#non-graphic lemon

[lifblogs]

Rating: Explicit Pairing: Hemlock/Tech | CT-9902 | CX-2 Word Count: 1936 Summary: Hemlock is aggravated by the slow pace of his projects, and he masturbates to thoughts of CX-2 to try and relieve some of his feelings. WARNINGS: Surgery, Brain Surgery, Human Experimentation, Medical Experimentation, Blood and Gore, Gore, Blood, Major Injuries, Rape/Non-con Elements, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat

[randomdragonfires]

Time Can't Stop Me Quite Like You Did | Chapter 2

Text Divider by @saradika-graphics

Chapter 2 | And So, We Begin Again

SUMMARY | She leans on the doorway and watches as Aemond Targaryen takes a lengthy drag out of his cigarette - tiny embers of the burning tip being the only light in all the space around him. He is withdrawn and lost in his own thoughts, always - just as she knows him to be.

It is at this moment that it strikes her.

It's him that she's in love with. It's always been him.

WARNINGS | 18+; SMUT; Angst with a Happy Ending; Grooming; Attempted Rape/Non-Con; Blood and Injury; Violence

WORD COUNT | 10.2k

Check out the lovely artwork my friend @azperja has made for this fic, HERE!

IT'S A LONGSTANDING BIRTHDAY TRADITION OF THEIRS. 

For each of Daeron’s birthdays, she comes in with two drinks in hand. Her choice is a Sunspearino, while his is an Iron Throne Iced Tea. There’s also a box of lemon cakes from the King’s Landing Roastery, a huge chain of cafes co-owned by two of her eight older half-siblings. It's a place they often visit when she craves coffee.

Sometimes, they would sneak whiskey from Viserys’ liquor cabinet, mixing it into their drinks while lounging on his bed. They'd watch the rom-com she selects, spending the afternoon together before Alicent’s planned dinner, a big party she always throws for each of her children's birthdays every year. Initially, their mothers arranged snacks and playdates, but as they grew, it evolved into what it is now. However, this year, on his seventeenth, it would seem that the tradition is at its end.

She has been waiting for him for three hours.

The house staff let her in and inform her that Daeron isn’t home. Despite their recent strain, she was confident he wouldn't forget her and their time on his birthday.

He’ll come, she thinks.

The clock's tick-tock seems never-ending as she hopes for his arrival to drown it out.

He'll walk in right now, and apologize for being late, she thinks.

The posters on his wall appear to mock her, reminding her of the disrupted tradition caused by a girl he's been seeing for less than a month. She wants to cry, to tear the papers to shreds and glue.

Any moment now, she thinks.

Her fingers dig into his mattress, catching her charm bracelet on a loose stray thread. It pricks her wrist as she waits, tears blurring her vision and wetting her skirt. He’s going to come right now, she thinks.

The ice in her Sunspearino, a strong black coffee with three sugars, has completely melted, forming a layer of water on top. The melted ice creates drops on the to-go cup, making her wait evident.

He's on his way, she thinks.

Perhaps she is wrong. With every passing second, her faith in him dwindles.

How did they come to this?

Her heart weighs heavy as she finally gathers the courage to stand up and leave. She takes her drink but leaves his, hoping he'll realize what he forgot when he returns to find her gone. Would he even think of her?

He’s not coming.

She leans out of his window, watching Alicent oversee the garden's decor for the outdoor birthday party. She knows what it’ll look like, having attended many of these before. Fairy lights, candles, good wine, and delicious food - she has fond memories of Daeron’s birthday parties. Last year, he convinced the string quartet to play a song they could dance to, and he spun her around - making her feel like she could fly high, higher and higher still.

The longer she stares, the blurrier her vision becomes. Rubbing her red, puffy eyes, she walks out, each step feeling heavier than the last. Helaena and Aegon will likely arrive later in the night, and her own city-residing siblings may make an appearance. Aemond will be coaxed out of hiding, and they'll all have a good time. She won't join tonight, and as she resolves to stay away, she wonders.

Is he bringing Floris Baratheon tonight?

She closes the doorknob with a flick as she steps out.

Will Floris sit with him as she has for all these years? Held by him, as she has desired for so long?

She clenches the drink tightly, some of the coffee spilling onto her hand as she allows the tears to fall.

Will he kiss Floris and dance with her this year, just as he did with her?

She walks swiftly, hoping to remain unnoticed as she desperately hides her face within her hair, which falls on either side of her shoulders like a dark curtain, allowing in just the right amount of light.

Will he even consider her presence? Will he--

First, she hears the moans, then she notices the slightly open door.

She is not quite in the headspace to make out what’s happening, but she knows this for a fact - she is not meant to see. 

The drink slips down her hand and spills in a puddle, wetting her shoes and the carpet that she has no doubt will be cleaned up by angry staff in the next few hours. She gasps just enough for the woman, in between whose thighs Aemond Targaryen’s unmistakable head is nestled - the longer silver hair, an easy contrast to the haircut of the younger brother that she is very familiar with is a dead giveaway - to hear, and she looks straight at her.

She’s got striking green eyes, jet black hair and a piercing gaze that makes her want to squirm. Alys Rivers is definitely enjoying herself as Aemond continues his ministrations with his tongue between her legs. Her moans, each of which are loud and encouraging to him, come as she maintains steady eye contact with her as her own tear-struck, heavy eyes struggle to make sense of the scene before her.

She is older than his mother, and he’s just eighteen.

She runs. 

Her foot kicks away the discarded coffee cup in her rush, drawing Aemond's attention to the unexpected audience. She hears him swearing faintly as she runs. First, the sound of the door closing, then opening again, but she doesn't stick around to find out what happens next.

What had she walked into?

Alys Rivers - she's seen her at numerous gatherings with her father. Co-owner of Harrenhal Communications with her brothers Larys and Harwin Strong, all children of her school's principal, Lionel. Alys isn't close to Aemond's age, and that worries her. But she can't figure out what to do - her legs are moving faster than her mind can process. She heads to the garden, intending to leave, but Alicent spots her and beckons her over, diverting her escape.

"Your movie time ended early! Come try the cak -” 

"He didn't show," she blurts, noticing Alicent's softening and then hardening expression.

"I'm so sorry, my sweet." Alicent begins.

"It's fine. He was probably busy," she replies, struggling to think clearly. She just wants to leave, but Alicent insists she stay for the party. Overwhelmed, she pleads to go home, and Alicent eventually lets her go.

She's almost out when Aemond catches up and pulls her outside the gate to avoid any messy explanations. He's about to tell her something she's not ready for, she knows. As he grabs her shoulders and gazes into her eyes, she realizes she wasn't prepared for this when she arrived.

“You can’t tell anyone, Wylde.”

His words serve as a vivid reminder of the scene she has just witnessed. Aemond, buried between Alys Rivers' thighs, while Alys locked eyes with her, as if daring her to acknowledge the ecstasy. Startled, she spilled her drink and ran, ran, ran-

"How long?" she manages to ask through the fog in her mind, her grip tightening on her skirt, unable to face him, thoughts swirling in her head.

"A little over six months," he admits.

He turned eighteen six months ago. Apparently, they had been involved since he became legal to make his own decisions. The implications dawn on her - had she pursued him when he was younger? Her breath catches.

"Is she... is this..." she looks up, and Aemond, sweating, grapples with the sudden exposure of his clandestine affair. "Is she... she's old enough to be your mother!"

Silence engulfs them, the kind that’s not comfortable. Aemond's tight grip startles her, and his furious violet eye, contrasting with his brother's, glares at her. "Don't be stupid. Don't tell anyone, and you'll listen to me -" he asserts, the anger palpable.

She suggests, "Is she grooming you? Gods, is it blackmail? Should I tell your mother? Are you afraid? I-"

“Fucking hell,” he seethes. “She’s not fucking grooming me, you’d think that I’m smart enough to not let that happen to me -”

“Aemond, you can tell me.” She struggles with her words.

"You're fucking dumb, Wylde," he retorts sharply, his words spilling faster than he can process. His prosthetic eye appears to take on a life of its own in his rage.

“People usually deny it first. You don’t have to, it’s just me and I want to hel-”

“You’re fucking dumb, Wylde.” The words tumble out of his lips faster than his mind can catch up. She sees the way his jaw tightens and she knows Aemond has always been angry and too quick to react, but she is not prepared for the way his throat bobs as he swallows and prepares to strike at her heart.

“Perhaps if you weren’t such an idiot and jumped to stupid conclusions, Daeron would actually fucking like you back.”

The words are painful, harsh and probably true, and they hit her like whiplash. 

With what she’d seen of Aemond and Alys Rivers, she had momentarily forgotten what she was actually at the house for. But it all comes back to her as she curls into herself as much as she can in his hold, the tears free falling in her embarrassment and sadness. Her head faces down and she refuses to let him see, and it is all becoming a bit much.

She feels her legs become wobbly and she wants to breathe and be let go of so she can run to the comforts of her room like the coward that she is - but she cannot get her body to listen. It refuses to comply and move and she stands there, still held in Aemond’s vice grip as he mutters Valyrian curses under his breath - she’s heard Daeron mutter some of the words before. He smells strongly of coffee and cigarettes and it is too much, too much -

“Shit, fuck, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that, I’m so fucking sorr-”

“Let go of me, Aemond.” Her voice is eerily calm and she can see that it momentarily stuns him. He doesn’t let go, however. “I’m sorry, Wylde. Just… you can’t fucking tell. I-”

“Let. Go.” She tries to wrangle out of his hold and he refuses to let her leave until she agrees to keep his secret. Her mind is running a mile a minute as she imagines Aemond being a young lad, being preyed on by an older woman and not knowing a thing. She does not want to keep his dirty secret, she wants to go-

“LET GO OF ME, AEMOND!”

Her louder tone seems to have attracted Criston Cole’s attention, and he’s quick to rush to them and pull Aemond away from her. His black shirt-clad figure moves away from her and she is stunned - so bloody stunned - and not at all prepared for Criston’s low voice. 

"Your mother is looking for you," he tells Aemond, who leaves, imploring her silence with his stoic gaze - one that he does not drop till he’s out of her sight.

"Are you alright?" Criston asks, checking her for injuries. She mumbles apologies and retreats.

“No.” Her voice is cracked and the bodyguard is at a loss for words - he’s not quite used to comforting teenage girls, she can tell. She uses this as her cue to hastily mumble her apologies, and the trusty guardian does nothing as she walks away.

Later that night, she’s locked up in her room, nestled under the covers as she thinks over all that has happened. She’s sure that the party at Maegor’s is in full swing, and that they’re all probably having loads of fun.

Without her. 

Her brother, one that she does not see often, texts her and asks why she isn’t there. He says he'll be staying at Rain House tonight, and she does not respond. Alicent texts her to check if she’s eaten. Helaena texts her and asks if she’s home so she can come over, and Aegon sends her a plain, “Where the fuck are you, Wylde?”

It makes her want to cry.

Aemond does not bother with her at all - and if she's being honest, she’d say she’s glad for the distance he’s put between them in the last few hours. Almost an hour later, when it’s close to midnight, Daeron texts her. 

I’m sorry, can we talk? 

She lets her phone fall away, leaving him to make his own assumptions. She is reminded once again of the hours she spent in his room today, waiting for him to come. She feels pathetic, wondering if he thought so less of her that he’d chosen to forego something that they’d done for years, without so much as a warning. She feels the tears prick at her eyes once more, but she is resolute - she will not spend any more time crying or missing a boy that did not want to give her time of day anymore.

When she looks back, she is thoroughly convinced that this is the day that she finally fell out of love with her best friend, even if she isn’t quite ready to admit to it yet.

OVER THE COMING WEEKS, HER LIFE BLURS into a haze of avoidance, deliberately steering clear of anything related to the Targaryens. At school, she strategically distances herself from Daeron, swiftly darting away when the bell rings, determined not to give him a chance to approach her.

"I don't want to speak to him," she asserts to Elinor Beesbury, her gaze fixed on her untouched food. Daeron’s persistent attempts to reconcile only fuel her resolve to keep her distance. It's a delicate balance between her lingering attachment and the painful recognition that their bond has irreversibly shifted.

Elinor studies her with concern, "You'll have to let go at some point, love."

She nods silently, acknowledging the futility of holding onto resentment. Months of grappling with her feelings have taught her the necessity of moving on. Yet, the wounds still sting fresh, the memories of his repeated indifference are etched into her heart.

"Soon. But not now," she affirms.

"Alright, just so you know, I hear Floris Baratheon's asked him to come with her to her senior prom," Elinor adds, trying to infuse levity into the conversation. But the prospect of Daeron moving on so swiftly brings forth an unsettling wave of emotions, mingling with her lingering frustration.

“Come on, don’t be like that! You're sexy and awesome, and he's a piece of shit! Like, sexy is… in your blood! Wasn’t a great grandmother of yours like, the OG sex guru or something?”

“Great great great great great great grandmother. And she wasn’t a sex guru, she was the first recorded published author of erotic fiction  in Westeros!”

Many in the world know of Coryanne Wylde, with the wild woman being known for having written A Caution For Young Girls - an erotic cult classic that opened the doors for erotic literature in Westeros. History candidates in college end up reading it sometimes for their lessons, and it never fails to surprise her.

“Exactly! You get it from your grandma! And next year, our prom is gonna be so sexy, babe. You mark my words!” She grimaces at the suggestion of involving herself with another boy, her focus fixated on Daeron and what little that remains. Despite her friend's efforts to lighten the mood, the weight of her unresolved emotions lingers - she supposes it will take a bit of time.

Heading to her locker after lunch, her path unexpectedly intersects with Aemond, whose intense presence startles her. The curious gazes of their peers heighten the tension, drawing attention to their rare encounter. Aemond's enigmatic aura, accentuated by his leather jacket and disheveled man bun, exudes an unsettling magnetism, contrasting sharply with Daeron's more approachable charm.

Her mind involuntarily delves into the memories of Alys Rivers, a stark reminder of Aemond's heavily inappropriate relationship that she is now privy to. The betrayal, the hurt, the raw emotions from what he’d said to her later surge within her, and she blurts out, "What do you want?" with an edge of apprehension, unwilling to be drawn into another tumultuous dynamic.

Aemond stands so close that she can feel the warmth of his breath, and she is stunned by how, within days of stepping away from Daeron, she's standing so close to Aemond, especially after having not even properly spoken to him in many years. They both stand in the corner of the corridor with their backs leaned back against the lockers. Aemond surprisingly murmurs to her, asking if she and Daeron are fighting because she wasn't at his birthday party or the Sunday lunch. She grunts at him, her non-response making her emotions clear.

You’re fucking dumb, Wylde.

Perhaps if you weren’t such an idiot and jumped to stupid conclusions, Daeron would actually fucking like you back.

He seems to wrestle with something within himself, his jaw clenching before he finally speaks. "I didn't mean what I said that day, you know. I was angry and it came out all wrong."

She scoffs, her hand shaking as she points a finger at him. "It doesn't matter! You had no right to say those things to me."

Aemond's grip on her wrist startles her, his commanding gaze penetrating her defenses. Despite her efforts to distance herself, she finds herself drawn into a tense exchange, confronting the pain he had caused her at Daeron's birthday.

