teeth in their sockets, an explosion of colorful starbursts behind his eyes, a single heartbeat of crushing pain, and then a dizzying drop into black silence.

[adrift-in-thyme]

I worked on the fic as promised and…it got out of hand. So instead of a snippet I’ll just give you guys the whole thing XD Thank you all for providing that extra nudge I needed to finish it!

Though there’s nothing too descriptive here, there are brief mentions of blood, injury, and captivity. So be careful and take care of yourselves <3

————————————————————-

There is another fae in their group.

Hyrule has sensed it since he joined this little band of heroes. Fairy magic is soft, gentle, easy to miss when it is not in concentrated amounts. But there is a strength to it, an unbreakable force that little else possesses.

While the dark arts are vicious, like a javelin through the heart, fairy magic is soothing and unshatterable. Dependable and comforting.

There are many different magical signatures amongst the men and boys who share his name. Some torn apart and melded back together into something stronger. Others as mighty as a gale force wind, or as swift and discerning as a rabbit, as decisive and resilient as a barricade. Still others as fierce as a soaring hawk, as vicious and protective as the wolves that prowl the forest, as crafty and quick as the mischievous foxes that sometimes play around Hyrule’s feet.

Hyrule keeps his eye on them all as they travel, discovering who they are, watching their tells, learning the ways their faces portray their emotions even when they attempt to cloak them. And he wonders who amongst them is a brother in more ways than shared spirit. Who among them flits on a pair of silken wings.

He wonders until the day Time breaks.

Their journey is a long, arduous one, treacherous and laden with pitfalls. It’s only natural that it would take its toll. Still, Time holds out impressively. Even while he studies him with the other heroes, Hyrule never sees that mask of his slip, never sees a chink in the armor he wears.

At least, not for the first three months of traveling together.

But then, one day, there is an accident. A simple slip up born of exhaustion. During a battle with a group of black-blooded beasts in Twilight’s Hyrule, Warriors doesn’t see a monster lunging for him. Not until it’s too late.

And when he crumples into a limp, bloodied heap, Time’s mask shatters.

He doesn’t manage to piece it back together for the rest of the day. Not when he carries Warriors back to camp. Not when he lays the captain down on his bed mat and helps Hyrule tend to him. Not even when Warriors comes to, groggy and sore but very much alive and very much himself.

The captain teases him about being over protective. Time’s answering smile is a hollow one that doesn’t reach his eyes.

The injury had been a severe one, Hyrule won’t deny that — perhaps, more so than any of them have endured thus far. But Time seems to take it the hardest of any of them. And Hyrule can’t help wondering if maybe, just maybe there is something more behind his behavior.

Could it be that Time has been feeling the overwhelming nature of this quest the same as the rest of them, caving beneath its weight but unwilling to show it?

So, during dinner that night when Time sets aside his untouched food and slips silently away, Hyrule trails after him.

He goes a short way into the surrounding forest, footsteps soft, ears pricked for any sound of disturbance. Then, he stops, casts a quick glance around him…and disappears.

Hyrule peeks out from the cover of a nearby bush, eyes wide as he stares at the place where the old man had stood. For a long moment, he remains motionless, thoughts whirring, trying to decipher what has just happened.

Hero of Hyrule or not, people don’t simply dissipate like the morning mist. Though, with Time’s seemingly endless collection of masks, he supposes something of the sort is possible. Still…

Hyrule frowns.

There is something else here, hovering in the damp night air. A familiar magic that now drifts lazily over to him in delicate wisps.

Hyrule straightens. His brows dip further.

He knows what Time’s magic looks like, smells like, feels like. It is difficult to ignore, after all, tangled and tortured as it is. Such power is meant to flow freely. But Time’s has been grasped in hands that are not his own, grasped and mangled, suffocated, stretched to its breaking point and further, morphed into something completely unlike what it must have been at the start.

It is nauseating to behold at times. Right now, however, right now Hyrule can’t bring himself to look away. Because threaded in between the heartbreak and pain are gentle strands of the faintest blue fae magic.

The traveler steps forward. His eyes travel over the trail Time’s power has left behind, leading all the way up into the highest branches of a nearby oak. If he squints, he can make out a tiny dot among the lush leaves, shimmering emerald.

His lips part in a silent “oh.” He dares to take another step forward, then another and another, wings issuing from his back as he goes, body shrinking until it too can soar up to the haven of foliage.

Time doesn’t startle when he lands quietly on the branch. He remains sitting where he is, legs hanging over the edge into the open air, wings wafting gracefully back and forth. Hyrule stares at them, almost taken aback by their beauty.

He should have expected it, he supposes. Every fairy’s pride is their wings, after all. But Time’s unforgiving plates of armor, his dull gray tunic and obsidian trousers, the glowing marks of crimson and navy blue adorning his face – they provide such a severe air. Strength, dedication to duty, and unyielding courage are what they convey.

His wings, however, they speak of softer things, fragile things held close and treasured.

They are long, sweeping along the height of Time’s body in flowing curves like those of a butterfly. Their translucent surface is colored a deep emerald and adorned with veins of pale pink. They remind Hyrule of the vibrancy of the forest after a long, hard storm; of the look of leaves when the emerging sun caresses their dewy surfaces.

He walks closer, almost enraptured by this sight. Perhaps, he should turn away from something so vulnerable. That is likely the polite thing to do. But he has traveled far beyond politeness now, mesmerized as he is by this discovery.

And when Time says, “Hello, Hyrule,” there is nothing in his tone to communicate that this is an invasion of his privacy. On the contrary, he sounds calm, unbothered. He pats the spot beside him and slowly, Hyrule settles down upon it. Their wings nearly touch.

“So, it’s you,” he says, awkward and awestruck.

A small smile quirks the old man’s lips. His gaze remains trained on the heroes gathered far, far below them. Their laughter and chatter float up to them in bubbles of murmured joy.

“Yes, it’s me,” he says, mildly, as though this meeting is no shock. As though he has been expecting it for a long while.

Silence settles for a moment as Hyrule scrambles for what else to say.

“How?” Is all he can come up with.

Time chuckles. Hyrule is certain the sound is lighter than usual.

“I’m not sure.” He cocks his head, bangs falling aside so Hyrule can see his markings. “I have theories, of course, but I have no way to prove any of them. And those who might have been able to explain are long gone.”

His voice is good-natured enough but the words carry a weight that Hyrule can feel in his soul. He ducks his head.

“I’m sorry.”

Time shrugs. “Their fates were not your doing. There is no need for you to ache for them. Or for me.” He turns now, a smile brightening his face once more. “What about you, Hyrule? What is the nature of your transformation? Were you born with it?”

“Oh, it’s just a spell,” Hyrule replies, quickly. “Though, I’ve wondered if I was born with fae blood in me. I don’t think it would’ve worked otherwise.”

Time hums, thoughtfully. He is quiet for a moment, once more staring down at their comrades.

“I wondered why I felt the presence of one of my brethren amongst the group. But it wasn’t my place to pry. Besides, I assumed it was only a matter of time before I discovered who it was. Secrets don’t stay concealed for long in a group such as ours.” He grins. “It seems you found me first, however.”

Hyrule laughs. “It sure seems that way.”

“That isn’t why you followed me though, is it?” The old man’s gaze is sharp and discerning as he pins Hyrule with it. The traveler fights not to sink into himself beneath it.

“No.” His voice is a bit smaller than he wants it to be, embarrassment sneaking into it against his will. “It isn’t.”

Time nods and looks away again. Stance relaxed, expression guarded, he waits. Hyrule swallows, gathers his courage, and continues.

“I saw how upset you were about Wars.”

Time flinches almost imperceptibly. The walls that had gone relatively low rise again so far Hyrule is taken aback by it. Yet, he plows on anyway.

If anything, Time’s reaction validates his decision further.

“And…I saw how you tried to hide it, too. And I wanted to make sure you were okay. Because you don’t, old man, you don’t have to hide what you feel.” His gaze travels to those magnificent wings again, grander than his own, yet so similar. “Or what you are.”

“It’s dangerous,” Time murmurs. “You know that, traveler.”

Perhaps, he is talking solely about feelings and the open expression of them. But Hyrule sees a bottle anyway, brimming with desperate magic, translucent sides smeared with blood and tears, it’s top shut so tightly the air has grown thin.

“Not with us,” he says, firm despite the dizzying rush of fear the memories bring. “Not with me.”

He scoots closer. His shoulder bumps against Time’s, their wings brush. Time’s next exhale catches at the end.

To anyone else such proximity would be touching enough, a display of closeness between two brothers in arms and spirit. But Hyrule knows that to fae it means even more than that.

Wings are not only the pride of the fairy people. They are also their greatest power — and their very life. To allow someone else to touch your wings so freely is a show of trust as momentous as when Time had shown them his ocarina. Not the one embued with sacred magic and given to him by Lullaby. No, the one that is even more precious to him that even that one. The one Sariah had given him so very, very, (very, very, Hyrule adds for good measure) long ago.

The stiffness that had seeped into Time’s posture eases slightly. Hyrule feels a smile stretch across his face.

The two of them grow silent, allowing the symphony of night creatures to fill the space between them. Hyrule swings his legs, back and forth, back and forth, listening to the crickets and owls singing in time with the laughter of his brothers. Time still looks down upon them.

Watching over them, Hyrule realizes with a sudden burst of warmth.

Their leader can seem cold sometimes, distant. Little had he known the depths of his love for the heroes with whom he shared a spirit of courage.

There is much, he thinks in wonder, that he doesn’t know about the old man.

Beside him, Time sighs and exhaustion permeates it. “You all aren’t going to give up on me, are you?”