The conflict within Aemond surfaces, his facade of aloofness crumbling as he attempts to reconcile with her. Her anger flares, yet the sting of his remorse momentarily softens her resolve, only to be replaced by the bitterness of his persistent complications.

Aemond's expression falls, and he reaches out as if to touch her, but hesitates and drops his hand to his side. "I know, I'm sorry, Wylde. But you have to understand, it's not easy for me either."

As hurt as she is by his words, she knows she wants to help him and see him through the mess he’s gotten himself into with Alys Rivers - even if he doesn’t see it that way right now. So she chooses to reach out. Just one more time.

“Then tell me. What's going on? Aemond, I know we haven't been close in a long while, but I want to help.”

Aemond's gaze softens, and he opens his mouth and shuts it close, almost as though he wants to say something but opts not to - but she's had enough. She does not want to be put in a difficult position where she’s navigating relationship dynamics that are probably a lot more problematic than anything she’s ever known - especially not if he doesn’t even want to tell her.

Pushing away from the lockers, she turns to walk away, her steps quickening with each stride. But before she can get far, she feels a surge of frustration and pain erupt within her, and she turns around, her voice raised to a shout. "I don't want to hear from you or him, ever again! You’ve both done enough."

She looks around for just a moment, very conscious of the students that were now noting them by the corner of their eyes. She knows she shouldn’t go on, and that if she did, they’d become gossip fodder - but she cannot help herself.

“You Targaryens have got everyone wrapped around your finger, don't you? Think you can say whatever you want and get away with it," she lashes out, her voice trembling with the weight of her wounded trust.

Aemond winces, the impact of her words evident in his pained expression. "I never wanted to hurt you, Wylde. Things are complicated and I…" he murmurs, gulping as his gaze pleads with hers for understanding. But her resolve remains unyielding, fueled by a well of hurt and resentment.

"I don't care about your complications. You had no right saying those things to me, and now I want you to leave me the fuck alone."

HE'S ALWAYS HAD STRONG FEELINGS ABOUT THE YOUNGEST WYLDE BEING A PART OF THEIR LIVES.

Aemond can't quite discern the exact nature of his emotions. She has been a constant presence in the family ever since her family returned to the Red Keep town all those years ago, after her father secured his place as one of the executive directors on the board of Targaryen Consolidated. Over time, Jasper Wylde had grown to be a reliable work companion to his father, leaving his wife and youngest daughter behind to reside near his boss' family.

When her second pregnancy failed and Jeyne Wylde passed, their young daughter seamlessly fell in with the Hightower-Targaryen fold under the care of his mother. Rain House had become desolate with Jasper's older children from previous marriages moving away, and the young girl was sadly left behind.

Aemond isn't certain what his mother had in mind when she practically ushered the Wylde girl into his and his siblings' lives thereafter. She had never been keen on outsiders stepping into their lives as much as Wylde had. Yet, he couldn't find it within himself to complain.

Through life's ebbs and flows - be it his eye or her mother's passing - she had always been there, gradually weaving herself into their existence. Before he knew it, she had become a daily fixture in their lives - laughing as Aegon spun her around, attempting to flirt with her; accompanying Helaena on her bug expeditions across the estate; reading quietly with him in his father's library during their childhood and transforming into Daeron's shadow in every way. She was always there when he embarked on mischief, a quintessential trait for any youngest child.

Daeron was the prankster, and she, the lookout. Always.

He witnessed their first day of school together, navigating the challenges of being around children other than each other. He observed their struggles with tying uniform ties for weeks until Alicent stepped in to teach them. He's seen her occasional presence at breakfast, sometimes ending up in the car with them on the way to campus.

He listened to their endless chatter, her incessant and somewhat annoying foot tapping during weekend lunch conversations when she felt uneasy or self-conscious, and the way Daeron's friendship with his best friend had grown stronger over the years. He noticed how her gaze upon Daeron had evolved, her friendship gradually transforming into something more, something his younger brother clearly did not appreciate or reciprocate.

He has watched and listened. For years, it's been his means of engagement during times when he preferred not to be directly involved. Perhaps, if others did the same, they might uncover why Wylde hadn't returned to Maegor's since Daeron's birthday.

"I don't know, Mum. I texted her, but she didn't respond," Daeron says.

The chair next to his younger brother remains empty, and curiously enough, the atmosphere during lunch seems quieter than usual. Aemond attributes this to Wylde's absence. Her mindless chatter effortlessly filled the gaps of awkwardness, and now, the Targaryens were left to grapple with a Sunday afternoon meal without the lively girl.

"You should apologize to her in person," his mother advises Daeron, yet her gaze remains fixed on him. His eyes inadvertently shift to Cole, who undoubtedly divulged details about the incident he had with Wylde outside the gates after she had seen him and Alys.

How much do they know?

"She's been avoiding me like the plague, Mum. I'll give her some time to cool off, I suppose."

He's watched, listened, and picked up cues over the years. It comes in handy with his mother, who never lets her emotions overpower her. Any instinctual response she has is always gone in a flash - quicker than you know - and right now is no exception. She wants to get Daeron to see sense - but if there’s one thing that Alicent Hightower has given her children, it’s autonomy.

Given how little he believes she had of it when his grandfather essentially pushed her into his father's arms, Aemond has always appreciated that it's the one thing she'd never take away from her children. He knows she has made peace with watching her children make peculiar choices she wouldn't make, but it's not her burden until they make it clear they need her. Her palpable anger at Daeron's indifference towards his best friend dissipates as swiftly as it emerged.

He knows she's concerned. They all are. Jasper Wylde is rarely present, and Rain House is a hollow residence compelled to seem lively with the presence of staff. It had been a much warmer place long ago, back when Jeyne Wylde was alive. His mother has always considered the youngest Wylde one of her own, and she's cared for her over the years as well.

"She doesn't pick up when I call either," his mother muses, her furrowed brow betraying her stoic nature and making her momentary worry obvious. However, Aemond knows. He watches and listens, always.

Just a few days ago, while atop his motorbike, he heard that Jason Lannister had asked her out on a date.

Lannister had started on the school football team when Wylde's half-brother was captain. While he made his interest in his former captain's little sister known, he knew better than to make it obvious to her brother.

He had never favored the golden-haired fool. Now in the same final year of school as Aemond, the current football team captain is shallow, self-absorbed, and, in a way that puzzles him, still popular among the students. He fails to see the appeal of someone like him - he prefers Tyland, who is much easier to converse with and not easily provoked. He always assumed that Wylde was wise enough not to slip up.

He had assumed wrong.

She was likely out with Jason, learning to replace her Sunday lunch times at his house with something else. Adjusting won't happen swiftly, he knows. It takes a great deal to disrupt an established routine - but he won't hold it against her. It was obvious to him that Daeron started it first.

"You can't be upset with me for having a girlfriend, Mum. Neither can she... It's not fair. Things change," Daeron huffs. “You’re both ruining it for me. Floris has asked me to go to her senior prom with her, and I’m going. I'm sorry that you both will probably hate me for it, but she should get over herself, and so should you!”

His mother does nothing apart from poking at the insides of her cheek with her tongue. Wylde's absence looms over the house whenever awkwardness settles, and this time is no exception. Daeron sighs at his mother's subtle disappointment and storms out, muttering about having dinner with Floris.

It doesn’t escape Aemond's notice that in a better time, he'd actually be grabbing breakfast pancakes for dinner with Wylde instead. Aemond recalled the last time she'd come for lunch. Her foot tapping had bothered him so much that he nearly contemplated plunging his fork into her thigh to make it stop. She seemed highly anxious that day, evident in the relentless tap, tap, tap, tap of her feet.

Not seeing her for a while, the absence of the irritating sound, usually accompanied by the loud jingle of her bracelet on the hand she keeps near her thigh, should bring him a sense of calm. It shouldn't bother him at all.

But it does. It does, it does, it does.

[A MONTH LATER, PROM NIGHT]

STANDING THERE IN HER EXQUISITE PROM DRESS - the fabric shimmers in a delicate blend of blue and gold - she can't shake the feeling of unease gnawing at her insides. It's a dress she painstakingly picked out, hoping it will add a touch of glamour to this otherwise mundane high school memory. But now, amid the flashy lights and pulsating music, it feels like a facade, a flimsy disguise.

Her mind drifts back to those countless mindless hours she's spent with Jason in the past month, now seeming like distant echoes of a hazy past. Going to football games with his jersey on, pretending to blend seamlessly into his world, she often finds herself feeling like an impostor, a misfit amidst his circle of friends. On her way back home from one of the games, she’d caught Aemond's gaze as she passed by their house. He was seated on his motorbike, getting ready to go out somewhere as he lifted his helmet in his hands, his loose messy bun probably about to get messier from the helmet. In that brief moment, she was sure she’d seen an expression of silent disapproval as he raised his eyebrow at the oversized jersey hanging loosely on her frame. It felt like an unspoken judgment, and she couldn't help but feel out of place - an outsider masquerading as a loyal fan in a world that was never truly hers.

She had curled into herself right then and there. She owes him nothing - just as he owes her no explanation about his messy entanglement with Alys Rivers - but it was not enough to make her feel confident in her choice.

As the days go by, she finds herself entangled in a half-hearted routine of a seemingly typical high school relationship with Jason. They often spend their afternoons at the local diner, sipping on milkshakes and sharing fries, engaging in shallow conversation that never quite delved into the depths of her thoughts. On Friday nights, they would go to the movies, his arm draped loosely around her shoulders, the scent of buttered popcorn lingering in the air. And then, they’d usually end up in her bed.

She enjoyed the sex. She wouldn’t deny it. Jason Lannister knew what he was doing. 

But it wasn’t enough.

Despite the outward appearance of bliss, there lingered a persistent emptiness, a hollow void that echoed within her. She had become a fragment of someone else's world, a mere accessory in the narrative of Jason's life, her own desires fading into the background of their mindless high school romance. And as she retraced these moments, each memory served as a silent reminder of the gaping chasm between her facade of contentment and the relentless ache for something more, something she had yet to discover.

Lost. She is lost.

Standing at the prom, she feels suffocated, trapped in a reality where she has pushed away those who cared for her. 

Floris Baratheon's entrance shifts the atmosphere, drawing everyone's attention with her elegance. Beside her is Daeron, exuding a charming confidence that had always captivated her. Her heart sinks as she realizes that he'll never truly belong to her.

Her gaze meets Daeron's, and she senses a detachment that cuts through her. She stands there, feeling the weight of her insignificance in his life, a mere footnote in his story.

As she turns away, her gaze skimming over the flashy arrival of the popular couple, her attention is drawn to Aemond. He stands aloof in the corner, his immaculately pressed shirt forming a stark contrast to the nonchalance with which his jacket lay carelessly slung over the edge of the nearby bench. A small group of girls from his year encircle him, all seemingly tied to his on-and-off fling, Arianne Martell, whom he has an arm draped around.

A familiar pang on condescension accompanies the sight of his disinterested expression, almost as if it were a trademark of his persona. She isn't taken aback; it seemed to be ingrained in Aemond's very being to treat those around him as if they were inconsequential. How many times has she attempted to initiate a conversation with him, only to be met with cold indifference or a curt dismissal? It is a pattern she has grown accustomed to, yet it still stings with a twinge of rejection each time.

Does Arianne know about the woman that he fucks when he’s not with her? Does she know she’s competing with someone like Alys Rivers?

As she climbs back out of her thoughts and becomes cognizant of her surroundings, she finds that his one violet eye is trained on her. And his gaze is nowhere close to normal as he eyed her date, and observed him being an utter fool in his drunkenness.

For some reason, the thought of Aemond being disappointed in her makes her want to scream.

As she glances around the crowded room, the euphoric energy of the dance floor slowly dissipated, replaced by discomfort. She finds herself feeling suffocated, trapped in a reality she couldn't quite escape - she’s pushed away those that wanted her, so what choice did she have anyhow? 

Jason, in an inebriated state, becomes oblivious to her unease, accentuating her sense of alienation. Overwhelmed by her emotions, she excuses herself, seeking solace in the corridors.

What a waste.

She hasn’t been alone for long when Jason catches up to her, his demeanor laced with a restless energy that seems to mirror her own nervousness. He leans in, his voice laced with a casual nonchalance that grated on her raw nerves. "It’s starting to get boring, I think. I'm ready to bolt. You wanna get out of here?"

She musters a weak smile, attempting to downplay the unease that swirls within her. She’s not quite sure when he’d gotten to standing so close to her, but her discomfort is overpowering and apparent as she inhales the scent of his cologne. "I don't know, Jason. I think I might just stick around for a bit longer." Her voice quivers slightly, betraying the weakness that she struggles to hide.

But Jason seems undeterred by her apprehension. His hand slowly slides around her hip through the fabric of her dress, a touch that sends shivers down her spine, though not in the way she usually longs for. He moves closer, his breath warm against her ear as he whispers. "Come on, it'll be fun. Let's get out of here together."

She tries to step back, to free herself from his grasp, but his hold only tightens, encircling her with an intensity that borders on limitless possessiveness. The glint in his eyes, clouded by the effects of the spiked punch, flickers with a hint of something darker, something she refused to acknowledge until now. She looks to the side, trying to see if she could escape, trying to see anything but him. "Don't be like that, babe. You know you want to be with me."

A surge of fear courses through her, freezing her in place as she feels the cold, hard wall against her back. She leans her head back, her breaths coming in short, panicked gasps as she struggles to find her voice. "Jason, please... let me go."

But his grip remains unyielding, his touch branding her skin with an invisible imprint that fills her with a sense of helplessness. His hand grips onto her wrist, pressing the charms of her gold bracelet into her skin - it will bruise later, she knows. His voice takes on a harsh edge, a sharp contrast to the charming facade she has come to know. 

"Come on, you know you want this.”

In that moment, as the weight of his possession bears down on her, she feels a surge of anger rise within her, mingling with the fear that threatens to consume her. She pushes against him, her voice rising in desperation. "Let me go, Jason."

But his fingers only tighten further, his breath hot against her cheek as he leans in, his eyes clouded with a sense of entitlement she had never noticed before. "You don't get to say no, not now." She could feel her heart racing, her mind sprinting for a way out of this suffocating grip. Panic seizes her, and as she struggles against his hold, her eyes brim with tears that threaten to spill over. She could feel a slight wetness where her charm bracelet had dug into her skin - blood, pricking through her skin in small spots of dark red. 

She’s not quite sure how the scene changes, but it does. All she sees is a flash of silver hair zooming past her, taking Jason down with him.

Aemond.

In the dimly lit corridor, the scene transforms - a blur of chaos and violence as Aemond's fists rain down on Jason, each blow punctuated by a guttural grunt. Jason's face is a mess of blood and fury, his attempts to fend off Aemond's relentless assault futile as he claws and thrashes in a desperate bid for escape.

Aemond's voice cuts through the chaos, edged with a raw fury that she has never heard before. “Fucking stay away from her… stay the fuck away.” Each word is punctuated by a wild hit to the football team captain’s face.

Jason's cries of pain mingle with his own enraged shouts - a mix of aggression and retaliation. "You crazy bastard! Get the fuck off me!" Jason's words are punctuated by the sickening thud of Aemond's fists connecting with his flesh. “Targaryen, for Gods’ sake…”

As the violent altercation unfolds before her, she finds herself unable to process the reality of the situation. The air seems to thicken around her, suffocating her with its weight, and she slumps down to the floor, her hands pressing firmly against her ears in a futile attempt to block out the cacophony of pain and anger as she rocks herself back and forth.

Tears stream down her cheeks, her sobs blending seamlessly with the chaos that engulfs her. She feels the slick warmth of her blood from when the charms on her bracelet had dug into her wrist, now dripping down her arm and onto her elbow - a visceral reminder of the brutal consequences that had been averted by Aemond's timely intervention. Her vision blurs with the weight of her own helplessness, the fear of what might have been gripping her with an intensity she had never known before.

Aemond's voice slices through the chaos with a relentless intensity. "Touch her once again and I’ll make you regret your miserable life!" 

Each word carries a seething rage, matching the force of each brutal strike that fell. Jason's desperate cries are swallowed by the unyielding onslaught, his pleas for respite being drowned out by the unrelenting ferocity of Aemond's fury. "Please, just stop! I didn't mean it!" 

But Aemond's resolve remained unyielding, his voice laced with an unwavering determination. "You're not going to touch her again, you hear me? Not ever! You so much as look at her again…"

As the struggle continues, she feels a surge of gratitude mixed with an unshakable terror. Her mind races with the realization of what might have transpired if Aemond hadn't appeared when he did, the thought of her own vulnerability in the face of Jason's aggression sending chills down her spine. She huddles against the cold wall, her entire being trembling with a wave of fear washing over her.

As Principal Lyonel Strong steps in to diffuse the escalating confrontation, he finds himself confronted by Aemond's seething anger, his one working eye ablaze with an intensity that seems to ignite the very air around them.

"Enough, Aemond!" Principal Strong's voice thunders through the corridor, commanding attention even amidst the chaos. "This is not the way to handle things. We will sort this out, but you need to calm down." Aemond's chest heaves with unrestrained emotion, his bloodied fists clenching at his sides as he glares at the teachers who now surround him. "You don't understand! He had his hands on her! He had no right -"

One of the teachers - she can’t quite place who it is in her disturbed haze - steps forward, her expression as careful blend of concern and authority. "We understand, Aemond, but violence is never the answer. You're all students, and I need to ensure everyone's safety here."

Another teacher, his features etched with concern, attempts to reason with Aemond, his voice a measured attempt at diffusing the tension. "This is not the way to go about things, Aemond!” His jaw tightens as she looks, his gaze flitting between the teachers as he struggles to rein in his emotions. "You're not understanding me! He's not going to get away with this. He was touching her, she didn’t want it! Fucking look at her!"

Jason Lannister has gone limp, possibly unconscious from the beating he’d taken. She cannot bring herself to feel sorry for him.

Principal Strong's voice softens slightly, his stern facade giving way to a hint of understanding. "We will handle it, Aemond. But you need to go home for now. We will inform your mother, and we will discuss this further tomorrow."

Aemond's shoulders sag, the weight of the situation finally settling in as he nods, his expression a turbulent mix of frustration and concern. "Fine. But you better make sure he's dealt with. I won't let this slide. Swear to the Gods I…"

“We take allegations like these very seriously, son. But it does not change the fact that you were caught assaulting a fellow student. Remove yourself from the premises, Aemond. We will ensure that appropriate action is taken after a thorough investigation of the matter.”

The teachers come closer to her, trying to see if she is alright or if she needs to be spoken to. Their presence becomes suffocating to her really quickly as she slinks into herself, and Aemond is near her in an instant.

His voice cuts through the tense air like a sharpened blade, his words a fervent demand that brooks no argument. "Give her some fucking space, all of you! Can't you see she's had enough?”

The teachers, caught between maintaining order and understanding the gravity of the situation, exchange uneasy glances as Aemond kneels before her, his intense gaze a stark contrast to the gentleness that now flickers in his eyes. "Hey, it's okay. It’s me. Look at me, it’s me.”

Aemond. Aemond. Aemond.

“We're getting out of here," he murmurs, his voice a calming presence amidst the chaos that threatens to overwhelm her. She feels the warmth of his rough palm against her cheek, a gentle anchor that tethers her to the present, grounding her and making her feel safe. The echoes of chaos from the school corridor gradually fade into the background, replaced by the rhythmic cadence of her own ragged breaths, each one a testament to the fragile balance she now works hard to maintain.

As they walk, Aemond's voice, low and steady, resonates within her mind, a lifeline that guides her through the tumultuous waves of shock. "Breathe. In and out. You're here, with me. You're safe," he whispers, his words a soothing melody that offers solace in the aftermath of the storm.

She nestles closer to him, her body drawn to the reassuring strength that radiates from his very being. The weight of his presence envelops her, shielding her from the lingering tendrils of fear and uncertainty that threaten to consume her. With each step they take, the distance between them and the chaos of the school grows, replaced by the tranquility of the night and the sense of quietude that blankets their surroundings.

Aemond's unwavering gaze is on her as he guides her along, his touch a constant reminder that she is not alone in her struggle. "You're doing great," he murmurs, the tenderness in his voice a stark contrast to the raw intensity that underscores her earlier encounter with Jason.

Aemond's voice, usually reserved and clipped, softens as he speaks, his words a gentle murmur that cuts through the tense silence between them. "You're going to be alright," he reassures, his tone laced with a rare warmth that belies his usual stoicism. "Just take deep breaths. We'll get you out of here. Okay?”

His touch lingers on her jaw, a silent reassurance that transcends the chaos that still echoes within the confines of her mind. "Let's get you cleaned up," he suggests, a quiet and comforting invitation.

With careful precision, he removes the blood-stained bracelet, each movement deliberate and considerate. As the bracelet disappears into his pocket, a fleeting sick sense of nostalgia washes over her, a bittersweet reminder of the memories she seeks to leave behind. Aemond's intense gaze softens, his eyes reflecting a silent empathy that speaks volumes.

"You're safe now," he assures her, the weight of his words offering a sanctuary that she had thought was beyond her reach only a few moments ago.

Aemond's touch, gentle yet resolute, traces a path of solace along her jawline, each stroke a tender caress that seeks to alleviate the lingering remnants of the chaos that still pulse beneath her skin. He leans his head back as he scans her for any other injuries. "You're safe now," he murmurs again and again, his voice a steadfast anchor in the tumultuous sea of emotions that threaten to engulf her.

With a haphazardly crushed pocket square that he brings out from his other pocket (his mother has forced it upon him when he leaves for the dance), he wipes away the traces of drying blood on her arm - his movements deliberate and precise. The night's breeze carries with it the whispers of uncertainty, but in the steady rhythm of Aemond's movements, she finds a sense of fleeting calm that she had thought had eluded her grasp.

Amidst the whirlwind of emotions that still swirl within her, his repeated words of comfort seem to fade into the backdrop of her consciousness. She grasps onto the steady solidity of his presence, finding a fleeting anchor in the warmth of his protective embrace. As he settles the weight of his helmet onto her head, she feels the sturdy reassurance of his world enveloping her, the scent of leather and motor oil intermingling with the rhythm of her own turbulent thoughts. She sits and makes herself as comfortable as she can on the planes of his hard leather bike seat - she has never sat on his bike before, so it is ridiculous how familiar and made-for-her the comfort feels.

His bloodied knuckles hold the handlebars of the motorbike tight, fists turning to get the accelerator going. The silver ring that he wears and the steel bracelet he has on his wrist are coated in Jason's blood.

When had he begun wearing those?

While his hands become redder in his tight grip, and the cold air hits her calves, now exposed from her hiked-up skirts on either side of the seat, she is reminded that she is with him, and nowhere else.

Aemond, Aemond, Aemond.

She leans into his back, her cheek finding solace in the reassuring cushion of the interiors of his helmet. She calms down to the feeling of the contours of his spine rising and falling as her vision clears up from the dried tears under the hard glass of the pulled-down visor. Her arms wind around his chest, holding onto him for dear life as the rumble of the motorbike becomes louder and louder, the pace of the noise matching her own ragged heartbeat. The chill air of the night hits her as the school becomes but a distant figure in the distance, smoke from the motorcycle exhaust billowing behind them.

This is the closest she has been to Aemond Targaryen in years. Despite them drifting apart, it is as though all the chaos of the world could be kept at bay, at least for a fleeting moment. She doesn't know where they are going, but she finds that she doesn't care - she is at ease with him.

In the faint chill of the night, he smells of coffee, cigarettes, and smoke - a blend of comfort and safety that lingers in a moment suspended in time.

THERE ARE MANY THINGS THAT SHE KNOWS AEMOND TO DO.

He has his room cleaned each week, like clockwork. He washes that motorbike of his with his own hands every weekend, even though he has staff at the house that would do it for him each day of the week if he so wishes. He rearranges his books often when he thinks nobody is looking. Always makes sure that his clothes are pressed and ready, because Gods forbid he be found looking less than perfect. He can be found spending time with the horses at the stable on the grounds of Maegor’s Holdfast - he took to horse riding after he lost his eye, and has become quite good with intense training. He jogs in the night, always right before dinner. He reads in the house library, long after the other inhabitants of the home have gone to sleep.

Beating the living shit out of someone is not one of those things.

That show of violence is not something that she attributes to him. There’s always a resigned calmness to Aemond that she only ever sees in two other members of his family - his mother and Helaena; you never know they’re thinking.

The rest of the family seems to have something that the old, absent patriarch has funnily dubbed ‘the Targaryen fire.’ But it seems like she is wrong in her assessment, for the boy that stands before her is the complete antithesis of all that she has believed him to be.

The wrinkled white shirt, with the sleeves rolled up and bright red splotches of blood that now adorn it, is not something she associates with him. The heavy silver signet ring and Valyrian steel bracelet - an heirloom that she now remembers was given for his eighteenth birthday - are both accessories that he takes great care of. And yet, tonight, they are both doused in blood. His knuckles are bloodied and bruised, nail marks visible from where Jason tries to claw at him to make him stop - the lack of cleanliness on a sharp man like Aemond jars her.

This is a completely different side to him.

She watches as he wipes off his own hand with the pocket square that is now just as dirty as she feels. She watches him remove the hair tie that he keeps his hair looped in to keep the strays away from his face. She watches him as he hangs the helmet that he takes off of her head, and lets it dangle over the rearview mirror.

She watches, keeps her eyes on him like her life depends on it. She has to. If she doesn’t, she won’t have much else to do. If she is left to herself now, she is convinced she’ll fall apart. For her own sanity, she holds onto Aemond.

Aemond, Aemond, Aemond.

They stand in front of Chataya’s , the all too familiar neon lights buzzing just slightly as she leans on her back against the motorbike. His black leather riding jacket is probably three sizes bigger on her, but she feels warm in it as she pulls it tighter onto her body. The parking lot is almost empty, and the air plays with her hair as it falls haphazardly in multiple directions. The beautiful dress that she wears now feels cheap to her, and she's decided that the jewelry that she wears is now tacky. Everything that she enjoyed about herself tonight is now tainted by what has happened - she can’t bring herself to think too much about it without physically recoiling.

Shame she'll have to burn the dress.

She watches Aemond through the glass, waiting for their coffees as he stands at the cash counter - ramrod straight. His blood-stained shirt is gaining him many dirty looks from the staff, but no one dares to say a word - he is a Targaryen, after all. The Aemond that she knew back when they were younger - long before they drifted apart - wouldn’t have hit someone. He was too gentle and sweet for that.

Now, however, it’s been made clear to her that he’s willing to fight if he has to.

Aemond asks one of the waitresses for something, his hands not moving much but still enough to convey the message. The woman blushes and points him to the washroom, which he emerges out of a while later, looking comparatively cleaner, blood wiped out. He then pays for the hot drinks and walks out, placing his cup on the bike seat and nudging hers into her grip as he presses the back of her hands into either side of the cup. He is so close to her that he is exuding heat, much like a furnace.

She’d almost forgotten how beautiful she thought his mismatched pair of eyes were. She remembers now.

Her eyes remain fixed on where his hands rest over hers, attempting to warm them up with the hot cup he's holding. She can't muster much beyond a sense of comfort at this moment, acknowledging how much safer his touch feels compared to Jason's.

Jason. Jason asked her out and tried to -

Aemond, Aemond, Aemond.

Her coffee spills out of the to-go cup, scalding her, leaving her gasping at the brown drops on the edges of his jacket sleeves. She recovers swiftly, wiping her fists on her dress and gathering herself as best she can in her hazy state. They drink in silence, gazing ahead, observing the vehicles zooming past.

The silence is soothing, but she needs a distraction. So she speaks.

And so, after years, they begin again.

"You could have killed him," she murmurs, her eyes fixed on the steaming liquid in her cup. From the corner of her eye, she glances at him. He doesn't turn to look at her, but responds in the same tone she used.

"He would have deserved it."

She can't argue with that. "I didn't know you could punch like that."

"Neither did I." A new side to Aemond Targaryen, yet his responses remain true to his character. Direct, yet everything she needs.

They stand in silence once more as she sips her coffee. He's already finished - always a quick eater, a trait she's noticed from the many times he's hurriedly left the table in recent years - and he crushes the cup, walking to the bin to discard it. On his return, he retrieves a cigarette from his pocket and bites the tip, scanning the surroundings with a searching gaze.

Then, he removes it from his mouth, using his index and middle fingers, and looks at her as if they're just casually hanging out for coffee, not as if he just rescued her from an assault and beat up a fellow classmate to almost death in the process.

"Light?" he asks, before realizing a girl with nothing but the prom dress on her back, the jacket he gave her, and the coffee he bought for her probably doesn't have a lighter with her. He raises an eyebrow and shakes his head before heading back into Chataya's - most likely to charm the cash counter staff into lighting his cigarette despite the no-smoking policy. She watches as he does exactly that, striding out with the lit cigarette between his teeth, as if he owns the damn place.

It is a Sunday night. In an ideal world, she’d be grabbing breakfast pancakes with Daeron for dinner. Tonight however, she is outside at the parking lot, looking out of place in her dress and his jacket, with Aemond fucking Targaryen.

The way the tables have turned is not lost on her. Does Daeron even know what had happened? How Jason had -

Aemond. Aemond. Aemond.

"Daeron was there, wasn't he?" Her voice trembles as she chokes out the word, remembering the reason why she stepped away from the dance floor in the first place. "Yes."

Daeron and Floris Baratheon stepping in together -

Aemond. Aemond. Aemond.

If his disheveled appearance and blood-stained clothes rattle her, she is not prepared for the way he seethes as he hears her answer. "Always behind you like a lost pup, how did he let that happen to you?" His anger at his brother's supposed lack of care for her is only set aside by the long puff that he takes out of his cigarette.

She gulps, the overwhelming emotions taking over her entire being as she holds back the tears that threaten to spill. This is perhaps the first time anyone has asked why Daeron isn't with her ever since they begin to drift apart.

She’s heard many things. At least Targaryen isn't keeping you all to himself now, is one. Found himself another girl to fuck, is another.

She is not prepared for someone to see past Daeron and ask about her.