Hyrule sends him a grin. “Nope. We’re not gonna stop until we know all your secrets. All of them. And we’ll know because you’re comfortable enough with us enough to share them, because we’ve earned your trust enough to be gifted them.”

Emotion burns in Time’s eye when he turns to the traveler. His face is more vulnerable than Hyrule has ever seen it before — even when Warriors fell.

“My trust isn’t easy to earn.”

“And Hyrule isn’t easy to save.”

Time holds his gaze for a long moment. Then, he smiles. It is small, almost shy, but Hyrule knows it is a gift. The first of many, if he’s lucky.

“Well, then, I suppose you’re amply prepared for such a challenge.”

Hyrule leans in closer, pride welling within him when Time returns the gesture, and his grin grows.

Yeah. He thinks, watching with wide eyes as fairy dust floats around them. I am.

We all are.

[rafesapologist]

the set up — rafe cameron; part eleven

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: you've been one of the pogues since childhood, and your loyalty has always lied within your friend group, who is practically your family. when a threat by the name of rafe cameron begins to threaten the pogue's plans, they assign you to gain the trust of the dubious kook and keep an eye on what he's up to. however, now it's been six months since your friends set you up to spy on the kook prince himself, but what you didn't anticipate was to fall head over heels for the boy. your relationship had soon become inviolable shortly after your guys' first exchanges, much to your friends' dismay, and you two became practically inseperable. that was, until rafe discovers the truth.

warnings: angst

As your friends turned their gazes toward you, their expressions a mix of curiosity and concern, the weight of recent events clung to you like a heavy cloak. Their expectant smiles dimmed, replaced by furrowed brows and questioning eyes, as they sensed the solemnity in your demeanor.

In a flat, defeated tone, you broke the heavy silence. "I did it," the words escaped your lips, laden with the weight of compliance and defeat, echoing in the room. The defeated admission lingered, casting a shadow over the otherwise buoyant atmosphere among your friends.

Their expressions shifted, registering a mix of surprise and concern at your defeated confession. Unspoken questions hung in the air, their curiosity piqued yet tempered by an unspoken understanding that delving deeper might unravel complexities beyond the surface. The heaviness of the moment remained, leaving a silent tension that begged for explanation yet seemed to weigh down any further inquiry.

As JJ observed the room, concern etched across his features, his gaze fixed upon you, his best friend. The usual camaraderie that defined your bond had been strained by a recent disagreement, yet beneath the rift, his concern for you remained steadfast.

He noted the sadness etched into your expression, a furrow in his brow signaling his genuine worry. Despite the tension between you both, his concern eclipsed any personal grievances, his heart aching at the sight of your evident distress.

A flicker of conflict danced in his eyes, torn between wanting to bridge the gap between you and respecting the boundaries you'd set in your disagreement. His unspoken longing to offer comfort battled against the silence that hung heavily in the room, leaving an unspoken yearning that mirrored the complexities of your relationship.

You, attempting to veer away from the evident heaviness, interjected with forced casualness. "So, how did things go with you guys? Were you successful?" Your voice strained to mask the underlying sadness, attempting to divert the conversation away from the palpable tension in the room.

Your friends, taken aback by the sudden shift, exchanged puzzled glances, their expressions reflecting confusion and uncertainty. Caught off guard, they found themselves momentarily at a loss, their reactions muted as they grappled with the abrupt transition from somberness to what seemed like normalcy.

In their shared hesitation, their gazes met in silent inquiry, seeking guidance in navigating this unexpected shift. Each held back their words, sensing the unspoken turmoil lingering beneath the surface but unsure of how to acknowledge it without diminishing the weight of your emotions. The room lingered in an awkward pause, the unspoken tension enveloping the space, leaving everyone grappling for the right words to bridge the unspoken divide.

"Oh yeah," John B coughed, attempting to shatter the uncomfortable silence enveloping the room. "We got in and out pretty quickly. Sarah distracted Ward, and we got our stuff and left."

His words sliced through the tension, offering a lifeline to redirect the conversation towards a more mundane topic. There was a palpable sense of relief in his tone, a subtle attempt to lift the weight of the atmosphere by focusing on the successful mission.

The mention of their recent undertaking brought a semblance of normalcy to the room, a welcome distraction from the heavy emotions that had lingered moments ago. Yet, despite the shift, a trace of unease still hung in the air, a reminder of the unresolved emotions that continued to simmer beneath the surface.

"That's good, I'm glad," you replied in a dry tone, your words lacking enthusiasm as you tried to engage in the conversation without revealing the emotional turmoil within. Your gaze remained averted, avoiding eye contact with anyone in the room.

Your response, though attempting to maintain the facade of normalcy, held a hint of detachment, an indication of your struggle to engage while grappling with the weight of your emotions. The room remained steeped in an uncomfortable silence, the unspoken tension palpable despite the attempt to steer the conversation toward a lighter topic.

"Y/n, are you sure you're okay?" Sarah's voice carried genuine concern, her eyes reflecting worry as she observed your withdrawn demeanor. You responded with a slight, unconvincing nod, reluctant to disclose the emotional upheaval from the revelations of what transpired with Rafe the night before.

Your gesture masked the whirlwind of emotions swirling within, a shield to conceal the inner turmoil you weren't prepared to unpack. Admitting the revelations from the prior night felt daunting, leaving you hesitant to reveal the intricate complexities that had unfolded in the intimate moments with Rafe.

"I'm gonna go lay down for a bit, didn't get much sleep last night," you announced, excusing yourself from the room, your words a veiled attempt to distance yourself from the mounting curiosity of your friends. As you departed, their exchanged glances held a collective air of puzzlement and concern, further intrigued by your sudden departure.

JJ, in particular, fixated his gaze on you, observing with an intensity that hinted at his lingering worry and a desire to understand the hidden layers behind your solemn disposition. His unwavering focus followed you as you retreated into one of the bedrooms, leaving the others pondering the unspoken events of the night before, intrigued by the cryptic nature of the situation.

You stepped into the room and collapsed onto the bed, tears welling in your eyes as you gazed up at the ceiling, recounting the events with Rafe from the night before. Attempting to stifle any sounds, you bit down on your lip, hoping to conceal the incoming rush of emotions.

Despite your efforts, a surge of sorrow and guilt overwhelmed you. Your resolve shattered, and silent whimpers escaped your lips, swiftly escalating into uncontrollable sobs. The weight of your actions washed over you, an avalanche of regret and sorrow flooding your heart.

As you lay there, the burden of toying with Rafe's emotions and the sensation of a lost opportunity bore down heavily on your conscience. The tears flowed freely, a testament to the remorse and heartache consuming you, leaving you feeling broken and distraught over the pain you might have caused.

Internally, a storm of self-reproach raged within you as you cursed your actions and words from the night before, grappling with the weight of your choices. The regret gnawed at your insides, a relentless barrage of thoughts tormenting your conscience.

Your mind fixated on Rafe, wondering how he might be feeling in that moment. The worry and guilt intertwined, forming a tangled knot of concern for his emotions, as you tried to envision the impact of your actions on him. The uncertainty of his state left you feeling restless, your heart heavy with the weight of remorse and the unspoken turmoil between you both. The impulse to reach out and apologize to Rafe surged within you, an earnest desire to mend what felt irreparably broken. Yet, a wave of hesitation washed over you, the realization sinking in that a call might only exacerbate the pain.

As much as the urge to apologize clawed at your conscience, a voice of reason prevailed. You reasoned with yourself, acknowledging that reaching out at that moment might only reopen wounds, adding further distress to an already tumultuous situation. The prospect of causing him more pain held you back, compelling you to reluctantly stifle the impulse to apologize, despite the ache of remorse festering within.

Amidst the whirlwind of tears and internal turmoil, a soft knock resonated through the room, interrupting the overwhelming flood of emotions. Your heart skipped a beat, the sound piercing through the chaos of your thoughts. Trying to compose yourself, you hastily wiped away the tears and cleared your throat, the remnants of distress still evident in your trembling breath. "Yes?" you called out, your voice betraying hints of recent emotional upheaval, as you awaited a response from the other side of the door.

"Y/n, it's just me." With a small sigh of recognition, you acknowledged JJ's voice from behind the door. Gathering yourself, you made an effort to compose your appearance, wiping away a few stray tears and taking a moment to steady your breath before approaching the door. With cautious steps, you crossed the room, the weight of recent emotions still lingering within. As you reached the door, you unlocked it and turned the knob, allowing JJ's entry into the room. You tried to muster a faint smile, a feeble attempt to mask the lingering traces of distress that clung to your features.

"I just wanted to make sure you were okay," JJ expressed, his concern evident in his tone as he observed your demeanor. "You seemed pretty upset out there." You met his gaze, a mixture of gratitude and reluctance flickering in your eyes. His genuine concern softened the edges of your distress, yet the weight of your emotions remained palpable. You attempted to offer a reassuring nod, hoping to alleviate his worry while simultaneously shielding the depths of your unrest.

"I'm fine, JJ," you stated in a dry tone, attempting to downplay the intensity of your emotions. "Just didn't sleep much last night, is all."

Despite your attempt to reassure him, JJ sensed the falsehood in your words. Your best friend knew you well enough to recognize the facade you attempted to maintain. He furrowed his brow, contemplating the reason behind your evasiveness. The conflict between your words and the emotions radiating from your eyes left him perplexed, wondering who you were trying to convince with your falsehoods. Your eyes, a window to the disturbance within, betrayed the sadness and guilt you attempted to conceal. JJ pondered the intricacies of your emotional distress, unsettled by the disparity between your words and the truth that emanated from your gaze.