She does not answer. She cannot. The weight of the night’s events have taken away any and all strength she may have to entertain those around her, and she stands in silence as tears pool in her eyes. The sinking feeling takes over her, and she wipes off her eyes before the tears spin out of control.

Aemond seems to understand, and gives her all the time she needs to compose herself. When she’s done, he seems content to simply stand by her with his cigarette as she takes comfort in the silence around them. The only sounds are the distant clanking of plates, the faint buzzing of the neon sign and horns from vehicles zooming past them.

Somehow, it is enough to help her climb back to the surface. She’d drowned in herself for a moment there, but the fog in her mind is clearing slowly as she tells herself over and over.

She’s safe. Safe. Safe.

Aemond, Aemond, Aemond.

His presence, though quiet, provides a much-needed anchor amidst the storm of emotions threatening to consume her. In the dimly lit parking lot, the city's pulsating rhythm seems to offer a peculiar solace, a reminder that time passes regardless of what happens and that the world does not stop to allow her a moment to catch her breath.

Aemond's eyes flicker with concern, the smoke from his cigarette dissipating into the night air. He doesn't offer empty words of consolation, recognizing that sometimes silence is the most potent balm for a wounded soul. The night sky above, mottled with the city's glow, bears witness to their shared solitude, a fleeting moment of understanding that needs no verbal exchange.

As the minutes pass, the weight on her chest lightens imperceptibly. A sense of resolve, tempered by the raw vulnerability of the evening, settles within her. She knows the road ahead is fraught with uncertainty, yet a newfound resilience kindles within her. Aemond's silent companionship, unobtrusive yet steadfast, keeps her standing.

Eventually, she draws in a deep breath, steadying herself against the unforgiving reality that awaits beyond the sanctity of this secluded safety that he’s brought her into. With a nod of gratitude to Aemond, she straightens her posture, the remnants of tears drying on her cheeks. Determination flickers in her eyes, an unwavering resolve to confront whatever challenges lie ahead, even if the path seems shrouded in shadows.

The message is clear. She’s ready to be taken back home.

In the soft glow of the streetlights, Aemond navigates the bustling city streets with a practiced ease, the hum of the engine merging seamlessly with the rhythm of her heartbeat. She leans into him, seeking solace in the sturdy presence of his frame, a silent reassurance that she isn't alone in this dizzying world. The wind rushes past them, tousling her hair as she holds onto him, feeling the steady rise and fall of his body beneath her grip.

The cityscape unfolds before her in a blur of neon lights and towering skyscrapers. A fleeting sense of serenity washes over her, cocooned in the safety of Aemond's embrace, as if the world beyond their world of warmth and motion is a distant, inconsequential dream.

Yet, as her house looms into view, a sudden pang of reluctance tugs at her, a gnawing apprehension that threatens to unravel the fragile peace she has painstakingly cultivated in the past hour. Stepping off the bike, she reluctantly peels off Aemond's jacket, feeling the sudden chill of the night air seeping into her bones, mirroring the chill that seeps into her heart.

She turns to him, her eyes meeting his in the muted glow of the streetlamp, searching for a semblance of the solace she had found in his silent companionship. Her fingers linger for a moment on the fabric of his jacket, a poignant reminder of the warmth she craves, both physical and emotional. The weight of unspoken words hangs heavy in the air.

Thank you , she wants to say. She can only manage a weak nod, one that she struggles through while looking down at the road, rather than his mismatched pair of eyes.

Aemond's gaze lingers on her, a flicker of concern mingling with a quiet determination. He reaches out, his hand brushing against her cheek. As though he is convinced there's not much else he can do but give her space, he nods.

As Aemond revs the engine, ready to fade into the night, she stands on the threshold of her home, enveloped in the bitter chill of the evening. She watches the tail lights disappear, and with a steadying breath, she steps inside, the echo of the bike's engine fading into the distance, leaving behind a lingering sense of quiet resolve in its wake.

When she finally manages to sleep, her mind is painted with the image of a captivating pair of mismatched eyes, etched into her brain like a welcome dream.

The bracelet that he’d removed from her wrist - still in his pocket - does not cross her mind at all. 

Not once.

SERIES MASTERLIST

NO TAG LIST. Please follow and turn on notifs for @randomdragonfics for my fic updates!

[ecoamerica]

Watch the American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 now: https://youtu.be/bWiW4Rp8vF0?feature=shared

The American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 broadcast recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by active climate leaders. Watch to find out which finalist received the $50,000 grand prize! Hosted by Vanessa Hauc and featuring Bill McKibben and Katharine Hayhoe!

[jariten]

Recurring themes in 2023: my year of lesbian and yuriful manga

Doing this a little different when summarizing 2023. Since I stuck to my decision to not start buying any new licensed series and mainly did cultural catchup for both english and japanese manga I didn't really read enough hot new releases in 2023 for them to warrant a list of their own as they usually do. So to catch up on the months without a roundup as well as a year end summary I will do some themed lists!

The first came to easy since a noticeable trend was how much lesbian and yuri manga i made time for. For clarity I make a subjective distinction of lesbian and yuri works, just as some works I'm more inclined to describe as a Gay or LGBT story rather than a BL if it wasn't published in a BL imprint or invests time to do cultural or social commentary. Now to the list:

Among my favorite lesbian manga read in 2023 are: The Girl That Can't Get A Girlfriend by Mieri Hiranishi Moonlight Flowers by Mutsumi Tsukumo Indigo Blue by Ebine Yamaji Umibe no Kain by Minori Kimura

I won't reiterate too much as I already talked about it in a roundup but Hiranishi gave an extremely refreshing perspective on being a woman who loves masculine women, the dark story of her first heartbreak and the path forward. Love that Viz took the initiative to give her a graphic novel edition and promote her platform by licensing The Girl That Can't Get a Girlfriend. I've always found women's manga to be a not that secret treasure trove of lesbian stories yet I hadn't read the classic that is Moonlight Flowers... Just a truly suspenseful and romantic story of lesbian love as liberation and freedom that I can't recommend enough. Just with a clear warning of depictions of intimate partner violence that could be upsetting.

Yamaji has a well known track record of exploring lesbianism as well as bisexuality and I think Indigo Blue was extremely interesting in its explooration of the protagonist and her journey to figuring out what she wants as she's caught between two relationships. Another story of a woman's journey to confront who she is and what she wants: Umibe no Cain was a rather heartbreaking story of a young woman seeking refuge with a woman older than herself and as they start forming a frienfdship she begins to face the hurt and trauma she faced from her mother. But as the two women grow closer their relationship might take a turn that they can't come back from.

In the yuri-ish category: Kimi no Kureru Mazui Ame by Kaiko Fuyumushi OL to Ningyo by Mai Shiba

Won't reiterate too much of Kimi no Kureru Mazui Ame as I already talked about it in a roundup but love bite sized depictions of a miserable adolescence and toxic yuri but not quite. And if you found yourself taken by the more supernatural stories in this collection then may I recommend OL to Ningyo? Described by the author themselves as yuri-ish this collection depicts the bonds of human girls and their non-human counterparts. Humans, vampires, tengu, mermaid, and oni all face their own challenges and conflicts both romantic and otherwise.

In the Now That's What I Call Yuri category: Natsu to Lemon to Overlay by Ru & Miyako Miyahara Ki ni Natteru Hito ga Otoko Janakatta (The Guy She Was Interested in Wasn't a Guy At All) by Sumiko Arai Sukeban to Tenkousei by Fujichika

Natsu to Lemon to Overlay is the manga adaption of a yuri award winning novel novel that I picked kind of at random. An aspiring voice actress struggling to make any career moves are requested by a mysterious woman to read the obituary at her own funeral. What happens next will warm your heart. The Guy She Liked is one where I'm just going to assume most if not all of you are aware of so I'm just going to say that I like it and am looking forward to the next volume 👍 And last but not least: an adorable 80's throwback with some truly heartwarming moments and developments not to mention very funny: Sukeban to Tenkousei by Fujichika

[geoffrard]

My Chemical Romance, Hardcore Sexual Repression, and the Lemon Stealing Whore

[Content warning for non-graphic references to pornography, sex, sexual violence, and negative attitudes towards sex work. There is no explicit nudity but you might not want to read this in front of your boss. All images have descriptions in alt text. See sources here. Read this essay on my Dreamwidth here.]

It’s the setup of a joke: Gerard Way, Mikey Way, Frank Iero, Matt Pelissier, and a porn actress huddle around a leather couch in a dingy room as a camera rolls. The actress, a young and bright-eyed Joanna Angel, asks each member of My Chemical Romance in the room, “Do you guys watch porn?”

Most of us have seen the interview. If not, stop and watch it now, because nothing else I say will make sense otherwise. (And here, just for you, I’ve reuploaded the video with at least 10% more pixels. Watch below, or read a transcript here.)

The fact that My Chemical Romance, whose faces have decorated shirts at Hot Topic for over fifteen years, whose songs have saved lives and inspired memes, who all have wives and children, would end up associated with an alt porn website like Burning Angel often baffles fans watching the interview for the first time. 

For example, see these comments left on the original video uploaded to YouTube: 

These comments, though more than a few years old, generally represent how a lot fans understand the interview. Other people think it’s funny and perhaps a little out of left field, but don’t question how four members wound up on a porn site like Burning Angel. Both attitudes are a pretty typical example of the MCR fandom’s ignorance about the New Jersey hardcore scene, as well reflecting general weirdness about sex work. 

Since I cannot turn my historian brain off, I wanted to provide some of the extremely interesting historical context behind the video. The post I had originally planned to make very, very briefly outlined how MCR ended up being interviewed by Joanna Angel, founder and longtime CEO of Burning Angel. But the more I looked into it, the more I fell down a rabbit hole. This eventually turned into something of a mammoth manifesto about women and sexuality in the late 90s hardcore scene that gave My Chemical Romance and Joanna Angel careers. I will warn you: this is long. But it’s also important historical background information that rarely gets discussed at all—especially by MCR fans.

(So, with all that said, please feel free to ask any questions about anything I say here! Sources for will be posted on a different post which I will link at the end, and I have been quite thorough, though not as thorough as I could have been.)

Tl;dr: Joanna Angel came up in the exact same scene as My Chemical Romance, Thursday, and Midtown, a scene which stigmatized open sexual expression, at the expense of women and queer people—especially those involved in sex work. When she started her porn site, Burning Angel, she applied the same DIY values that her peers did to their own bands, but faced violence and ostracization from a subculture much too repressed to embrace such blatant expression of female sexuality. In this context, the My Chemical Romance interview with Burning Angel in 2004 was not only a group of guys doing a favor for someone they had probably known for years at that point; it can also be read as a somewhat controversial act that pushed back against this aversion to sexuality, and that helped legitimize and popularize both the site and Joanna Angel’s career. 

Burning Angel: the Movie (2005)

Say you’re a diehard My Chemical Romance fan in 2005—if you really want to watch your favorite band discuss their porn-viewing habits, you’ll have to travel to either your local adult entertainment store or go to the hardcore porn site BurningAngel.com and order their first DVD, appropriately titled Burning Angel: The Movie. Once you have the disc, you’ll have to fast forward through several sex scenes and interviews with other bands before you arrive at what you wanted: the actress who you’ve just seen in hardcore sex scenes asking Gerard, Frank, Mikey and Otter questions about their preferences in adult entertainment.

The DVD was Burning Angel’s first attempt at more professional pornography, and Joanna’s first foray into full participation in filmed, live-action sex. Joanna Angel would later go on to be one of the most well-known porn stars of our time—in Virgin Territory (2006), for example, she played a lemon stealing whore; you might have seen the video—and Burning Angel would be credited with the popularization of the “alt” porn genre, which broke from the exploitative mainstream porn model and typically featured models representative of subcultures.

But in 2005 her alt porn empire was still in its infancy, and Joanna was still struggling to rectify her recent full expulsion from the local New Jersey hardcore social scene with her enduring devotion to DIY values—and the fact that members of the sexually repressed subculture that had ostracized Joanna were her site’s target audience.

Joanna Angel on the Scene

Any thoughts of a future career in adult entertainment and the last name Angel were far from her mind when Joanna Mostov enrolled in Rutgers University in 1998. 

Though she often pushed back against the wishes of her religious orthodox Jewish family, the extent of her adolescent rebellion had ended at sneaking out to punk shows and getting piercings her mother wouldn’t approve of. At Rutgers, Joanna quickly became enmeshed in the New Brunswick hardcore scene, putting her in the same circles as a host of people whose names you might recognize: Geoff Rickly of Thursday (who ran hundreds of shows out of his basement), Gabe Saporta of Midtown and Cobra Starship, and Alex Saavedra of Eyeball Records. 

Geoff Rickly: Well, you know, the funny thing is that, at the time, Joanna, who would later go on to form Burning Angel and become a famous porn star in her own right, was playing in her goth bands with chelsea haircuts and the basement shows. Like, her local goth band would play. And they’d bring out people and stuff, and I’d put touring bands on that show, and so it’s funny to me how, weirdly, DIY punk hardcore scenes and porn had weird associations then. [source: Going Off Track: Geoff Rickly, 2012]

The NJ hardcore scene was close-knit enough that while she only has documented friendships with some of these people, she had to have crossed paths with most of them multiple times (for example, Joanna was at the show on December 31, 1998 where Thursday and Midtown played their first real sets). She went to every show she could and hosted some in her own basement. 

While we don’t necessarily have a written record of her friendship with Frank Iero and Mikey Way of My Chemical Romance, the fact that Joanna attended plenty of shows in the North Jersey area and also spent a lot of time at the Eyeball House (Alex was a close friend; and Pencey Prep was on his label) suggests that, at the the very least, Joanna, Frank, and Mikey were aware of each other’s presence in these early years. They were peers in the same scene, just as they were with everyone else who frequented the same venues or played in the same basements.

For years, the hardcore scene mattered to her more than anything else; it was her social life and what she based her values upon. 

Those hardcore values and a growing curiosity about her own sexuality lead Joanna to sex-positive feminist activism and a writing internship with Nerve.com, an online magazine which explored topics related to sex and romantic relationships. From there, her interest in expressing her own sexuality continued to develop.

[Suicidegirls in 2001]

So, in 2002, when her roommate and friend asked her if she wanted to start a porn site that offered more explicit content than sites like SuicideGirls, which featured punk aesthetics and band interviews but stayed away from anything more than simple nudity, Joanna agreed.

BurningAngel.com went live in April 2002. It wanted to do things differently than other porn sites. While not necessarily pushing the boundaries of beauty standards, the site used models who were beautiful but in a more approachable, average sense. Joanna has said that since she had little experience even watching porn prior to starting the site, she wanted the site to mimic the kind of sex she was having with actors who looked like the people she was having sex with. 

Joanna: When we started the website, it was a reflection of ourselves. It still is to this day. There's band interviews on the website, the style of girl that we use is not your average typical porn star and the personality on the website is a little bit different. All the members interact with each other, all of the girls have blogs and profiles, and people become friends with each other. It's more of a community and a reflection of a subculture rather than just being a website with content to jerk-off to and never think about again. [source: Complex: Interview: Joanna Angel Talks Alt Porn, Piracy, And Her Blow-Up Doll, 2011] 

[Burning Angel’s homepage in June 2002]

Hardcore Punk Reacts to Hardcore Porn 

Her longtime involvement in the scene and her application of DIY ethics to her porn business did not mean that the hardcore culture actively nurtured Joanna Angel’s career in porn. In reality, many parts of the scene were actively hostile towards Joanna and the site once Burning Angel went live.