"C'mon, Y/n, you don't have to lie to me. You know you can tell me anything," JJ pleaded softly, his voice carrying a gentle plea for honesty. He moved closer, an unspoken gesture of support, silently urging you to confide in him, to offer even a glimpse into the reason behind your somber state. The sincerity in JJ's words tugged at your heartstrings, tempting you to unburden yourself. Yet, a part of you hesitated, grappling with the weight of the unspoken truths you weren't ready to reveal. The conflict within you was mirrored in JJ's unwavering gaze, his earnest plea for your trust amplifying the turmoil within.

The room lingered in a pregnant silence, the unspoken hovering between you both, as JJ patiently awaited a sign, a shred of vulnerability, anything that might offer insight into the heavy emotions weighing you down.

"It's nothing you need to worry about," you deflected, brushing aside JJ's concern with a forced nonchalance. Crossing your arms, you held yourself as if to contain the turmoil brewing within, a physical shield to guard the emotions threatening to spill out. Part of you longed to confide in JJ, to unburden the weight that pressed upon your heart. Yet, you felt like a tangled mess, grappling with emotions that words alone couldn't unravel. The situation had surpassed the realm of simple explanations; it was a complex web of conflicting emotions.

Your heart ached, torn between the anguish of the way things unfolded with Rafe and the overwhelming guilt of keeping secrets from him, all in allegiance to a promise made to your friends. The weight of these emotions felt suffocating, leaving you on the brink of emotional collapse, unsure if your heartache stemmed solely from your dealings with Rafe or from the layers of deception that weighed heavily upon you.

"Look, if this is about the thing with Rafe, you really don't have to—"

"Stop, okay? It's alright. I'm okay. I have to do this for you guys," you interjected, cutting off JJ's attempt to probe further. The firmness in your voice masked the battle going on inside of you, an attempt to halt the conversation from delving into the depths of your conflicted emotions.

Your words, though intended to reassure, held an undertone of inner struggle. The weight of your loyalty to your friends juxtaposed against the ache in your heart, a poignant reminder of the sacrifices made to uphold a promise. The resilience in your tone masked the fragility beneath, a silent plea for the conversation to steer away from the complexities that burdened you.

JJ's expression softened with a mix of sadness and a sense of helplessness, feeling a partial responsibility for the emotional turmoil you were experiencing. He recognized the facade you presented, contrasting starkly with your usual vibrant self, now replaced by a reserved and quiet demeanor.

Standing in silence, JJ observed you with a compassionate gaze, acknowledging the pain etched in your eyes. He sensed your avoidance of eye contact, a silent plea to hold back the floodgate of emotions threatening to overwhelm you.

"You don't have to do this, Y/n. Look at what it's doing to you," he spoke gently, his voice carrying a quiet concern. His words held a plea for you to reconsider the sacrifices you were making for the sake of others, a heartfelt desire to alleviate the burden that weighed heavily upon you.

"Just drop it, JJ," you snapped, the sharpness in your tone piercing the air before you softened slightly. "Look, it's fine. I'm fine. I don't need you to worry about me," you asserted, your voice tinged with assertiveness, a shield against the vulnerability you were struggling to conceal.

Your conflicting emotions towards JJ added tension to the already strained atmosphere between you both since the disagreement. His expression fell, a mixture of frustration and helplessness clouding his features. The sense of hopelessness at breaking through to you battled against his stubborn determination.

"I'm not leaving until you tell me what's going on," JJ declared firmly, a steadfast insistence in his voice despite the emotional barriers that stood between you. He refused to yield, driven by concern and an unshakeable loyalty, even in the face of your resistance.

"JJ—" you began, interrupted as he pressed on, his voice filled with earnestness and concern.

"I mean it, Y/n. You're my best friend, I care about you, you know?" JJ's words were laden with sincerity, a heartfelt plea cutting through the tension between you both. His genuine worry overshadowed any remnants of the past disagreement. "Look, you can be as mad at me as you want for what happened before, but all I care about right now is making sure that you're okay, which clearly you're not, despite lying to my face that you are."

His words were a plea for honesty and a testament to the depth of his concern, revealing a vulnerability that mirrored the genuine care he held for you. Despite the rift between you, JJ's unwavering loyalty and concern for your well-being remained steadfast, urging you to drop the facade and confide in him.

You sighed, finally relenting to JJ's unwavering determination. "Rafe told me he loved me last night," you blurted out quickly, the confession tumbling out of you, your throat tightening with the weight of the admission. "It came out of nowhere, and I-I couldn't say it back, JJ. Sure, I've spent all this time with him and played this game for you guys, but I have to draw the line at that, right? I can't play with somebody's heart like that."

Your words carried the burden of guilt and conflict, the turmoil you had been grappling with now laid bare. The abrupt confession revealed the emotional turmoil you faced, torn between loyalty to your friends and the moral dilemma of toying with someone's feelings. The complexity of the situation weighed heavily on you, leaving you in a state of emotional disarray.

"Do you love him?" JJ's question, posed quietly and almost feebly, pierced the charged air between you. His piercing blue eyes searched yours, seeking some semblance of an answer, any hint of truth hidden within. You hesitated, grappling with the weight of JJ's inquiry. The intensity in his gaze demanded honesty, yet the answer seemed elusive, lost amidst the tangled web of emotions within you. A moment of silence stretched as you wrestled with the turmoil in your heart, struggling to articulate a response to JJ's poignant question.

"I... I can't answer that," you replied, your gaze faltering and drifting downward. The weight of your words hung heavily in the air, a confession that left JJ reeling with a tumult of emotions.

Your response struck JJ like a sudden blow, sending a sharp pang through his chest. The hesitation in your answer stirred an array of conflicting emotions within him. If you truly felt nothing for Rafe, the immediate response would have been a straightforward "no." Yet, the lingering uncertainty unsettled JJ deeply. He grappled with the notion that perhaps you harbored some sentiment for the person he considered an adversary, and the mere thought sickened him.

A battle waged within JJ, torn between self-reproach for inadvertently guiding you towards someone he deemed his enemy and an inexplicable ache that gnawed at his heart. The unexpected surge of emotions left him grappling with a sense of unease and turmoil he had never experienced before.

"You do love him," JJ stated flatly, answering for you, his voice devoid of its usual vibrancy. He gazed at you with an empty expression, his words falling heavily between you, laced with a tone of defeat and resignation. In that moment, you witnessed a look in JJ's eyes that shook you to the core—an almost tangible sense of his world crumbling around him, as if his entire essence was fractured.

"No, JJ, don't do this. I didn't choose this," you pleaded desperately, shaking your head in denial. Tears welled up in your eyes, threatening to spill over as a rush of emotions surged through you. Your voice trembled, quivering with the intensity of the feelings you struggled to contain. The sight of JJ's shattered demeanor pierced your heart.

"I know you didn't, Y/n. I'm not blaming you. You can't choose who you're in love with," JJ spoke softly, his tone carrying a compassionate understanding. His gaze lingered on you, as if lost in contemplation. His eyes traversed every contour of your face, observing your saddened yet undeniably beautiful features.

Internally, JJ admired you, silently acknowledging the depth of your emotions and the complexities of your heart. He couldn't help but think about how fortunate Rafe was to have someone like you who cared so deeply. Amidst the turmoil, a pang of longing tugged at JJ's heart, a desire for a similar kind of affection for himself. He contemplated the unspoken wishes and the intricate layers of emotions that lay beneath the surface of the moment.

"It doesn't matter now anyways, because I ruined it," you uttered through tearful sobs, your voice cracking with anguish. Looking up at JJ, your eyes reflected a profound sadness, a vulnerability laid bare for him to witness. "I should've said something else, I should've told him how much I care about him, I-"

"Shh, Y/n, it's okay," JJ cooed, enfolding you in a tender embrace, offering solace in the warmth of his arms. He planted a gentle kiss atop your head, a gesture of comfort amid the emotional turmoil. "You didn't ruin anything. Just give him some time right now. If he's as obsessed with you as half the guys on the island are, he's guaranteed to come crawling back," he remarked softly, his attempt at humor breaking through the somber moment. Despite the weight of the situation, JJ's attempt to lighten the mood offered a glimmer of relief, a touch of his familiar light-heartedness providing a brief respite from the heaviness of the emotions swirling between you.

Amidst a tearful laugh and a sniffle, you questioned, "Do you really think so?"

"I know he will. He'd be a fool not to," JJ reassured, mustering a weak smile despite the ache in his heart. His attempt to comfort you masked the sadness he felt within, his own emotions echoing the heartbreak of the moment. Gently, he ran his fingers through your hair as you nestled your head against his chest, seeking solace in the warmth of his embrace. Slowly, you tried to regulate your breathing, the rise and fall of JJ's chest offering a calming rhythm in the midst of emotional turmoil.

"Thank you, Jay," you expressed, meeting the gaze of the blue-eyed boy with a small but genuine smile of gratitude. He reciprocated with a subtle hum, leaning in to press a tender kiss to your temple. The touch lingered briefly, as if savoring the warmth and softness of your skin.

"Feeling better?" JJ inquired softly, his concern palpable in the gentle tone of his voice as he sought assurance that his efforts had brought some comfort to your distress.

"Yeah, I do. I think I'm just gonna lay down for a few, though. Wasn't lying when I said I didn't get much sleep," you admitted with a faint smile, grateful for JJ's comforting presence but still in need of some time alone to gather your thoughts and emotions.

"Understood. Get all the sleep you need. I'll be out in the living room if you need me," JJ responded with a small laugh, offering you a reassuring smile before gently releasing you from his embrace, allowing you the space you sought.

Taking solace in the quiet and the solitude of the room, you nestled back into bed, relishing the opportunity to collect your thoughts in peace. In the stillness, you found yourself fixating on your phone lying on the nightstand, its screen a silent invitation. Contemplation wrestled with your impulses, a conflict raging within as the desire to mend things clashed with the looming prospect of potential regret. Despite the uncertainty, an eagerness to take action tugged at your thoughts, urging you to reach for the phone and potentially take a step you knew might carry consequences.

Despite the attempts to suppress the impulse, you found yourself disregarding the swirling doubts and uncertainties. Pushing past the "what-ifs" and potential repercussions, you finally yielded to your longing and reached for your phone, succumbing to your impulses.

"Y/n?" The husky familiarity of the voice on the other end of the line sent a surge of butterflies fluttering in the pit of your stomach, a mix of nervousness and anticipation flooding your senses.

"Rafe," you breathed out, mustering courage, "we need to talk."

"I don't know if that's a good idea right now," came his uncertain response.

"Please, Rafe. This is important. Just trust me," you urged, a note of desperation seeping into your voice, hoping to convey the gravity of the situation and the necessity of the conversation you felt compelled to have.

"Okay, yeah," you heard Rafe sigh on the other end of the line. "When and where?"

A small smile graced your lips at Rafe's willingness to consider your request. A glimmer of hope flickered within you, grateful for the opportunity to address matters. Internally, you felt a surge of gratitude for this chance to navigate the conversation that held such importance.

"I'll be at your house in twenty," you confirmed, decisive in your tone, setting the time and place for the conversation you knew held significant weight.

⎯

The drive to Rafe's house felt like an eternity, each passing second adding to the mounting anxiety that gripped your chest. Your grip tightened on the steering wheel as your mind played out a multitude of potential scenarios, each one more daunting than the last.

The scenarios were a relentless reel in your mind—what if Rafe had reconsidered everything? What if his feelings had shifted drastically overnight? The uncertainty of his response clawed at your thoughts, igniting a storm of doubts and fears that thundered through your mind.

The quiet road seemed to stretch endlessly, the passing streetlights casting fleeting shadows across your face as the weight of the impending conversation settled heavily upon you. You wrestled with the anticipation, the car's interior filled with a tense energy that mirrored the turmoil in your mind.

The worst-case scenarios seemed to play on a loop, painting vivid pictures of rejection and misunderstanding. Each imagined conversation left you breathless, contemplating how Rafe might react, fearing the possibility of shattered hopes and unspoken words left hanging between you.

Your heart raced in tandem with the passing mile markers, the quiet hum of the engine providing an eerie backdrop to the cacophony of doubts echoing within. The nervous anticipation clawed at your resolve, as you fought to steady your emotions and prepare for the conversation that lay ahead.

Approaching Rafe's front door felt like traversing a minefield of emotions. Every step echoed the thud of your heart, the gravity of the impending conversation adding weight to each movement. The crunch of gravel beneath your shoes seemed unusually loud, a stark contrast to the turmoil churning inside.

A lump formed in your throat, making it difficult to swallow as you stood at the threshold. The polished wood of the door seemed to stare back at you, a silent barrier between uncertainty and resolution. The porch light cast a warm, inviting glow, yet it did little to soothe the nerves that coiled within.

You hesitated, your hand hovering in mid-air, fingers inches away from the doorbell. An internal battle raged between eagerness and apprehension, the conflict etched upon your features as you grappled with the momentousness of the impending conversation.

The cool evening breeze brushed against your skin, causing a shiver to run down your spine, a physical manifestation of the nervousness that held you in its grip. Each heartbeat felt thunderous in the silence, amplifying the significance of this pivotal moment.

With a deep breath, you finally pressed the doorbell, the sound reverberating through the quiet night like an ominous bell tolling the onset of an uncertain exchange. The chime echoed, resonating in the hushed neighborhood, signaling the initiation of a conversation that held the weight of countless emotions and unspoken truths.

"Y/n," Rafe greeted, opening the door with a hint of hesitation evident in his expression. His gaze swept over you, assessing your presence with a mix of uncertainty and curiosity. "Come in, we can talk upstairs," he offered, gesturing for you to follow him into the house, the tension palpable in the air.

Ascending the stairs with Rafe, silence settled between you, allowing a moment for observation. Details of his home, once overlooked, now drew your attention—faint family portraits adorning the walls, the subtle scent of his familiar cologne lingering in the air, each detail offering a glimpse into his life beyond what you'd previously glimpsed.

Entering his room, Rafe motioned for you to go in first, a gesture that felt strangely significant. The creak of the door shutting behind you marked the transition into this private space, amplifying the weight of the impending conversation.

Rafe turned to face you, breaking the silence at last. "So, what's up?" he queried coyly, his demeanor masking any internal thoughts or emotions, leaving an air of uncertainty hanging between you.

"I do love you."

taglist:  @ellesalazar, @champomiel, @vadinaleme, @kys4-20, @gills-lounge, @allsmilesreally7, @sublimepenguinpeach-blog, @sp00ky-spr1te, @bibliophilewednesday, @haroldpotterson, @i-love-rafe, @ellesalazar, @calmoistorm, @abundantxadorations, @fals3-g0d, @gillybear17, @oiiviagrande, @hockeybabe87, @augustlikesdeath, @wpdailyminimeta, @palmwinemami, @loxleys-blog, @ikisscline, @flyestvenustrap, @ilovesteveharrngton, @ijustwanttoreadlols

[dhampling]

the tailor's smock (astarion x reader)

“You know what the problem is. We all know what the problem is. Hunkers Boolean across the street knows what the problem is. Do not make me say it!” - inspired by the prompt 'let’s get you out of those clothes' from this list sent to me by @kikistarstuff! thank you - i took a slightly different direction with it but I hope you enjoy! w/c: 1,023

Eventide ripples through the Upper City.

Church bells - scintillant, joyful. A provincial hum weaves amongst lavender-laden window boxes and bread left on cooling sills for the evening air to swallow. In places the sky still blushes through a deep crimson pink but nightfall quickly arrives as it always does.

You’re awake early, by all counts.

Astarion bristles as he works. His leg bounces, and the chair doesn’t quite sit even on the board flooring of your townhouse. The little knocks form a steady rhythm.

You stand astride his tailor’s podium in an almost-complete garment. He’ll lift his eyes to survey you every few moments as he sketches.

“Coffee?” You mumble. 

He stays frozen for a moment - deep in thought elsewhere - before quickly collecting the tankard from his desk and delivering it into your chilled hands.

“Sorry, my sweet. I’m just-’ 

A sigh

‘I’m a little lost with how to finish it.”

His pallid hands drag over a now-long face. He spins slowly in place and lets out a long groan.

“You had a plan at the beginning, no? What happened to it?”

What began as a routine addition to your everyday wardrobe - an overall-style frock, nothing grand - now hangs as a genuine blockade between Astarion and doing anything remotely useful. Stitching seams only to later rip through them, selecting which buttons would best compliment the straps of fabric over your shoulders then switching at the last moment, drawing vague silhouettes in a heavy journal and showing them to you in flustered breaks. Torn pages balled in the corner of the room.

He looks at you with an incredulous tut. A fiery flick of his lashes.

“It clearly wasn’t a very good one, was it?!’

You’re tired of the garment now. Any want to wear it was discarded alongside the first five iterations of the dress; and you’d rather simply go and sit among the blankets in the den with a book. Maybe a fresh cup of coffee.

‘Don’t roll your eyes at me! I’m doing this for you!”

His arms gesture wildly to the dress, eyes frantic. He looks insane.

You meet his gaze in a tired standoff. The energy from both of you runs wholly parallel, and in entirely different directions. 

You refuse to meet his angst with anything remotely similar. Your brain can’t compel itself to make this an argument, no matter how much you might want to.

“What is the problem here? Really?”

You remove the few remaining pins from the garment. He sighs once more.

“You know what the problem is. We all know what the problem is. Hunkers Boolean across the street knows what the problem is. Do not make me say it!”

In all seriousness he flounces to his chair and sits pensively, leaning over the desk with elbows resting; head in hands. You stifle a snort.

“What are you on about?!”

A sip of coffee. A frustrated borderline-yowl. The bells continue to chime on beyond the window. The bristle of a late wind.

“I can’t even make an overall! An overall!”

You draw the corners of your lips cheekward in a closed grimace.

“Love. With the best of intentions, please do not let the fact you can’t make a smock get you this upset.”

He looks up at you. Rolls his eyes.

“So you do know I can’t make it. Why didn’t you say anything earlier?” 

“That is categorically not what I meant.” You chide, putting your tankard on his desk and tapping him on the arm lightly.

“I’m completely and utterly useless then, I suppose. 

Astarion drawls. A child seeking attention. 

‘A basic smock. Beyond the ability of my wretched spinster hands.” 

“I suppose you are.’ 

He looks up.

‘Useless, that is.’

Gormless. Too tired to be witty, just a blank stare. 

‘I suppose I’ll just have to find another prospect who can make me my own personal smock collection. It is my greatest wish, after all.”

It takes a couple of minutes of nothing for him to respond. You watch the streetlamps glower in the new dusk, the stray cat pottering onto nearby roofs; one of your neighbours collecting their washing for the night. 

“Hah!’

He smacks the desk lazily and rests his head on the wood for a moment. When he lifts his eyes are heavy-lidded. A roguish daze. The quirk of a smile.

‘I’m being stupid, aren’t I?”

The grimace returns. You nod. 

“Really, properly stupid.”

The clientele Astarion desires in his new business venture aren’t the kind who are buying regular overall-type garments. They visit the tailors for their finery; not middling homewear.

“I was doing it for you. I really was.’

He pushes his chair back and stands, crossing the few steps to where you stand adjacent.

‘You look so homely in this kind of thing. It’s-’

He pauses. Tilts his head from side to side. Errs.