This backlash isn’t incredibly surprising within the context of late 90s hardcore, a subculture that by and large refused to acknowledge sexuality of any kind. 

The sexual repression in hardcore reflected several different aspects of its culture: a negative perception of women active in the scene; a reaction against the violence of tristate hardcore in the early 90s; and, more than anything else, the general privilege of those involved in the underground.

Like Joanna, Geoff Rickly, and Frank Iero, most people involved in New Brunswick hardcore were enrolled at Rutgers, and white, middle-class male college students dominated the scene. For many of them, applying DIY values to their own lives meant distancing themselves from their socioeconomic upper-hand. Consequently, the scene as a whole developed an attitude of asceticism, rejecting anything that served no purpose beyond pleasure or personal enjoyment. (Of course, it was easy for them to reject their social privileges, especially when they could just as easily cast off their aesthetic of poverty and self-denial for an adulthood of relative comfort.)

To do anything just because you enjoyed it, or because it brought you happiness in the moment, was seen to be a betrayal of hardcore’s higher intellectual goals—and that included sex. You can see this trend, for example, in lyrics from NJ hardcore bands, which focused on things like political issues or childhood traumas instead of the common themes of sexual and romantic desire found in mainstream music.

Joanna spoke about finding comfort in the general sexual repression of the scene because of her own adolescent insecurities:

Joanna: Me being very sexually not advanced and insecure, [90s hardcore] was the perfect place for me, because I could ignore [sexuality]. I was getting older, I don’t know, I wanted to explore myself more. So I began to write these graphic sex stories. My roommate, Mitch, knew about it, and I remember him getting a kick out of it. [source: Turned Out A Punk #127: Joanna Angel (Burning Angel)]

For another salient example, Geoff Rickly of Thursday has spoken about his own struggles with the hardcore scene’s repression, especially in regards to the shame he felt about writing sexually explicit stories for pay:

Geoff Rickly: You have to think, this is the 90s punk scene. It's not now. Nobody would openly talk about sex in DIY punk. It was such a repressed PC time, where — I mean, a lot of that stuff is my heart, like the political activism that was still such a part of punk, and actually just giving a shit about things that matter, and modes of how you're doing what you're doing. Those things seemed to matter back then, and I appreciated that side, but it was also so uptight. So repressed. [source: Going Off Track: Geoff Rickly, 2012]

While its general aversion to sexuality might have been born out of an initial desire to reform the violent misogyny of other hardcore cultures, it created the conditions for certain social problems to go completely unaddressed. After all, how can you address the rampant misogyny, homophobia, and sexual violence in your community if any acknowledgement of sexuality is taboo?

(For a brief but interesting perspective on the impact of hardcore sexual repression upon queer people in the scene, check out Episode #4 of Geoff Rickly’s podcast Dark Blue, in which Steve Pedulla and Norman Brannon discuss their experiences as gay musicians in the scene.)

Of course, these issues aren’t confined to the New Jersey hardcore, nor were they unique to the late 1990s. This particular brand of sex-averse misogyny reflects important threads within the feminism of the time which villainized open female sexuality—especially when it concerned sex work. Left-leaning spaces like music undergrounds adopted this sex-negative, misogynistic attitude as a part of their feminism—not in opposition to it.

In particular, the Riot Grrrl movement of the late 80s/early 90s pushed back against a culture (and a subculture) that shamed women for publicly expressing their sexuality. Following that, early fanzines and performance practices addressed the mistreatment of sex workers in hardcore as one way that female bodily autonomy was limited and women’s bodies were policed. Bikini Kill frontwoman and Riot Grrrl pioneer Kathleen Hanna has spoken about her past in sex work, the hostility she endured for openly discussing it, and the importance of that experience in shaping the form of Riot Grrrl’s protest. 

Kathleen Hanna: “Whenever we were written about in the press, I wanted my sex-work history to be part of the description, because I wanted other women whom I danced at clubs with (and who never knew my real name) to see themselves reflected in some way. A lot of women who are doing music now have been sex-trade workers, prostitutes, dancers; I thought it was really important that I didn’t hide that. But I also didn’t want to glamorize that experience in being a super-cool thing in itself. I just wanted other women who work in the sex industry to remember that we can be sex-trade workers and be philosophers, writers, musicians, artists, or whatever. [Andrea Juno, Angry Women in Rock (1996)]

Riot Grrrl gained significant traction and nation-wide attention. In the decade or so after Kathleen Hanna and her peers catalyzed the movement, bands like Bikini Kill and Bratmobile remained incredibly popular, and likely contributed a lot to shifting attitudes towards sexuality in music subcultures. 

Still, these sex-negative attitudes prevailed among enough people involved in local underground scenes that, when Burning Angel launched in 2002 and Joanna started marketing it in local hardcore spaces, the site received a lot of attention—both good and bad. The positive attention fueled the site and allowed it to expand beyond just photographs, text interviews, and low-budget personal sex tapes that characterized its early content. 

However, the negative attention Joanna and her site received was vocal, targeted, and occasionally involved literal physical violence. As Kathleen Hanna had faced moral condemnation for her time in sex work, Joanna Angel faced criticism from fellow members of her subculture who thought sex work to be completely antithetical to their social justice goals. She has spoken about how difficult it was to see a community she had cared about for years turn her back on her completely for engaging in a type of work that she found enjoyable, and that she thought could be done with moral integrity. 

Joanna Angel: People were calling me ugly, calling me all sorts of mean shit, how [Burning Angel was] making a profit, [we were] exploiting women, blah blah blah. And I was so bummed. I was like, you know, this isn’t fair! I always support every fucking band in the punk scene. Even if I don’t like the band, I support them—I go to their shows, I would hand out fliers for their shows. I thought it was like a code, in the punk scene, that it doesn’t matter whether you like it or not. If this is part of the scene, you accept it, and you help it, and you love it—and I thought that’s what you were supposed to do. I remember being very hurt, you know? I was like, dude, I didn’t violate any punk laws by starting this. My friend from my computer class is the one who put it online. All the other girls on the site—all three of them— were punk chicks and part of the scene. And I felt really bad; people were insulting the other girls, and I really thought I was starting this cool thing where girls could just explore their sexuality. And mind you, at the time, the beginning of Burning Angel was just photos, not even videos. People were getting all up in this upheaval because of a handful of naked photos on the internet. It’s crazy to think about now. [source: Turned Out A Punk #127: Joanna Angel (Burning Angel)]

Amidst the mounting antagonism and after an incident at Hellfest 2004, Joanna officially decided to leave the hardcore scene that she’d been involved with for over five years.

Joanna Angel: I remember going to Hellfest one year. Maybe it was like 2004?…these girls were throwing water balloons at us because we had a booth there. Because we used to get booths at some of these shows and sell tshirts. We didn’t even have any DVDs—we’d literally get in a booth and sell tshirts and hand out fliers and stickers. And these other girls were throwing water balloons at us and calling us sluts. I was like, “Hey, that sucks, can you stop doing that?” And one of my friends—he owned a record label. He owned Eyeball Records, Alex…he saw the girls picking on us, and he went over to the girls, and said, “Hey, can you cool it? They have a booth here—let them do their thing. They’re not gonna get in your way.” And then those girls and their boyfriends beat him up, and he wound up in the hospital. He almost died. It was terrible. And I was like, we have to get out here. Let’s just stay away. If we’re a porn site, let’s just be a porn site. Let’s promote ourselves with other porn companies; let’s step away for a little while. Everyone in the punk scene knows who we are. They’ve made their decision about if they like us or not. I’m still gonna interview bands, still gonna do that thing—but I’m done. [source: Turned Out A Punk #127: Joanna Angel (Burning Angel)]

Joanna and Burning Angel’s separation from the NJ hardcore scene in 2004 finally brings me to Burning Angel: The Movie, My Chemical Romance, and that interview.

So, 2004: after over two years spent largely behind the camera and slowly expanding her porn site, Joanna finally decided to get in front of the camera and produce a more intentionally crafted alt porn video that retained the feel of the website. Thus Burning Angel: the Movie was born. 

As Joanna explains in the interview, the general idea of the DVD was that different self-contained pornographic scenes would be interspersed with band interviews. One of the key features of Burning Angel, like Suicide Girls before it, was the band interviews subscribers could access alongside the porn, so it made sense to preserve this aspect of the site on the DVD experience. Joanna interviewed five bands in early 2005: Killswitch Engage, Eighteen Visions, Shadows Fall, The Dillinger Escape Plan, and, of course, My Chemical Romance—all bands that Joanna admired, and who had been involved in the same scene that she had recently left because of very real threats to her emotional and physical well-being.

Within this context, My Chemical Romance’s decision to participate in the Burning Angel interview was a statement, as they put their support behind an enterprise that was highly controversial within the social circle most immediately relevant to them. 

Fresh off the 2004 Warped Tour and promoted Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge, My Chemical Romance might have appeared to be largely divorced from their scene of origin, but they still acted in response to those politics—politics that impacted American culture at large more than you’d think—in both intentional and incidental ways. 

That is not to say that MCR was being overtly political; they’ve made a clear effort to distance themselves from the clear-cut political imagery and goals of some of their peers in hardcore. Still, the band (Gerard especially) very obviously cared a lot about using their music and stage presence to express shades of sexuality that they perceived to be lacking from some forms of music.

Gerard: I also wanted, at the same time, [for] the record to be a testament to self-expression, and putting stuff in there like that, while not being a homosexual myself, but expressing myself in a homosexual way, is either going to push your buttons in a negative way or you’re going to identify with it. [AP: Well, this whole scene wants you to be sensitive, but not too sensitive.] It is extremely homoerotic, especially the whole emo-sensitive thing. Everyone’s wearing women’s pants; everyone’s got women’s haircuts; everyone’s wearing youth-medium shirts. I don’t want to come out and say it. It’s blatantly obvious. Wearing a leather jacket is an extremely masculine thing to do in this scene. Even the hardcore bands, the really hard ones, you see them in makeup and stuff. I like that. I think it keeps it dangerous. It keeps it exciting. In a way, sex has really been missing from rock, especially because of all the sensitivity. That’s what I really wanted to convey on the record, too. I wanted the record to be very dangerous and sexy at the same time. There’s such a lack of sex in music. It’s been more about getting in touch with your feelings and being there for each other, which is great, but it’s definitely lacking this sexual duality. [Source: Alternative Press #193, Aug 2004; emphasis mine]

Additionally, many of their moments of explicit sexuality on stage were designed to be somewhat incendiary and polarizing. 

But it’s important to remember that, just as late 90s New Jersey hardcore was not the first subculture with issues of sexual repression, My Chemical Romance does not represent the first attempt to push back at this asexual culture and definitely weren’t leading that particular conversation. Gerard took inspiration from artists already pushing those boundaries and incorporating sexual expression into their art. He has spoken, for example, about the impact of Riot Grrrl acts upon his music and stage presence (Joanna Angel has similarly pointed to bands like Bikini Kill as significant influences). These bands had already incorporated resistance against harmful sexual repression, values which Gerard and his band mates took on when they adopted their styles into My Chemical Romance.

(I also want to mention briefly that other significant people in the hardcore world have spoken out against pornography, such as Ian MacKaye of the formative post-hardcore band Fugazi. MacKaye owned Dischord Records, the definitive underground music label, to which a young Frank Iero unsuccessfully attempted to get his band Sector 12 signed. The matter of pornography and its role within the hardcore world was not one upon which you could maintain a neutral stance after, say, appearing on a porn DVD.)

As shitty as it was that they needed approval from the men in the scene, My Chemical Romance, along with other bands, supported Burning Angel, a new kind of porn, and helped legitimize Joanna Angel’s claim that what she was doing was not backwards or exploitative but had integrity. 

Have you had an issue with people you grew up with when they find out you're in the adult industry? Joanna: At first people had problem[s], but not anymore. Once the cool kids in bands said, "I think what she's doing is cool" all the others turned around. Everyone I ever respected didn't have an issue with it and all the stupid, annoying hardcore kids had a problem. For as much shit as I got, I also got a lot of support. [Source: Hustlerworld Interview: Joanna Angel]

I don’t mean to glamorize the porn industry or to depict Joanna Angel as some savior of female sexuality in the early 2000s. But, as Kathleen Hanna points out, sex work is legitimate work, and sex workers deserve to have workplaces that treat them with dignity and communities that recognize their humanity. The reality was that NJ hardcore as a community did not support sex workers. Fundamentally, these were the barriers that caused Joanna and Burning Angel to make an exodus from the local hardcore scene—and they are the attitudes we risk reproducing when we express discomfort that a band we admire has interacted with a sex worker.

My intentions with this post (which turned out longer than I had ever anticipated, so Jesus, thank you for reading) were to shed light on the historical context of one moment in My Chemical Romance’s history. I’ve found that the average MCR fan, even those with a specific fondness for their early years, doesn’t actually know much at all about it—so I hope this has given some clarity.

I’ll end on this note: Without bands supporting Burning Angel, who knows—we might have never seen the lemon stealing whore. At the very least, the culture surrounding porn would look a lot different. That might not mean it would look better or worse—though you can’t deny the role that Joanna Angel played, nor the role that bands from the New Jersey Hardcore scene like My Chemical Romance played in shaping the American culture of pornography. 

Find sources for this post here.

[acknowledgements: thank you so much for reading! my forever thanks, as always, to nic @raytorosaurus, sophia @sendmyresignation, vyn @bringmoreknives, and maddy @8thnotes for their continued cheerleading as i spent over a month writing this long, long post. additional thanks to wes @killrockstar for very kindly offering some incredibly helpful guidance about riot grrrl and sending me resources about kathleen hanna. and much gratitude to merlin @void-flesh and @transmascfrankiero for their feedback on the final draft of this essay.]

[sunflowersandsapphires]

Fall Drabbles, Day 7

prompt: flannel

pairing: Frank Castle x fem!reader

summary: Frank loves that you wear his clothes but would rather you stay warm when you're not feeling well.

warnings: swearing, brief non-graphic descriptions of illness, fluff

a/n: I keep warning for swearing but I don't even think these all have swearing lol. Anyways, another one in the Lumberjack!Frank AU!

w/c: <1k

Treading up the hill through the snow, Frank hefted the pile of freshly split logs to the top of the existing stack, except for the handful he carried under his arm and into the cabin. Kicking off his boots, he carefully placed two new logs into the dying fire, stirring the embers before replacing the screen as quietly as he could. 

The house was dark, quiet—lacking the life that you usually brought to it. That was what he expected tonight, though. He'd been out later than usual, a cacophony of nightmares and intrusive thoughts plaguing his mind as he hacked into tree after tree.  Combined with the fact that you were feeling under the weather, he was glad to come home to a silent house and a diminishing fire rather than an exhausted, yet awake, girlfriend. 

Scrubbing a hand over his face, he plopped down on the sofa, snatching his current read from the end table as he sat. As he made his way through a few chapters, the growing heat from the flames pushed the chill from his aging bones. Shifting onto his side, a soft padding caught his attention. You shuffled out from his bedroom, rubbing your eyes with a yawn. 