‘- sweet -’

With another step forward his hand moves to your cheek in a soft, revering touch. All tension melts from his face

‘And I thought it’d make you happy. Being able to bustle about our little house in something so mundane, knowing I’d made it just for you, to be able to do so in comfort.”

His forehead meets yours in a worn stupor. 

“You’re silly. I hope you know that.’

You meet him in a tired coffee-stained kiss; his own relinquishing their well-worn mirth. 

‘Plenty of time for that. For you to make me all kinds of beautiful things. A whole lifetime, even.’

Another kiss. He gives a fanged grin against your lips. Bliss.

‘But right now, I am desperate to go back to bed.”

His arms snake around your waist, hands grabbing your sides in a weighty adoration.

“Now then treasure - that’s something I can get behind.’

He gently moves his kisses down to your neck, pressing against your weary frame with an intentional rut of his hips. Every part of him emanates a sleepy desire and you can’t help but feel heady at the thought of returning to your shared bed. Your lover.

‘Come now. Let’s get you out of those clothes. I fear we have new plans this night.”

[velaryon-seahores]

But it killed you just the same.

Pairing: Modern!Aemond Targaryen x nameless fem!reader.

Synopsis: Friday nights used to be the highlight of Aemond's week, a time when he and his girlfriend shared precious moments. Yet, one Friday night, he returned home to a devastating discovery – a suicide note from the woman he loved. The night that used to brim with joy was forever tainted by the weight of grief and loss.

Warnings: Suicide, angst, blood.

Word count: 2.1k

Author note: I felt nervous about posting this because I think the plot might be too much. Please if such topics trigger you do not read.

Aemond,

I prayed with all my heart that it would never come to this, but Life, in its cruel twists, has torn me from the very arm that wounded me, wrenching my arm and compelling me to pen this letter.

"Help me!" Aemond's anguished cry pierced the air, tearing through the silence as he violently swung the door to their shared home wide open. Panic seized every fiber of his being, rendering him visibly shaken as he raced down the porch stairs, cradling her limp form in his trembling arms. Blood flowed relentlessly from her wrists, despite his desperate attempts to staunch the wounds using his own shirt, cinched as tightly as his trembling hands allowed.

He had returned from work, heart brimming with anticipation to enfold her in their Friday night routine. They would snuggle on the couch, indulging in cheesy movies, laughing and mocking them together. It was their cherished tradition. Yet, as he stepped into their bedroom, expecting to see her engrossed in her usual assignments, all he found was a note, and the love of his life lying motionless on the bathroom floor.

"Please, someone, help me!" His voice cracked and shattered, echoing his heart's agony. Tears cascaded from his eyes, a torrent of despair, as he sprinted towards the nearest house, every step laden with the weight of unbearable loss.

Life has never shown me an ounce of kindness from the day I took my first breath, and I fear it never will. I'm exhausted, Aemond, so utterly weary of the ceaseless struggle of existence. I attempted to paint a hopeful picture, to conjure a vision of a future where happiness resides, but the scars within me run too deep, and my feeble attempts at self-delusion have shattered like fragile glass.

"What's happening!" One of the neighbors exclaimed, a middle-aged man with graying hair, rushing outside with his wife, a woman with kind, worried eyes, their faces etched with concern upon hearing the heart-wrenching screams that pierced the dark, quiet street.

Aemond stood in the midst of the empty road, his fists clenched in desperation, his face contorted with agony and disbelief, tears streaming down his cheeks, glistening under the faint streetlights.

"My girlfriend..." Aemond's voice broke, the anguish in his tone almost tangible, his breath hitching as he struggled to utter the words. "She's—" His voice dissolved into choked sobs, his shoulders trembling uncontrollably as he tried to maintain his composure.

"Gods be good!" The wife gasped, her voice barely a whisper, her hands instinctively flying to cover her mouth in horror as she saw the crimson stains saturating Aemond's clothes and his girlfriend's.

"Please, help me, help her! Please," Aemond pleaded, his voice a desperate plea to the heavens, his shaky arms clutching his girlfriend tightly, as if trying to hold on to the last vestiges of warmth slipping away from her, leaving an indescribable void in his heart.

I know I made you a promise to heal, I know I vowed to battle through this, but it seems my spirit lacks the resilience I once believed it had. I fought with every fiber of my being, I swear on my father's life that I fought for you, for my dad, but it's like trying to ward off steel blades with feeble, wooden ones.

Aemond's gaze remained fixed on the couple as they frantically applied pressure to the wounds, their expressions a mix of urgency and helplessness.

He knelt on the dewy front lawn, his sobs punctuating the eerie silence of the night. Clutching himself tightly, he rocked back and forth, a mournful rhythm that mirrored the relentless turmoil in his heart.

His head shook from side to side, as if in a desperate attempt to dislodge the nightmare that threatened to consume him whole, refusing to accept the grim possibility that he might lose her tonight.

He knew all too well about his girlfriend's inner struggles, for they had crossed paths in therapy group sessions for survivors of childhood abuse. On that very first day, she had courageously voiced those tormenting thoughts, a cry for help and a desire to rid herself of them.

Aemond had been her steadfast guardian, offering support in every way he could, but now, in this dire moment, it seemed that his efforts had fallen short, leaving him with a crushing sense of powerlessness.

The burden of guilt weighed heavily upon him. How could he have failed to notice? How could he have missed the signs?

I fear, Aemond, that I am beyond redemption, a hopeless case. It's painfully clear that I can never break free from the chains of my tormented childhood. That little girl within me, trapped in the depths of my being, resists all attempts at healing, stubbornly clinging to the memories that bind her. It's as if she seeks vengeance upon my present self, punishing me for failing to rescue her from the suffocating prison of her own making.

The neighborhood was suddenly bathed in an eerie, disorienting symphony of sirens, and the lights from police and ambulance vehicles cast a stark, vivid illumination upon the previously tranquil street. Aemond found himself at the epicenter of this chaotic whirlwind, surrounded by a growing crowd of concerned neighbors. Some of them reached out to him, offering fragile words of comfort, while others stood in silent solidarity, their eyes fixed on the paramedics who toiled with unwavering dedication to save her life.

With a trembling voice, Aemond beseeched the policeman for the answer he so desperately yearned for. His eyes held a silent plea, practically begging for a glimmer of hope in a world suddenly plunged into darkness.

"There's a faint heartbeat," the policeman murmured with empathy, his hand gently patting Aemond's trembling back, as if trying to convey that there was still a fragile thread of hope, even in the face of unimaginable despair. "But she's lost a lot of blood."

A gasp, almost imperceptible, escaped from Aemond's quivering lips. A flicker of relief touched his soul. She was still here, her heart fighting to continue its rhythmic dance of life. In that moment, he clung to that heartbeat like a lifeline, an anchor in the storm of uncertainty. His head fell back, and he was overcome with sobs that embodied a tumultuous blend of fear and gratitude.

He wiped away his tears with the back of his hand, determined not to let his emotions overwhelm him completely. Gathering every ounce of strength he possessed, he rose to his feet and steadied himself, resolute in his decision to follow her into the ambulance. He couldn't fathom leaving her side in this critical hour, as the faint, fragile rhythm of her heartbeat continued to echo in his heart, a beacon of hope in the midst of the darkest night.

I'm exhausted, worn down by the sound of her screams and shouts. I'm doing my best to help her break free, but it feels impossible because the one who held the keys to her prison was her now-deceased mother. This means I'll be condemned to hear her screams for the rest of my life, as she continues to blame me, shame me, and attempt to break me. Her words pierce through my soul like a Valyrian blade. I can't bear it any longer. I can't.

Aemond's heart shattered into a thousand pieces as he watched the frantic paramedics laboring to bring her back. Their voices were strained, their movements frenzied, and their faces etched with a mixture of frustration and despair. The cold sweat on their brows mirrored the anxiety that had gripped Aemond's own soul.

Tears welled up in his eyes, blurring his vision, as he watched the scene unfold. His throat constricted with the overwhelming fear and pain that surged within him. He couldn't hold back any longer. Aemond found himself on his knees beside her, his trembling fingers reaching for her lifeless hands. The touch was cold and lifeless, a stark contrast to the warmth and vitality he had known in her touch.

With a delicate tenderness, he pressed his quivering lips to her hand. As he did so, the tears flowed freely down his cheeks. His voice trembled with the raw, unfiltered emotion that he could no longer contain. "Don't leave me, please," he whispered, hoping that she would hear his words and return to him, their shared future waiting to be rewritten.

The regret that gnawed at his soul was a heavy burden, weighing down his very being. Aemond wished with every fiber of his being that he had taken the day off as planned, that he hadn't selflessly covered for his colleagues.

Perhaps he would be lying with his head on her lap, her gentle fingers tracing patterns through his hair as they shared stories and laughter. He could almost hear her voice, complaining about the rigors of college or seeking his patient help with those tricky math assignments.

I beg you not to carry the weight of my sadness, grief, and pain. Live each day with happiness for both of us, for you deserve far better than the agony I've put you through.You deserve someone who can fill your life with joy, while I've only dragged you into my sea of misery. This isn't fair to you, and your heart deserves so much more.

The line on the machine remained ominously still, the absence of any discernible heartbeat a painful silence that echoed in the small space.

The younger paramedic, overwhelmed by the cruel reality of the situation, hurled his hat against the wall, releasing a primal growl of frustration and helplessness.

Meanwhile, the older paramedic's expression reflected a deep well of sorrow and sympathy as he turned to Aemond. His eyes, heavy with the weight of empathy, spoke volumes as he gently stated, "I'm sorry for your loss, ser. We have done everything we could."