“Hiya, sleepyhead.” Frank murmured, catching you as you collapsed into his lap. “How're ya feelin'?“

Giving a half-hearted shrug, you nestled in against him. ”Little better.“ Your poor voice was scratchy and quiet as a mouse. He was overcome with the urge to whisk you back into the bedroom and bundle you up tightly—especially when he registered that your outfit was only a flannel shirt. 

”Hmm, ya don't sound too good. Ain't ya chilly, sweetheart?“ He wrapped his arms around you, rubbing one hand over your exposed thigh in an attempt to warm you up. 

Nodding against his neck, you shuddered. Frowning, Frank pressed a kiss to your head. “Why don't we get ya somethin' better to wear? Ya look adorable in my shirt, doll, but it ain't the warmest choice.”

Making a mournful noise of protest, you wrapped the soft fabric tightly around yourself. “I like it. It's soft, like you.” 

Frank chuckled at the unique description of himself, hand still stroking your bare leg. “A'right, let's get ya some pants, at least.”

Gently setting you on your feet, Frank's heart swelled with a protective affection when you shyly took his hand as he led you to the bedroom. You looked so small in his massive shirt, arms completely dwarfed by the plaid sleeves

Finding his softest pair of sweats, he held them up. “How 'bout these?” 

At your sleepy yet affirmative nod, he gestured for you to sit before slipping the pants over your legs. Tying the string tightly to prevent the oversized fabric from falling down, Frank perched next to you, holding you upright as a coughing fit bent you at the waist. 

“Christ, doll, you ok?” In lieu of a response, you sighed roughly and let him put an arm around your sagging shoulders. “Why don't I make ya somethin’ hot to drink before we both get some rest?” 

“Yes please.” You whispered, hoarsely. Kissing your cheek tenderly, Frank stood up and made for the door—only to be pulled back by your weak grip.

“Can I come?” Your voice cracked around the request and he winced as his own throat ached in sympathy. 

“If you want to, darlin’,” He nodded, grasping your waist to help you off the bed. 

Once in the kitchen, Frank got to work. Grabbing a lemon, some honey, and a bottle of whiskey from the pantry, he pulled you flush against him as the water started to boil—tucking your unusually warm head under his chin and drawing circles over your back. 

Grimacing at the shrill whistle from the teapot, you withdrew from his comforting embrace, giving an insincere smile when he showed you the silly mug he’d set aside. 

Frank made quick work of the task at hand, whipping up the hot toddy with ease and passing it to you. “Careful, darlin’, it’s hot.” 

Nodding blearily, you gratefully accepted the mug, pulling it to your flannel-covered chest with a small sigh of relief. “Thank you.” You murmured, blowing on the liquid before taking a few small sips. Humming appreciatively, you closed your eyes. 

“Anytime, babydoll.”

[freetobeeyouandme]

Chapter 9: The Party at the End of the World

It's an early update today because I'm on a train (and might not have time later)! In this one Mike makes some bad decisions, the party goes to a party, and- oh! Someone gets murdered.

Tags: M, Graphic Descriptions of Violence, Fantasy AU, Canon Typical Violence, Canon Typical Horror, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn

Summary:

Mike Wheeler hates High School, so when he almost dies and falls through a portal to another world, he’s not going to complain. Especially not when that world does not only have swords and magic but seems to work exactly according to the rules of his favorite tabletop role-playing game. But his euphoria might be short lived because the party of adventurers he falls in with turns out to be the target of an evil god and the fate of the world might rest on their shoulders. So, exactly like his games of D&D. Except the wanna-be Paladin soon realizes that being a hero is much harder in real life than it is in-game. - Or, Mike gets isekai’d into a world where D&D is real.

An excerpt and taglist below the cut:

Excerpt:

The morning of the carnival feels chaotic and unstructured compared to the week and then some they’d spent on the road. Hop forgoes their training, and instead he and Mrs. Byers head into town bright and early to find whatever empty rooms might be still available to rent for the night – the one and only time they will do so on this journey because they need somewhere safe to store their things while they attend the festivities. Will and Dustin head out with them to get everyone costumes; it’s a masquerade after all.

They plan to rendezvous at the southern gate at lunch time, which gives the rest of them plenty of time to take down camp and do whatever else they please. Now that he has free time Mike isn’t sure what to do with it, though. He tries going back to sleep after the others leave for town, but finds the day too light already and his internal clock disturbed enough that he can’t. Lucas practices with his own sword after breakfast, so for a moment Mike joins in. But he’s not in the mood for sparing, and without Hop there he doesn’t feel compelled to, so when they’re done going through fighting stances and Mike’s arms begin to feel heavy he calls it a day. Lucas doesn’t protest, just quietly continues on his own.

Mike does what he can to help Max and Jonathan take down the tents, then wanders around aimlessly. He ends up slipping between the trees and away from camp, searching for the small creek they had passed on their way there yesterday. After three days of non-stop running through the woods trying to make it in time the clear water is a welcome sight: Mike has reached the point where he is turning into his mother in regards to his personal hygiene. Dry sweat clings to his shirt and his skin, his hair hangs heavy with grease, and there’s no way the sharp, unpleasant smell that had begun to hang over their camp isn’t what his sister had called teen boy stink. Sure, the rest of them had slacked as much as him, but since they have some time off Mike might as well try to get rid of some of the discomfort – the old fashioned way, since Prestidigitation is not a Paladin spell.

The creek isn’t particularly deep, which makes washing his hair difficult, but Mike kneels at the edge of the water, tries not to flinch at how cold it is, and gives it his best. Lathering up his skin is easy, even though the water makes him shiver, but trying to get the soap to foam in his hair is more difficult. Mike gives up when some of the suds run into his eyes, quickly washing off and drying himself with his undershirt. Then he soaks the shirt and tries to scrub out the worst of the sweat. He doubts he’s really successful, but the soap they’d bought in Loch Nora has a fresh, lemon-y tang to it that at least makes his nose feel better.

He only realizes his mistake when he sits, with a bare chest and a wet shirt, in the chilly early spring air. The day is clear and the sun shines onto his little spot in the woods, warming him, but the goosebumps that had broken out while he washed up don’t retreat. He hangs the undershirt over a low bough to dry and pulls on his tunic for some warmth, then sits down against a tree to wait. He hopes the shirt will be at least mostly dry by the time he has to head back to his friends, but he fears it won’t be.

For a long moment the woods, now no longer interrupted by his splashing, settle into a quiet hum around him. Mike feels himself nod off, then jerks awake when the bushes on the other side of the creek part to reveal a deer. It looks like the proverbial deer in the headlights when it spots him sitting a few feet away from the water. For a second the two of them look at each other and when Mike remains still and seated, the animal carefully approaches the creek. Mike hopes the water has washed away his dirt and soap so that drinking from the creek wont make the deer sick, but the animal seems to be happy enough to lap at the small stream, so he guesses it can’t taste too off.

He and the animal share a peaceful moment – and then the underbrush rustles, again, and it shoots off, startled.

A thin, red cloaked figure steps into the little clearing with Mike, one hand raised as if she wants to plead with the deer to stay. But the animal is already gone.

El pulls down her hood. “Sorry.”

Unofficial Tag List (aka you interacted with my posts about this fic, please tell me if you want me to not tag you in the future (or want to be added)): @smalltownwheeler @wheelerpilled @wrong-energy @foodiewithdahoodie @doggo9 @gardenfairie @beelikesbyler @beverlysclown @yickarus @sourdough-el @hessolivagant @hesquietoday @oldfashionedmorphine @total-serene560 @bylersrise @hawkinsunderground @generalstorecashier @snixx @camel-casing @bylersbear01 @turningsoft @casatoan @maru-chu @mid13s @goldentrunks @bunnybylerfangirl @willbyersenthusiast @letterstomichelangelo @drowninginideas @fluffyfangirl @artsyna @absolutelynotyouidiot @bymarara @unknowmiau @are-you-reddie @elherself134 @longtallglasses @kennahjune @easilyentertained99 @bylerschapter @eli-being-silly @bylerina

[ecoamerica]

Watch the 2024 American Climate Leadership Awards for High School Students now: https://youtu.be/5C-bb9PoRLc

The recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by student climate leaders! Join Aishah-Nyeta Brown & Jerome Foster II and be inspired by student climate leaders as we recognize the High School Student finalists. Watch now to find out which student received the $25,000 grand prize and top recognition!

[lunar-years]

do you have any hurt/comfort jamie fic recs? looking for physical injury in particular, but i’m a sucker for emotional hurt/comfort too :)

of course! here u go

Gen -

held onto hope (like a noose, like a rope) by scarlettroses - tw James Tartt Sr. abuse; emotional hurt/comfort and it's heavy but it's so good! Jamie's dad is very ill and Roy & Keeley etc. help him through that.

My troubles are all over, and I am at home by Vamillepudding - tw James Tartt Sr./canon-typical abuse; canon divergence where Roy sees Jamie and his dad in the boot room during the season one finale, instead of Ted

The Hedgehog's Dilemma by @kvetchinglyneurotic - tw James Tartt Sr./canon typical abuse; season one canon divergence where Jamie's dad calls him and insists he come up to Manchester, right after Jamie got benched. Roy worries about where he's at and then we go on a fun speedrun of character development & friendship :)

every emotion that i'm meant to express by @babytarttdoodoo : Jamie has a panic attack during Mom City and Roy & Keeley help him through

Lemons and Lavender by LivingProof - tw James Tartt Sr.; a car accident puts Jamie in the hospital, his dad comes to see him but luckily Roy and Ted are close behind

Roy/Jamie -

I Get By With a Little Help by @belmottetower - tw rape facilitated by James Tartt Sr.; Jamie rape recovery hurt/comfort with, as the tags imply, much more comfort than hurt. There is also a second part with even more comfort :)

Somethin' Stupid by @catalogercas - appendicitis on the bus to an away game! oh no! Not yet complete but chapter 2 of 3 was posted today and it is amazing.

Falling Up by @catalogercas - amnesia!Jamie. all that from doing headers with Phoebe :( it's not super angsty and in fact is very cute. Jamie even meets the yoga mums in the funniest way. incredible content.

i watched the world without knowing what to look for by buckstiel -future fic about the injury that ends Jamie's career

Roy/Jamie/Keeley -

the body of someone you love by @goodmorninglovelies42 - Jamie gets into a minor car accident and needs stitches, Roy does not handle this well

Love Me For Who I Am (Where I Am) by pepperlandgirl4 - Jamie is injured during a match and it results in temporary amnesia shortly after rjk all get together

Chase All The Ghosts From Your Head by @valonia47 - tw for implied homophobia; Jamie is beat up by a crazy City fan at a nightclub with plenty of comfort afterwards from Roy, Keeley & his mum <3

bruised like violets by inlovewithnight - tw stalkers/kidnapping - Jamie gets abducted and it's very scary for everyone involved... but luckily there is a happy ending and lots of comfort! :)

the blood in your mouth, I wish it was mine by inlovewithnight - tw non-con, Rupert Mannion; I feel like i put this on every rec list lmao but i truly do love it. very dark but the rjk comfort is sooooo my everything

they threw me a whirlwild and I spat back the sea by inlovewithnight - tw abuse/semi-graphic description of hand injury; James Tartt Sr.'s mates pay Jamie a visit, Jamie calls Keeley (and by extension, Roy) to help get him to the hospital

no amount of coffee, no amount of crying by shampoobaby - allergies!! classic sickfic, Jamie has hay fever :( poor bb

P.S. If you are one of these authors and I have not tagged your tumblr it simply means I do not know it, but please drop me a comment or message if you'd like and I will update the list with your blog accordingly :)

[14daysdalovers]

Welcome to the Fourth Annual ‘14 Days of Dragon Age Lovers’ Prompts Event!

I am so excited to be back to host this event for the fourth year in a row. I have a fun new list of prompts to get into the spirit of Valentine’s Day with some of our favorite Thedosian characters, and I cannot wait to see what this years list sparks for all of you!

As always, please make sure that you read through the events rules page (which is outlined below the cut) before you decide if this event is for you.

Let’s start with the basics!

How does the event work?

It’s pretty simple!

Step 1: Post your content

Step 2: Make sure to tag the event page (@14daysdalovers)

Step 3: Add the tag #14DALovers (don’t forget to add the prompt and pair tags)

It’s that easy! I will reblog all contributions to the event page for everyone to enjoy in one easy to find location.

I am hosting this event solo, so please be patient with me for reblogs. If I have missed your post and it hasn’t been posted on the blog page by the following day, don’t hesitate to DM me here with a link to your post. I will do my very best to make sure any content contributed is added in a timely manner so it can be viewed + enjoyed by the other participants!

Who can participate?

Anyone over 18 years old can participate! This event will allow adult themes and NSFW content, so unfortunately minors are asked to kindly please not to participate. Please make sure your posts are tagged as NSFW (lemons, etc) if they fall into that category, and tag anything potentially triggering.

How long does the event run?

The event will run for the month of February. Even though the prompts list only has 14 prompts, I want it to be a fun and relaxed event, so I am not putting deadlines on content submissions. Don’t have a piece of fan art/fanfiction finished on the 1st for the first prompt? No big deal! Just submit your content when you finish it and I will reblog it regardless of the date. The last day to submit your pieces for the event will be the 28th so make sure you post them before the end of the day to have them added to the event page.

Which fandoms & pairings will the event cover?

The event will be open to pairings from any of the Dragon Age games, novels, etc. Any pairing from the fandom as a whole, including rare pairs, are allowed and encouraged as long they are respectful to the character. Please make sure you tag your posts with your ship pairing!

What kind of content is allowed?

The event is open for original works of fanfiction, fan art, 2D and 3D rendered pieces. No mood boards or playlists please for copyright purposes. NSFW content is allowed as long as it is between two consenting characters. This is supposed to be an uplifting feel good event, but I understand the need for conflict, angst and drama in certain pieces to build a mood. However it should go without saying that any ‘dark’ content will be frowned upon and will not be added to the event page. 

Here is a list of content that will absolutely NOT be permitted for the event;

• Content that changes a queer character to a straight character.

• Graphic violence/torture or angst for the sake of torturing a character.

• Any content that is racist, sexist, homophobic, transphobic, misogynistic, ageist, etc.

• Incest

• Underage

• Non-con/rape

• Kink-shaming

• Basically if it’s not respectful don’t submit it!

The purpose of the event is to most importantly have fun and uplift your fellow content creators! Comments and reblogs are encouraged, but please keep them respectful. Anyone leaving negative comments or tags on content posts will have their content removed from the event page and be blocked from participating in the event further.

That about sums it up! My ask box and inbox are open for any questions or concerns you might have so don’t hesitate to reach out if you have any.

I can’t wait to see all the wonderful romantic Dragon Age content!

[tommykinard6]

could you explain briefly how the omegaverse work and why is eddie one? thank you :)

Gladly! I shall break it down as much as possible.

Omegaverse is a take on wolf pack dynamics. This can be literal, with wolf characters or werewolves. It can also be when the characters are fully human or have very distant wolf ancestry.

There’s Alpha, Beta, Omega, and sometimes non presenters, though not all authors write with non presenters. These are called secondary genders. Primary genders, such as male or female, have no impact on secondary genders in most verses. Non presenters never take a secondary gender or present much later in life. Presentation usually happens in the teen years or the person is born already presented. Presented is another term for secondary puberty, when the secondary gender matures and becomes obvious.

Now I shall keep this post SFW, but I can do an explanation on NSFW too if it’s wanted! Just let me know!

The alpha is generally the protective leader, the dominant one, sometimes literally the pack leader. In most fics, they are the partner with most societal pull and authority.

Betas are the neutrals. They make great peacekeepers, healers, advisors. Alphas and omegas are generally affected more by scents and emotions than betas.

Omegas are the caretakers and the heart of the “pack”. They’re the quiet engine that make the world go round.

Now, traditionally, alphas seem to take more stereotypical male roles and omegas take more stereotypically female roles, regardless of primary gender. That isn’t always true! But is a common theme.

Let me explain scents real quick. Basically every presented alpha/omega has a distinctive scent. Betas might too, but that varies. Betas also might not be able to smell scents as well as alphas and omegas. These scents can be vague, like smoky, or detailed, like apple pie with a hint of lemon.

((Warning for mention of mpreg: I’ll mark when it ends))

Each dynamic can be any primary gender. It’s up to the author how they want that gender to cross over. Are female alphas able to get omegas pregnant? Can female alphas get pregnant? Can male omegas get pregnant or get someone else pregnant?

((Ends here))

Betas tend to follow the biological rules of primary genders.

((Brief mention of dub-con/non-con as a theme. No graphic description within))

Now, it’s worth knowing before anyone non-experienced in A/B/O goes looking that sometimes, dub-con and non-con are themes in fics. That’s because alphas experience ruts and omegas experience heats and in a rut or a heat, the person can’t consent unless they already established consent beforehand. They’re not technically in their right mind.

((Finishes here))

That’s part of why omegaverse gets a bad rap.

I pride myself in writing fully consensual and enthusiastic A/B/O content, at least between the main ship. It’s absolutely possible to do. Tagging is important! Be sure to utilize filters if you want to avoid stuff when you go looking.

Now, for why I see Eddie as an omega.

It started partially because I don’t see Buck as an omega and I was and still am a Buddie shipper. I definitely saw him as an alpha figure. It’s also partially because of the top/bottom dynamic. Stereotypically, alphas are tops and omegas are bottoms. THIS IS NOT ALWAYS TRUE. You can write it however you want! That’s how I prefer to write, though.

I see Buck as a top/dom and Eddie as a bottom/sub. That man just needs to let go and get out of his head. He needs to be taken care of and pampered. Buck loves to take care of people and spoil them. Besides, I’m a bit of a slut for a size difference.

I don’t do well in explaining how or why a character is a bottom/omega to me; it’s sort of just a feeling. But hopefully, that explains it well enough!

Quick note to add that any dynamic can have any relationship. Alpha/alpha, alpha/beta, beta/beta, beta/omega, omega/omega are all alternatives to the classic alpha/omega pairing.

I did the best I could, but please let me know if you have further questions!

Edit to add: he’s canonically a nester and while that means something different in A/B/O…VINDICATION

[squidthesquidd]

Do you have any favourite headcanons about Nightshade?

(I feel like them being autistic is a pretty common headcanon, so I’m curious if you have any thoughts on that as well)

YEAYEYWYEYYSUSY OH MY GOD YES WE HAVE SO MANY HEADCANONS ABT THEM !!!!! get ready for a fuckn infodump (also sosoos many of these are just us projecting)

warning: i sound like an insane person

okay so YES !!! nightshade is absolutely autistic. and they are stimming constantly. they stim vocally a lot, and a lot of the time its just bird sounds, but sometimes it'll just start screaming lmao. it also likes to rock back and forth a lot!! definitely a verrrry common one.

Also if youve seen how we draw nightshade you might've noticed that we draw xem with little wings in root mode! they also flap those to stim :]

also they love slime!!! this is verry much just me projecting but i like to think xey love slime and they have a huge collection of textures <33 its favorite is bingsu!!!

and NEOPRONOUNS as you might've noticed :P. (we have a nightshade alter that uses neos so we are once again, projecting) but anyway, it was hashtag that told nightshade about neos, and they immediately got into it!! they have many and love hoarding them <3 some of xeir favorites are it/xe/that/owl/web/bot/mur

bones!!! vulture culture!!!!! they collect bones. sometimes theyll go out into the forest and search for bones for hours (it has soooo many antlers) and if web finds a dead animal, web'll take it back with them to clean it out webselves :]

They also have intrusive thoughts. yeah less fun headcanon time. they can be very vivid and very graphic, and its caused nightshade to have panic attacks a few times. i hc that bumblebee also used to have them, so bees helped xem through some of the bad ones <3

also xey have severe emetophobia. yeah i know, a bit of a weird one. if someones sick, they will be avoiding that person like the plague. whenever it watches a movie with the family, it'll always check if there are emeto scenes so it knows when to look away or leave (shout out to doesthedogdie.com i fucking love that website!!!!)

this post cus i think about it a lot

and general terran hc! i headcanon that all the terrans can eat human food :D although nightshade specifically has a difficult time eating (the tism) and xey'll only eat things like noodles or very processed food. murs a huge ramen lover 😎

MINECRAFT. you cannot look at nightshade and tell me they dont love minecraft!! xey have a survival world going where xeyre completely decked out in netherite, have a hundred redstone machines scattered all over the place, and just so many huge projects going on. mur started a multi player world and got all murs siblings to join. most chaotic world ever

and now im thinking abt owls, so. they have night vision, because of course. and it also sleeps in a nest (terrans can sleep hc jumpscare) its just a pile of a fuck ton of pillows and blankets and if you touch it xey WILL bite you

also it has a very strong prey drive. if they see anything particularly small moving around on the floor they are fucking jumping it. its like xeyre the maltos mouser lmao. no small animal that shows up in the malto home is safe

oh and as for music !!! big fan of the big neurodivergent three lmao. lemon demon, will wood, tally hall. that stuff yknow? (yes im projecting) also heres a playlist that our nightshade alter made that is 100% what we hc source nightshade to listen to !!!!

LOVES STAR TREK !!!! you CANNOT convince me they wouldn’t. big fan of the non-human bridge officers <3 Spock, Data, Saru (and also big Odo fan) webs favorite is probably next gen :] also i 100% percent believe it was Alex that introduced xem to it. i look at alex and see a star trek liker. i will not be taking criticism

oh and now heres a weird one. when nightshade was a protoform, they were always very… squinty? i dunno, its just something we noticed. like why are you squinting baby, can you not see? and then when xey got their altmode, suddenly xeir eyes were much wider! and i like to think that they did actually have bad eyesight as a protoform! and becoming an owl greatly improved it :]

also they cant see glass in their alt mode <3 hashtag has a compilation of mur crashing into windows

and about the episode "missed connection", we aren't actually told how long nightshade was helping tarantulas, and while most interpret it as just one day, i like to think it actually took about a week at least or even longer. i dont really know why i hc this, but maybe its cus i need nightshade and tarantulas to be besties or i'll die

okay thats it for now <3 i definitely have more headcanons so i might make a second post abt em later

[lifblogs]

Rating: Explicit Pairing: Royce Hemlock/Tech | CX-2, Non-Consensual Pairing Word Count: 2551 Summary: What happens after the first scene of chapter 5 of Brother, Hold Me Up. Hemlock hungers for his creation, CX-2, and CX-2 must earn his pain meds. WARNINGS: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Gore

[elsanna-shenanigans]

October Fanfiction Contest

Sorry for the long wait - after roughly 5 years of running the show tirelessly, we really needed a break. And a note to all still wondering if you should join our discord server: the prompt has been known on the server for a while, but the time-frame for submissions is the same. Consider joining, if only for earlier updates like this!

prompt: Water.  word limit: min. 450 and max. 4,500 words (+ bonus below) lemon: up to M rating obligatory: no depictions of drowning (explained below) bonus: story exactly 3,000 words long, physical descriptions of characters (explained below) deadline: October 30th

Please also tag your story (if it has any of it) for: angst, tragedy, major character death, violence or abuse, suicide and self-harm mentions, horror elements or anything not mentioned here that you think might make your readers uncomfortable. Non-/dub-con is NOT ALLOWED, unless it is an important part of the story and not described in detail/used as cheap thrills/glorified. Be mindful and respectful.

Restrictions and Bonuses Click here for more detailed answers to user submitted questions. It will be updated if any more questions roll in, so keep it bookmarked!

OBLIGATORY restriction: we know what you thought of when you saw the graphic. For this month, your submissions cannot depict anyone drowning/almost drowning. If it’s absolutely necessary, the fact that someone drowned/had a near drowning experience can be mentioned in the passing, but we as the audience cannot be treated to actual description of the act. Obligatory restriction means if your story has someone drowning it will be disqualified.

DISQUALIFICATION means your story will still be posted (unless it breaks our general contest rules) but will not be eligible to go into voting and win.

Bonus 1: 3,000. Write your story up to a perfectly round 3,000 words. For clarity and fairness’ sake, please use the free Google Docs to count the words. If for any reason you are unable or unwilling to use Google Docs, but want to make sure your story is of the precise length required for the bonus, message the Mods (here or on Discord) for help.

Bonus 2: But what do they look like though? Include at least five physical descriptors for Elsa and/or five physical descriptors for Anna. These descriptors are counted per paragraph, i.e. if there are two or more descriptors in one paragraph they will be counted as one (this is to avoid a situation where you just drop them all in one sentence.) This bonus is worth up to 2 points, depending on whether you do five descriptors for one or both of the girls. Make sure to read the FAQ for more info.

These are not obligatory restrictions, however following them will be rewarded with an additional point (or two) in the favorites column for each bonus. In other words, stories that don’t include any of the restrictions will start off with 0 base favorite votes, those that do - with 1, 2 or 3.

Please write down where and how you used the bonuses at the beginning of the submission to make sure the mods can verify your points (the note will be removed before posting.) If you’re not sure if your story meets the requirements for the bonuses, you are free to contact us to check.

Read the contest rules before participating. We’ll be accepting submissions through the submit button on our blog starting today till Midnight (on Baker Island, GMT-12) of October 30th. Please remember to submit anonymously to make sure the voting is impartial!

If you have any questions, read the month’s FAQ, send us an ask or join us on discord.

Happy writing!

[carusolikey]

The Blue Hour

a Max Phillips & Bloodsucking Bastards FanFic

Chapter 4: Lemonade - Hold Up Part 1 of 2

This week on 'The Blue Hour' - Max reveals the "special skills" portion of his CV, as well as what's lurking just under the surface. Someone from the past causes unrest and threatens to break the pleasant bubble in which we've all grown accustomed to living. Is there a bridge over this troubled water? Or will we simply have to make lemonade out of lemons? Special warnings apply to this chapter - take care to peruse, dear reader!

Pairing: Max Phillips of Bloodsucking Bastards x afab!fem!reader

Rating: Explicit / NSFW 18+ (No Minors)

Author’s Note: I wrote this piece during the month of April 2024 - Adenomyosis Awareness Month, and the idea came to me during March 2024 (Endometriosis Awareness Month). This will not have any type of pregnancy kink, but will touch on infertility of OC due to the aforementioned; canon for this story is also that Vampires are infertile - there will be no Renesmé. OC is intended to be around the same age as Max, reader’s choice up or down, but no age gap. Because older afab/fem lovers are sexy - we drink and we know things. The style of this sticks to the humor and playfulness of the original movie, while incorporating a very sexy and romantic Max, even though he is a little bit of a cocky, smartmouth asshole.

Warnings: 18+ only content, Discussion of previous relationship / SA - not explicitly graphic, but important to mention. Able bodied fem afab reader, alcohol consumption, non-gendered pet names, fem can be carried and has hair - though length is not mentioned, consensuality is implied and intended through actions and reactions. Did attempt to stay away from gendered pronouns and nicknames, although did use the word woman, possibly more than 3 times throughout the entire piece (not fully published yet) referring to OC. Discuss history endo / adeno. Future chapters will also include Vampire hunting, murdering, and blood….sucking bastards.

If you or someone you know has been affected by current or previous experiences of SA or toxic relationships, this week's Chapter includes a special Easter Egg section with access to resources and support.

Special Easter Egg Section Here.

Word Count: ~ 7,100+ (total between Part 1 + Part 2)

Return to the Masterlist!

Continue Chapter 4 - Part 2

After eating breakfast the next evening, while watching a nature documentary on honey badgers, I started thinking that I really needed a vampire nature documentary. Hmm. Honey badgers really don’t give a shit, I thought, as I watched a honey badger get repeatedly stung while digging its way into a beehive just for a little bit of larva.

My phone lit up with a text from Max, and I swiped it open, immediately bursting out laughing at the Twilight meme he sent of the scene in the forest between Bella and Edward. 

More texting dots showed up, “I love making you laugh.”

“What?” I said softly to myself, about to text him that he shouldn’t get so cocky - when he responded with, “I can hear you, silly - we talked about this, it’s my unfortunate super power.”

Oooooh. Right. Kinda creepy, but he did tell me very soon after we met, so I guess I’m glad he’s honest about it? Not like he can help it, I suppose.

I went ahead and sent him a gif of Tom Cardy from the Red Flags music video, saying “Cool!” 

“You know, you can just talk aloud and I can respond to you via text.” Max replied back to me.

“Well, where’s the fun in that?” I asked aloud.

“Oh, it’s definitely fun for me.” 

“Cheeky.” I rolled my eyes, knowing he couldn’t see me.

“Did you just roll your eyes? Lol”

“Are you kidding me? You can’t see me, can you?”

Max sent a bunch of the shrugging emojis. “🤷 🤷 🤷 🤷 🤷 🤷 🤷”

“You’re infuriating, you know that?”

“But that’s why you like me. You like a challenge. 😉” the next text read.

I walked over to my fridge, and since I was technically hands free, I decided to continue with what I had originally planned on doing. Grabbing a bunch of lemons, I brought them over to the sink and started rinsing them off.

“So what other special powers do you have that I’m not yet privy to?”

My phone lit up, “Wow. You are being LOUD right now. Can you calm down and ask again?”

Laughing, I turned the faucet off.

“Ask again - that’s a very Magic 8 Ball response. Okay - I’ll ask again: do you have any other powers that I don’t know about yet, that you’re willing to divulge to me?”

“That’s better, thank you. Just the usual powers.”

“Seriously? Just ‘the usual’? What is that supposed to mean? Can you fly? Do you have super speed? Are you super strong? Can you sniff for drugs? Perform basic math and tap out the answer with your hoof?”

Going back to slicing lemons, I waited for a response, but not for long. 

“I understand your confusion - while I am a stallion, I’m not a one-trick circus pony or a trained DEA drug-sniffing dog. Obviously, I’m incredibly strong, have you seen me?”

I giggled at his text. 

“Why are you laughing? This is very serious. I’m being very vulnerable with you right now.”

He sent a gif of an adorable puppy, and I couldn’t help but groan, “Oh, nooo,” mock sobbing.