Aemond, however, refused to accept the harsh reality. His voice quivered with despair as he protested, "No! No! Do something!" His desperation and anguish were palpable, as he clung to the hope that there might still be a chance to save the one he loved.

The older paramedic's voice wavered as he delivered the painful truth, "There's nothing more we can do; she lost too much blood." It was a devastating admission, and Aemond's heart sank further.

"Please," Aemond begged, his voice reduced to a mere whisper, but he knew deep down that there was nothing more to be done.

You were not just a chapter but the entire book, the most exquisite story that had unfolded in my life. Every page was filled with the warmth of your love, the laughter we shared, and the memories we created. I can't find the words to express the depth of my feelings for you, a love that has always burned brightly and will continue to do so. As our paths part, I want you to remember that you mean the world to me, and your happiness will forever be a cherished wish of mine.

Aemond's world crumbled around him as he clung to her, his anguished screams muffled against her neck. Tears streamed down his face, mixing with her blood, as he sobbed, "Don't do this to me." His voice trembled with despair, the weight of the moment pressing down on his chest like a crushing boulder.

His hands, covered in her blood, trembled as they caressed her hair. He couldn't bear to let her go, and so he continued to beg, his voice cracking as he implored her, "Please, open your eyes. Breathe." His eyes were red and swollen, filled with a profound sorrow that seemed to know no end.

He made promises that he knew he couldn't keep, "If you open your eyes now, I'll give you everything, anything you desire. I'll do whatever you want." His face was contorted with anguish, his eyes locked onto hers, willing her to come back to him. But alas, her stillness remained.

He drew her closer, their bodies collapsing into the seat, a tangle of limbs and despair. With her in his arms, he rocked back and forth, the motion a feeble attempt to soothe his aching heart, even as tears continued to pour from his eyes.

As I bid you farewell, my love, know that my affection for you remains as strong as ever. I wish you all the happiness and peace in the world, but my heart breaks to think that I won't be there to witness it alongside you. Please, above all else, take good care of yourself, for you carry a piece of my heart with you, and it will always long for your well-being.

That fateful night had left Aemond irreparably changed. It was as if a storm had swept through his life, leaving destruction in its wake.

The woman he loved, the center of his world, had unknowingly shattered him. Her absence turned his once-stable world upside down, leaving him in a state of perpetual disarray.

The wounds she left behind ran deep, and the scars on his heart were a constant reminder of the love he had lost and the person he used to be.

I’m not tagging anyone in this to avoid triggering anyone. Do not hesitate to seek professional help!

[thearchvillain]

gardenias. | nikolai

part I

nikolai lantsov x reader

summary: the setting is a grand event hosted at os alta with the intention of finding a future queen for crown prince vasily. the reader is a merchant's daughter trying to keep a low profile after her parents had dragged her there (against her will) with the hopes that she might catch the prince's attention. she, on the other hand, has different plans. plans that get entirely upheaved by none other than the younger prince nikolai who interrupts her illicit late-night meeting in the winter garden. now she's caught attention of one of the two people whose scrutiny she'd been trying so hard to avoid for the last few days of the event and she's not entirely sure she actually minds it.

preview: Irritated, she spun around and came up so close she could feel the wool of his uniform brush against her bodice as she glared up at him. "What now?"  "Now I'm thinking I should escort you to your room, just to make sure you don't accidentally commit some act of treason on your way to it." "Is that what you think? That I'm planning some grand act of treason with Zaitsev?" "You do have that look about you. A bit insolent, a bit treasonous."  She twisted her wrist in his hand as if to draw attention to it, jutting her chin out defiantly as she looked up at him. When she spoke she did her best to sound as smug and irritating as he did. "You like that, don't you?" He made a soft tutting sound, looking deeply amused. "I do like you. That doesn't mean I trust you."  "That's--" she stuttered, torn between irritation and being caught off-guard by the matter-of-factness colouring his voice, "That's not what I meant."  "You're blushing again."

word count: 5k (i know. don't @ me)

tropes/warnings: not cannon, vasily's still alive, nikolai's kinda suspicious that y/n is about to commit some kind of treason and it's reflected in the way he acts, there is tension and innuendos though sljdf, y/n does get a bit upset/frustrated at one point, nikolai does apologise but does not back down from his plan to uncover her secrets bc where would the fun be in that, there is physical touch

a/n: i'm not going to lie to you, this is absolutely going to be a multi-part. i'm enjoying writing nikolai being a teasing menace far too much not to explore it further, and i think nikolai would be far too curious and fascinated by y/n to just let it go (and a bit worried about what she's up to). note that while this is their first time meeting there's still a lot of tension that will only continue to grow, so i hope you enjoy it!

The air inside the palace winter garden was laden with the scent of jasmine. There was an oppressiveness to it that stood in stark contrast with the fresh night air she'd come in from, leaving her heady and wondering if she might suffocate from it by the time the lieutenant arrived. That would be quite the sight - a page ripped out of a book of fairytales and brought to life, a pretty young thing laid peacefully amongst the blossoming flowers, caught in the last moment before the colour had drained out of her cheeks. She would lay out her arm like so, blue petals spilling out of her still fingers and... Ghezen. This place had a way of bringing out the morbid in her. Must be something about all the death imagery she'd sifted through earlier that day in the royal library - Ravkan stories certainly had a proclivity for martyred girls and their lovely, tragic endings. It did nothing but fortify her belief that breaking into the winter garden and hiding out had been a good idea. Y/N had no interest in actually experiencing martyrdom or tragic endings, thank you very much.

That is if one ignored the fact she was tempting fate by agreeing to an illicit meeting with a man her parents had most definitely not had in mind when they'd dragged her all the way to Ravka with them. A man who was distinctly late to said meeting. Y/N twisted the leaf she'd plucked from one of the bushes, her fingers sticky from where she'd crushed it and unsteady with the nervous sort of energy that accompanied late nights and ill-advised impulses. She'd already stood up and sat back down several times when the sound of a door opening interrupted her mid-movement and she slipped behind one of the stone columns that obscured her from view. The silence stretched for a long moment before the door clicked closed once more. The stone roses of the column were biting into the skin between Y/N's shoulderblades where she pressed herself against it as if she might blend into it by the sheer force of will. Another stretch of silence before the sound of a key turning in the lock made her start, her chest tightening. Silence. Whoever was there must've just noticed the door was left unlocked and decided to close it. Good. Y/N fingered the silver hairpin she'd used to break into the garden before pushing herself away from the column and slipping towards the glass door that led onto the palace grounds. She didn't want to risk anyone seeing her going back through the door that had just been locked.

"What's the rush?" A voice came from somewhere behind her. "You're missing all the flowers. Or is the collection not exotic enough for the refined tastes of a merchling princess?" 

Y/N halted mid-step, her shoulders drawn taut as she went very, very still. This was not the lieutenant's voice - it was just a bit too silvery, too playful, too... refined in its accent. Not a native speaker, but a very well-educated one. 

"I... the smell - it's overpowering." 

A soft chuckle. "Perhaps the lady would find it less offensive if she came to visit the gardens during the day." There was a slight pause. She swore she could almost hear him smirk in the way his voice trailed off. "As most people do."

She still had her back turned to him, her head tipped slightly back to look up towards the glass ceiling as if she expected to find a solution or at least strength to deal with this up there. "You are here too, are you not?" 

"Touche." He moved then, his steps loud against the marble floor but slow and languid, as if he were a predator stalking a fear-frozen doe in some rather exotic forest. He was much closer when he spoke this time. "But I like the smell. It's jasmine. Night-blooming jasmine to be specific. My mother's favourite." 

Y/N did not see what was the relevance of his confession but she assumed he might be slightly more compliant with the whole keeping quiet about this business if she played along. "Does she garden?"

This made him laugh. It was a nice sort of laugh - the kind that belonged to someone intimately familiar with the sound, whose mouth had been made for laughing and who found her question infinitely amusing. "Saints, no. That would be quite the sight though - my mother with dirt-stained hands, taking care of a living thing."

Y/N did not respond. This sounded like a confession too, one she was not privy to. She felt like she was missing a puzzle piece. He waited in silence for a moment, and when she didn't answer she heard the rustle of fabric as he must have leaned against the column behind her. "Are you not going to turn around?" 

"I was escaping, remember? It would be silly to show my face now when I still have a chance of getting away."

He made a noncommittal sound. "I didn't realise you were fleeing. Women don't tend to run away from me very often. How... thrilling." 

Y/N almost snorted at this display of ego. She resigned herself to a sort of small, vague sound that could be left up to interpretation. "Are you going to stop me?" 

"Would you like me to?" His voice had gone low and goading, but he never moved from his spot. It had occurred to her that it might be advisable to be more nervous about this strange man standing behind her, but this felt more like a game than a threat and Y/N couldn't help the smile that tugged at the corners of her lips. 

"A thrilling proposition, but one I will have to refuse. Allegedly I'm a sensible creature, and none of this sounds very sensible."

"Neither does meeting Lieutenant Zaitsev in a winter garden at three in the morning, but here we are. Minus Zaitsev, unfortunately." He said unfortunately in a way people did when they found nothing unfortunate about a situation at all. 

Y/N spun around, suddenly very aware of the sound of rushing blood and her own quickened heartbeat that rang in her ears. Prince Nikolai looked as pleased by this reaction as she imagined a cat would as it dug its claws into some poor, unsuspecting thing or got a big plate of full-fat cream. At least now the gardening thing made complete sense. 

He was in his full regalia, as polished as he'd been when she'd seen him earlier this evening, all shiny medals and sharp lines and the sort of lazy indifference that came with inherited importance and disarming good looks. She'd half expected the illusion of grandeur to disappear once she saw him up close, but the prince remained as impeccable as he'd been from afar, almost to an irritating degree. Y/N lowered her eyes. 

"My apologies, your Highness. I didn't recognise your voice."

"How could you? We've never had the pleasure of speaking to each other." Y/N thought she might have been imagining the subtle note of accusation in his voice. He tipped his head to the side, eyes fixed on Y/N with the sort of intense curiosity that she could feel burning against her skin. "Don't apologise. I've had enough of performative politeness to last me a year."

Y/N raised an eyebrow at that, her eyes flitting up to his face for a brief moment of offence. "Are you implying my apology is performative?" 

Nikolai caught her eyes and smiled at that. She had been right - he had the sort of mouth that lent itself to charming, easy smiles and was hard to look away from. "You don't seem the type to be sorry about any of this. Except maybe getting caught."

Y/N didn't deign answer that, there was no point in pretending when he hardly appeared open to changing his mind if the knowing smirk on his lips was anything to go by. She took a slight step backwards when he pushed himself away from the column and moved towards her. He side-stepped her, though there was still an undue amount of proximity between them as he passed by her side, eyes trailing along her features before he focused on something behind her. 

"You know who I am, don't you?" she asked. He'd called her a merchling princess, he'd known exactly why she was here and who she'd intended to meet. Something was unsettling about the casual way in which he considered her question as if he were toying with her the same way he was toying with the leaves of some unnamed bush he'd stopped to observe. 

He was quiet for a while, the only sound a low chuckle that rumbled in his chest as he plucked a pretty, pink flower from its stem. "It's in my job description," he said simply as if that might explain the overabundance of information on her. 

"Is it? I've heard princes have people for that. To whisper over your shoulder whenever they see someone coming your way."

A laugh this time. "You're not wrong, but I find those quite overbearing and tough to get rid of when one wishes to slip away unnoticed. I'm sure you can relate." 

She hummed in response, eyes narrowed. "Where's the lieutenant?"

"Am I boring you that much? You wound me, Miss Braam." 

Y/N barely held back a frustrated sound that she felt building in her chest. He was infuriating on purpose, she was sure. She'd seen him interact with people tonight and he went about it with such elegance and ease that there was no doubt Nikolai Lantsov had a way with both words and people. 

"I would do no such thing. You're a delight," she said dryly. And it wasn't a lie - Nikolai did seem delightful in a precarious sort of way, but Y/N felt far too on edge to appreciate it. "He promised..."

Nikolai interrupted her, one gloved hand raised as if he were placating a startled wild animal. "I sent him away," he said, turning to face her, "I must say, if I were in his place and meeting you in such a lovely place at a such late hour I would've personally put up much more of a fight. Alas, he obeyed - so you're stuck with me instead." 

Y/N felt the frustration rising, choking out the words in her throat even as she pushed it down to try and appear forlorn rather than annoyed. "Oh," was all she said, turning her face away so that the shadowy darkness offered some cover. 

She saw him shift in the periphery of her vision and then there were fingers on the edges of her jaw, the material soft and runny against her skin. Not cotton, silk. Of course it would be silk. She didn't fight him as he guided her chin so that she was looking at him once again, determined to appear deeply hurt by Zaitsev's abandonment rather than irritated by the fact she would now have to come up with another plan to get the materials from him. Nikolai's eyes trailed along her face as if he were drinking her in, so gentle and sympathetic she almost believed it. Almost.

"As lovely as you look in all your teary-eyed, heartbroken glory," Nikolai said, sounding amused, "I sincerely doubt you are anything of the sort. It's that Ketterdam blood in your veins. Pragmatism above all else, no?"

She tried to free her chin from his fingers, but as she did the grip suddenly became less gentle, holding her firmly in place. He smiled when he saw the flash of irritation cross her features. 

"That's more like it." He sounded almost satisfied to see the facade crack, amused by her reaction. What in Ghezen's name was his problem? 

She jerked her chin against his grip in a display of defiance before staring him down. "And is pragmatism an unfamiliar concept here in Ravka? Quit playing, your Highness. We could've been done with this much quicker if you'd just asked your questions at the start."

He only hummed in response, still looking at her as if he were observing a particularly riveting piece of art, one that might reveal some secret symbolism hiding beneath the surface. "Maybe I didn't want it to be quick?"

"I also sincerely doubt that." 

He chuckled and Y/N felt his warm breath brush against her flushed cheeks. His grip had loosened, but she still felt the warmth of his fingers seeping into her skin. "Why? You're a curious thing. Brought here to be paraded about for the Court in hopes of securing a fruitful marriage, no? But then you very adamantly avoid both my brother and me. It's a bit strange... I suppose I wanted to take my time with you."

"Maybe that was the ploy all along, the whole avoidance thing. It got you curious, didn't it?" She leaned into his touch very intentionally then, overly aware of the way he shifted them to accommodate her, her eyebrow raised in an attempt at mirroring his playfulness.

"I admire your talent for improvisation, Miss Braam. Really, it's quite charming..."

"But...?" She'd sensed he was going in that direction and interrupted him before he could say it. Nikolai chuckled. 

"But, I'm not buying it. It would've been far too risky of a plan. And unless you are more arrogant than I am - which I doubt - I don't think you expected or wanted anyone to come looking. Aside from Zaitsev, of course."

Y/N sneered at him then, finally irritated enough that she reached up to grab his wrist and pull his hand away from her jaw. The wool of his uniform was rough beneath her fingers, golden buttons digging into her palm where she gripped it. She hated how aware of him she was as she let go. Nikolai let her, grinning delightedly at this sudden display of insolence. 

"Not particularly gentle. I like that."

"Stop pretending to flirt with me, your Highness." Because that's what it was - make-believe. She thought she could see something more sinister lurking beneath it. If he didn't believe her she was meeting Zaitsev for a moonlight tryst between two lovers - which in all fairness was an entirely correct assumption - then he must've thought she had more insidious intentions. So why wasn't he dragging her back to the party, demanding answers? Perhaps making a spectacle of it was his way of intimidation, it certainly fit the aura of aloof confidence he was displaying.

"Who says I'm pretending?"

She shot him a dry look in lieu of an answer. "If you're not going to ask what my real reason was for meeting Zaistev then I'm going to ask how in Ghezen's name did you know we were meeting in the first place?" 

He watched her for a moment, head bent to look down at her and a smirk playing on his lips, then he turned and went around her to stroll between the lush flowers. She watched the moonlight glint off the golden details of his uniform, his hands clasped behind his back, something languorous and insolent about the way he moved. "Now, that would be telling," he said, "And I like to keep an air of mystery about me. It adds to the charm I think." 

"Fine. Why care to find out about it at all?" 

He halted for a second as if considering his answer. "I told you. You never bothered to introduce yourself, and the whole charade has been going on for three nights and days now. I was already suspicious on the second day as to what exactly you were doing here."

Realising they weren't going anywhere any time soon Y/N made her way over to the fountain, the soft rush of water behind her back soothing her nerves as she sat down. "So your explanation is that your ego made you do it?"

"My ego makes me do a lot of things, Miss Braam. A character fault, I know, but no one's perfect." He didn't sound sorry about it at all. 

"I have a perfectly sensible explanation for that, if you'd like to hear it?"

He was picking apart another flower, like a gardener's worst nightmare when he looked back towards her and smirked. "Another one? Are we dropping the playing hard-to-get ploy?"

Y/N ignored the jab, leaning back on her hands and tilting her head as she watched him lean in to smell some unremarkable bush. "My parents are tentatively hopeful, but I know better..."

"Of course you do."

"Would you stop that, you menace." 

Nikolai started laughing and Y/N realised that all the other times he'd laughed or chuckled at her words it had been only a good mimicry of amusement. This was the real thing. She snorted and looked up towards the glass ceiling in faux exasperation, hiding her smile.

"Anyway. It's the crown prince's hand in marriage that's on the table, right? You said it yourself - us merchling princesses are a pragmatic bunch. As nice as it sounds, I'm no royalty, so why waste my breath? Your kingdom needs political alliances, not money. Nothing's going to come of it." She shrugged. "And if I'm debasing myself like I'm a dairy cow on a cattle fair, I'd prefer not to do it in vain. I too have an ego, you know."

When she dropped her head back down she realised Nikolai was watching her from where he stood, head tipped to the side, his fingers absentmindedly plucking the petals off a rose he was holding. He seemed to be considering saying something but decided against it. 

"From what I've been told, your father is a very rich man," he said eventually, "And I find that sort of thing makes a woman rather attractive. Political alliances can be bought, you know." 

"Is that why you keep not-pretending to flirt? Does my father's money make me so irresistible?"

"Well that, and the insolence." He smirked. "But mostly insolence. Us Ravkans, we're just not as pragmatic." 

Y/N rolled her eyes, though without malice. "I can tell." She sighed, watching her fingers where they dipped into the cold water. "And besides, I'm not too keen on being shipped off to a foreign kingdom. Much to my mother's dismay."

"Not even for a crown?"

Her gaze shifted back to Nikolai who was now strolling over to her, appearing genuinely curious this time. He looked like something out of a children's book, like he might be the one to discover the fair, dead girl she'd imagined in a field of flowers and mourn over her body, impressive even in tragedy. She supposed she understood why all the girls when they were done with Vasily swarmed to try and get Nikolai's attention instead.

"I have no interest in crowns. They seem heavy."

He stopped a few paces away, watching her for a moment before a small, knowing smile bloomed across his lips. "What is it that interests you then?"

Y/N was glad he'd asked if only so she could grin insolently at him and repeat what he'd said to her before, "Now, that would be telling, your Highness. And I like to keep an air of mystery about myself too." 

He was standing over her now, looking down at where she was sprawled back on the cold stone of the fountain, a playful glint in his eyes. "Fair. I suppose I should've seen that one coming from a mile away."

"You really should have." She agreed with amusement, head tipped back to look up at him. For a moment they stared at each other, him standing so close she could feel the fabric of his pants brush against her knee, and her leaning back on her hands, aware that she could but didn't want to shift away. She'd almost forgotten she was supposed to be rather annoyed about her failed meeting and when the thought appeared uninvited at the forefront of her mind she couldn't help breaking eye contact and looking at the dark corners of the winter garden behind Nikolai. 

"Why were you meeting him?" he asked then, his voice more serious than it had ever been since they started talking. Y/N didn't look at him right away, worrying at her lip as she thought about what she would say. Playful avoidance didn't seem like a good choice here, but neither did the truth, at least not the whole truth. 

She sighed. "He has something I want." 

When she pulled herself up to stand Nikolai shifted slightly to the side so that he was right by her side, not really blocking her path but close enough to stop her if he decided to. He was close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his body. 

Y/N looked up at him, a determined look in her eyes. "I'm not telling." 

Nikolai raised an eyebrow. "I assume you can see how that might seem rather worrisome to me."

Y/N dipped her chin in a small nod of acknowledgement. 

"And I also assume you know I won't just let it go."

"You? Unrelenting? I never would've guessed." 

He smiled at that, though it was a bit strained. "I could drag you back to your parents now. Demand an explanation." 

Y/N appeared to consider his words for a moment. "Yes. I suppose you could." She dropped her eyes down to his hands where he had them shoved into the pockets of his uniform. Her skin remembered the grip he'd had on her chin earlier that evening, prickling at the thought of those silk gloves wrapped around her arm. Was this fear she felt in the pit of her stomach? 

Nikolai must have noticed because he followed her gaze down and let out a soft chuckle when he saw the prickled skin on her bare arms and the uncertain look on her face. "I didn't mean it literally. Though I could, if that's your preference?"

Y/N felt the blood rush to her face, hot and burning, certain the blush was already spreading from her chest up to her neck. She closed her eyes and let out a frustrated breath. Collect yourself, you frivolous fool. "You just can't help yourself, can you?" she said, voice biting. 

Nikolai chuckled. She couldn't see him with her eyes shut, but she could imagine he was looking at her, thoroughly amused. "I can, I just don't want to. I was wondering how much it would take to make you blush." 

She opened her eyes to glare at him. "Satisfied?"

"Very much so." 

"Great, now that we've pleased you, let's get this over with. -- I am warning you though, my mother is prone to fainting when startled." 

She tried to side-step him to head for the door, assuming he'd follow her, but Nikolai deftly held out his hand to catch her wrist and pull her back to where she had been standing. There was no harshness to it, he was careful not to grip too hard or pull too strongly, but Y/N still gasped when she felt stopped in her path. 

Irritated, she spun around and came up so close she could feel the wool of his uniform brush against her bodice as she glared up at him. "What now?" 

"Now I'm thinking I should escort you to your room, just to make sure you don't accidentally commit some act of treason on your way to it."

"Is that what you think? That I'm planning some grand act of treason with Zaitsev?"

"You do have that look about you. A bit insolent, a bit treasonous." 

She twisted her wrist in his hand as if to draw attention to it, jutting her chin out defiantly as she looked up at him. When she spoke she did her best to sound as smug and irritating as he did. "You like that, don't you?"

He made a soft tutting sound, looking deeply amused. "I do like you. That doesn't mean I trust you." 

"That's--" she stuttered, torn between irritation and being caught off-guard by the matter-of-factness colouring his voice, "That's not what I meant." 

"You're blushing again."

She reached up to smack him on his arm with her free hand. For a moment he looked genuinely caught off guard and Y/N couldn't help the smug self-satisfaction that swelled in her chest at the startled look he gave her. She just hit a prince. A real, very gilded, very irritating prince. 

"You are the most infuriating man I have ever had the displeasure of meeting." Her chest rose and fell on quickened breath and she could hear her pulse thrumming against her ribcage like some caged bird startled by the way her voice rose in irritation. 

Then Nikolai started laughing and it was Y/N's turn to look alarmed by the display. She stared at him as he tried to collect himself several times, running his hand through his hair and leaving it charmingly tousled as he tipped his head back and took a deep breath to calm himself. 

"Like I said. You do have a tendency for treason - like hitting a prince." 

"I barely touched you, and you had it coming," she said, then shook her head and looked up above his head, "Sorry. I lost my temper." 

"No, no - it's fine. I did have it coming." 

She felt his thumb brush against the inner side of her wrist, suddenly aware that he'd never let go of it. His fingers stilled for a moment before he spoke, "Breathe. Your heart's beating like you just outran a bear. I'm not going to tell anyone about tonight." 

She did not think anything good would come of admitting the current state of her pulse had very little to do with the fear of her parents and everything to do with the way every sense in her body was heightened by his proximity. She hardly wanted to admit that silly reaction of her body to herself, much less him. She let out a shaky breath. "Okay." 

"Okay?" He was watching her when she opened her eyes again. "Do you want to go back to your parents or your room?"

She stared at him for a moment, uncertain. Had she really appeared distressed enough for him to so suddenly switch gears? She searched his face for anything suspicious as if she half-expected this sudden calmness in his voice to be a trap. 

"I'm suspicious. Not cruel," he said when she failed to answer. She felt him release her wrist as if finally satisfied enough with her pulse going down to let go. "I crossed the line and upset you. It wasn't my intention."

"Wasn't it?" There was an accusation in her voice, one she didn't realise was there until it slipped out without her permission. When had they switched roles of the accuser and the accused?

Nikolai looked away, looking almost repentant. "I don't know. I got carried away - I guess I didn't expect you to be... like that." 

She wasn't sure what like that meant and was half-afraid of asking. Maybe he'd say something ridiculous and then she'd be blushing again. No, that was a ridiculous thought. This entire exchange was ridiculous. She almost expected to wake up tomorrow and fully believe it was a fever dream. 

"So what I just... leave now? No consequences?" she said, sounding deeply doubtful. 

"Yes and no. I said I wouldn't tell." He finally looked back at her, his gaze scouring her face. "I didn't say I wouldn't keep trying to find out what you're hiding." 

"It's nothing bad if that's what you're worried about." 

"You've tried to lie to me several times tonight. Do you expect me to just believe you?" 

He did have a point there. Y/N pursed her lips. "What then?"

Nikolai seemed to consider her then. Under scrutiny, Y/N suddenly became very aware of their proximity, which in all fairness had been entirely her fault. She stepped away uneasily, worrying at her lip. Ghezen, he really was deeply infuriating, for more than one reason. 

"You'll see tomorrow."

Y/N's head shot up. "Tomorrow?"

"Save me a dance."

She was certain she looked like there were rusted cogs inside her head grinding against each other as she tried to process his words. There was clearly a double meaning in there, there always seemed to be with him, but it wasn't immediately obvious to her. 

Nikolai smirked as he watched her work it out. "Don't overheat that pretty little head of yours. I like the way it works." 

She made a face at him. "Why would you... oh."

"Oh," he repeated, smug. 

Save me a dance. It was a threat, not a request. He would approach her tomorrow in the middle of the after-dinner ball, in front of everyone. She would know it was for show, but to everyone else, it would appear as if he'd singled her out and shown her his favour. Out of the blue at that. 

She shot him a dirty look. "That's low."

"I don't consider myself a particularly immoral person, but I will do what I have to."

She would find herself dragged out of her carefully-crafted obscurity and thrust under scrutiny. Her parents would be delighted, no doubt, a welcome reprieve from the frustration her disobedience was causing them currently. She couldn't think of a worse thing. 

"Unless, of course, you decide to tell me about it beforehand." At some point, he'd strolled away from her and plucked another one of those poor flowers. "I'll still ask, of course, but more subtly." 

She stared at him, disbelieving. Did he just threaten her and then proceed to imply he'd still ask her to dance with him?

She let out a frustrated sigh. "Very well, we can play that game. I will warn you though, I tend to bite when cornered."

"I was hoping you would."

"You... you are just the worst," she said, irritation colouring her voice higher than normal, before turning around to head for the door. In the smallest, most meagre act of defiance, she decided not to tell him goodnight and instead storm out without a word. 

He was not having it. "Y/N?"

She produced some indeterminate sound of frustration. "What now, your Highness?" 

"Call me Nikolai."

"I will not." 

A chuckle. Then the sound of his steps as he approached her from the back. "I do wish we'd met on some less... dramatic terms. Honestly." 

She couldn't ignore him when he went around her to stand in her field of vision, but she did shoot him a dirty look. There was a flower in his hands now, so delicate and white that it almost blended into the whiteness of his gloves, only the leaves visible in the darkness. He hadn't yet dismembered this one. 

"Since you don't like the smell of jasmine," he said, as if that explained everything, and held it out to her.

Y/N considered not taking it, but curiosity got the better of her and she reached out her hand tentatively to pluck the flower from his fingers. "What is it?"

"Gardenia. A personal favourite, at least scent-wise." He stared at the flower in her hand for a moment, then smiled. "Goodnight, Miss Braam."

She watched him stroll back towards the door that led into the palace, unhurried, languid and infuriatingly prepossessing. For a moment she stood there, reeling, before she headed for the other door, the one that led out into the gardens, desperate for a breath of fresh air. It was only once she was outside that she realised he hadn't lied about the flower, its fragrance a sweet, charming thing. Later that night, when she returned to her room she would put it in a small crystal glass and place it next to her bed so that when she fell asleep her mind was still full of that fragrance and the memory of Nikolai's thumb pressed against her pulse point.