“Yes. Good. That’s the reaction I wanted. Fawn over me, thank you.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Did you roll your eyes?”

I shook my head.

“I need you to say it out loud.”

Okay. That’s good. Some privacy, apparently.

“No, sir! No eyes rolled here!” Providing him with a chipper and faux-obedient response.

“I’ll continue then. In addition to being very strong and super fast, I can also fly.”

“WHAT?!” I exclaimed.

“Yep. I can fly. Regular Clark Kent over here.”

“First, Clark Kent was the alter-ego. Second, I think I need to see this.”

“Tomato, potato. And of course. As you wish, Sweetness - but you’ll need to open your window.”

“Max, my windows don’t open that wide - no offense, but I don’t think you’re going to fit.”

I opened the window in front of me, right above where I was cutting lemons.

“Well - it actually won’t be a problem.” he texted.

“What do you mean it won’t be a problem?” 

“When I say ‘BAT!’ I turn into a bat and I can fly.”

Standing there completely silent, reading the text, I took a moment to process what he was saying.

“Sweetness?”

“I’m sorry, I’m a little in shock. I was not expecting you to say that at all.”

“I don’t have to show you if you’re not comfortable with it.”

Chuckling nervously, incredulous, but wanting to believe what he was saying, I went ahead and said what I was thinking out loud. 

“A few weeks ago, I don’t believe I would’ve been able to handle knowing a literal bat-man. But no, it’s okay, I think you should - fly - over. I need to see this.”

As my words barely left my lips, Max’s next text came through, “On my way.” 

The faint flutter of wings grew louder and I stepped back from my kitchen window, as a bat flew in, and in a sudden ‘puff!’ transformed into Max. I leaned back against the counter, just staring, a smile transfixed on my face in pure amazement. He gave me a wink, then picked up one of my lemons. 

“What are you doing with so many lemons?”

Reaching over the counter, I closed the window.

“Hey! That’s my way out!” he whined at me.

“Yeah, I don’t need any more bats flying in, especially if I’m not sure whether they just have regular rabies, or vampirism.” 

“Fair enough.” Max responded.

“And the lemons - I’m slicing, so that I can squeeze them for their juice.”

“You making lemonade?”

“Kind of - I’m making chia seed lemonade.” Max frowned, “A cup of water, ½ oz - ¾ oz lemon juice, depending on how tart I’m feeling –” 

“You’re definitely a little tart.” He bit his lip, raising his eyebrows, and put his hand on my lower back, stepping closer.

I groan-laughed while giving him side-eye.

“And then I add a bit of honey, rosemary & lavender bitters, and 1 tbsp of chia seeds. I like to let it chill for a while in the fridge so that the chia seeds are almost like mini-boba.”

“Mmmmm.” Max gave an overly enthusiastic and very sarcastic hum.

“Hey! These are super healthy! They’re good for your heart and bones, they’re rich in fiber, they’re great for your skin, they’re an excellent source of omega-3’s without the risk of mercury, they help regulate blood sugar –”

“Cool. I don’t care about any of that. Because I’m a vampire - and my body is self-repairing.” He gloated, with his smarmy side-grin, “Just something to add to the pro-column, for anyone who might be considering becoming a vampire.”

I stopped squeezing lemons, and looked at him. “Very subtle, Max.”

He pursed his lips, raising both his hands up in surrender and leaned against the counter.

Looking sheepishly embarrassed, he then dropped his hands and clasped them together as he looked at the floor.

Chuckling, my face got a little red as I thought about the fact that this was the first time Max was bringing up potentially turning me, I went back to squeezing lemons. After a moment, I could feel his eyes as he raised his head and looked at me. 

Suddenly, he pointed out the window and said, “What’s that?!”

Surprised by the sudden exclamation, I dropped what I was doing and looked up in the direction his hand was pointing.

Instantaneously, his pointing hand came down to my chin and turned my head, right into where his face was leaning down towards me. His lips pressed against mine, and I stumbled backwards, just as his other hand pulled me into him by the waist. My instinct as I was falling back was to immediately grab onto him for support. I started laughing in between deep kisses in our awkward low dip, with Max bent over me. He pulled me upright, his chest shaking as he chuckled. 

“Well, I certainly was not expecting that.” I commented.

“It seemed like you might need a distraction, probably.”

Oh, really? After the vampire turning comment? I squinted my eyes at him as my phone lit up with a new text, and Max handed it to me from the counter.

My mood palpably shifted.

“Nat and I are moving in together, and I have a box of stuff that you left in the apartment,” the text read. “I can bring it over tomorrow, if you’d like?”

I slid down onto the kitchen floor, sitting with my knees up to my chest; one hand clutching my knees and the other holding my phone face down, and stared straight ahead.

Max bent down, sitting on the floor next to me and putting his hand over mine. I looked up at him, looking back at me, and leaned my head on his shoulder. It was hard for me to feel anything, except nausea - but feeling my face against Max’s strong shoulder, felt like it was grounding me.

Is there any point in telling him about this? Does it matter? It’s drama. It’s too much, right? But - if it matters to me, it matters, and if we’re going to be anything, I guess I have to let him get to know me.

A good ten minutes of silence had passed as I debated my internalized desire to “be so chill” against everything I’d learned in therapy. Which was admittedly excellent advice that I wasn’t always keen to follow.

Lifting my head from his shoulder I took a deep, slow breath in, and another out.

“That was my ex.”

I glanced over at Max, his eyes watching my face intently, and he squeezed my hand reassuringly. Meanwhile, I looked back at my knees, picking imaginary lint off my pant legs. 

“We have a very complicated history, and he –” I sighed.

“It’s okay. Start from where it feels right.”

Letting out a somewhat sarcastic laugh, where it feels right?

“God. Okay. I guess I’ll give you the summary. We did love each other - I think. I’m fairly certain I loved him. We were together for several years, you’d hope love existed between us, right?” 

I paused, thinking, my eyes reading the air in front of me.

“He had a hard time getting work for a while, and he always hated his job, no matter what job it was - he was always quitting and then looking for another one. I actually worked in marketing at the time, so I carried the financial burden of the relationship. Which I didn’t care about. I loved him.” 

Taking a break to look at Max, he lifted my hand and gave it a kiss.

“Then he finally found a job he really loved, working at a brewery. He made a bunch of friends - we ended up going to a party one of them threw and playing a drinking game. I was drinking cocktails because I’m not really a beer person, while everyone else was drinking beer. So, I definitely lost the game. After the party ended, he invited a friend and their girlfriend back to our apartment to keep the party going. At this point, my endo was definitely symptomatic, but none of my doctors were concerned - just to keep in mind.”

The next part I was hesitant to bring up, because it was always something that fucked with my head. Some days I would tell myself it was nothing and other days I would think, but it did happen.

“I knew that I was way too drunk to keep hanging out - I had a snack from the fridge. Then I ended up getting sick from too much alcohol almost immediately, so I went into the bedroom to lie down. He spent another hour or two or three, I’m not really sure, with his friends. But then he came into the bedroom. I was still very, very drunk, but I was somewhat aware of what was happening.”

As I looked down at the ground, Max put his arm around me. 

“He didn’t stop. He knew I wasn’t fully conscious, and he just kept going. I wasn’t in any shape to push him off, I just waited for it to end. And then it did. Until he decided to do it again. I lost track-- The nausea was overwhelming and I could barely think through it.”

Max brushed his other hand through my hair and kissed me on top of my head, as I went on.

“The next day I was so confused - why would someone who loves you, hurt you? But I also felt like maybe I should have seen it coming? He never asked for consent the first time we were together, he never let me lead. Very often he would wake me up in the middle of the night even when I hadn’t been drinking and was fully sober, to needle me while I was exhausted - until I gave in.” 

I could feel Max’s muscles tense under his shirt and vest.

“When my doctors finally started to take my endo seriously and scheduled surgery, I had to get my mom to come stay with us, because he didn’t want to take off from work. And when that surgery was immediately a bust and I had to schedule a follow up surgery, my mom came back to help. He cried in the waiting room when the specialist told him everything that had been going on inside my body. Because he hadn’t believed me when I told him that I was in pain.”

“While I stayed home, healing, I started to pick up on some things - I learned that he was spending a lot of time talking to someone else. When I asked him about it, he claimed they were ‘just work friends’, but one night he told me he was going over to a mutual friend’s to hang out. When 3 a.m. rolled around and he wasn’t home, I was worried something had happened to him, and texted our friend, who texted me back immediately saying that they weren’t together. I checked social media, and he was tagged in an intimate photo with the person he’d been ‘talking to’.”

“This fucking guy.”

I looked up at Max, and his fangs were out. Although I was stuck in the feelings that this text had uprooted, something about seeing him in defensive mode pulled at my heart, bringing me back to the here and now, where I’d done the work to move past this.

“The next day, I stood on my own two feet, cleared to start doing chores around the house and put the song, Burn It Blue, by Caetano Veloso & Lila Downs, on repeat and on blast."

"He came into the kitchen, confused and for the first time worried - worried that I was upset with him. I told him that I saw the picture that was posted, and that his lying was the final straw. To be his bang-maid was beyond, but to add the insult of lying to my face? Enough. I found a new place. This place. And moved out within a week.”

Max’s fangs retracted and he gave me kisses all along the side of my face, while giving me a squeeze in our side-hug on the floor.

“But this text,” he stopped to listen as I continued. “He’s moving in with them - the person he was fucking around with behind my back, and he wants me to meet him, so that he can give me some things I left behind.”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Max spat out his response, full of disgust.

“Listen, if you want to meet with him to get your stuff, fine. I can come with you, if you want - or I can just go for you, so that you don’t have to see him. Tell me what you need.”

“Well, I don’t want him in my place. And, I think maybe, based on your reaction, it would be best if I went alone.” I picked up my phone and started texting. “I’m just gonna tell him to meet me in that Belgian Café across the street tomorrow evening.”

“Okay. And what do you want to do now?”

“I need to clean up these lemons, and I definitely need to get my mind as far off of this as possible.” I stopped for a moment, biting the inside of my cheek. “I don’t love that I had to share this with you.”

Max frowned, “I don’t love that this happened to you,” then gave me a kiss on the forehead, “but I love that you felt comfortable enough to share it with me.”

He helped me finish my lemon goals, keeping me company and tossing lemon husks in the trash like each one was worth 3-points for his imaginary lemon-based basketball team.

We cleaned up quickly, and then he said, “You know what? We’re going on a field trip,” opening his eyes super wide and giving me a huge, enthusiastic grin.

“Where??” I asked, intrigued, excited, and already feeling a bit less anxiety ridden, just being in his presence.

“It’s a surprise. But you don’t have to change your clothes or anything, you’re perfect just as you are - and you only need to bring your keys, we’re not going far.”

“Uh, okay.” With only a tinge of uncertainty, I put my trust in him. Max hadn’t failed me yet.

Taking my hand, he led me out into the hallway and I locked my door, while I could hear Mr. Vilallonga from behind his door saying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

Pulling me down the hallway towards the elevator, I dragged behind him.

“Hey - is Mr. Vilallonga gonna be okay?”

“He’s fine. Don’t worry about him.”

The elevator doors opened and I stepped inside with Max, who pulled me close, and pressed the button for the top floor.

“We’re going up?” My eyes widened with surprise - we’re going to someone else’s apartment! 

Max smirked, giving a quick flash of his eyebrows, and before I knew it, we had arrived. Stepping off onto the top floor, there were only three apartments. This was penthouse level, for sure.

What was I getting into? Oh god. I wasn’t walking into any Christian Grey shit, was I? Too soon, Max. Too soon.

As he unlocked the door at the far end, I had no idea what to expect, but it certainly wasn’t what I ended up walking into. The style was a mixture of mid century meets craftsman, no greige here. It was colorful, vibrant, retro, eclectic, lived in, and so much more light than I would’ve expected for a vampire.

“Okay, so why have we been spending so much time in my place when you have all of this?” I asked, in awe.

“Your place is cozy, and it smells like you.”

“I will happily rub myself all over your furniture, spreading my scent, if that’s all it takes to get you to let me spend time here.”

Max laughed, “I will happily watch that take place.” He stopped briefly before continuing, “But to be honest, I wanted to make sure you were comfortable first before I invited you into my den of iniquity.”

“Den of iniquity? You running a speakeasy out of this joint?” I walked further through his apartment, admiring his choice of wallpaper in the bar, and then immediately got distracted by the grand piano in the living room. “You have a grand piano in here?! You play then, I assume?” 

This man never fails to surprise me.

Chuckling, “Yes, my abuela had me taking piano lessons by the time I was nine. She loved the piano, loved hearing me play. I was actually going to be a music major because of her, but in between my freshman and sophomore year of college, I dropped out. She got sick and I wanted to help take care of her. When I was able to go back to school, I re-enrolled as a business major.”

“So, when you helped me with my bath, and washed my hair –"

“I used to help her, yes.”

I took his hand in mine, giving it a kiss before moving in closer to hug him.

“If it’s okay to ask, why did you switch to a business major instead of sticking with music?”

He sighed, “It’s fine - it just, it made more sense for me to do something more practical with my life. And it was more her dream for me. I think it just really hurt too much to keep doing it after she passed away. I was a real asshole after I returned to school, though.”

Max gave an empty chuckle, shaking his head like he was trying to get rid of the memory.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. There was this guy who was kind of a little punk. His girlfriend was into me, and I definitely slept with her just because I could. And then he had me kicked out of school for cheating, so - I punched him. I was kind of a mess.”

“Max!” I wanted to cry for him, but I settled for leaning into him instead and giving him a squeeze. “That’s not great, but college age is still very young, and it sounds like you were having a really hard time grieving. I think having you kicked out for cheating is a bit of overkill, though. What did you do after that?”

“Oh, it was fine. All of my credits transferred, I had good grades, and good recommendation letters from other professors, so I ended up graduating - just a bit later than anticipated.” He stood, holding me, thinking for a bit, “I actually ran into the guy a little while ago.”

“Really? What did you do - how did you react?”

“Uhhh, well. It turns out he worked at a branch of the company where I was hired - right before I was turned. After I was turned, I discovered that corporate was actually mostly vampires.”

I was stunned to hear this, and my face definitely reflected that as I leaned back to look at Max.

“Yeah. It’s true.” And he moved on, like it was no big deal, “Anyway, that branch of the company needed to, as HR put it, ‘be redistributed’, so that guy is no longer my concern.”

“What happened, Max?”

“Ehhh, there was some bad blood.”

“Literally or figuratively?”

“Okay, I was still pretty fresh and hyped up from the transition, and I probably should not have been put in the same room as him. Because I definitely tried to turn his new girlfriend and fuck her on the branch manager, Ted’s desk, and ended up just killing them both. Oopsy-daisy.” He shrugged as he said that last bit.

Blinking slowly at him, I responded, “What I said about overkill before? THIS part - is the actual overkill.”

“What was it you said earlier? My bad? I’m gonna go with that.”

“I didn’t say that. I might’ve said ‘my bat’?” I said with some snark.

He pulled me closer, “Oh, was that it?” 

His face close to mine, he swerved past my lips as I went to kiss him, and nibbled at my ear, kissing my neck instead. 

“You know, they started vampire group therapy sessions as part of our company benefits and it’s really worked wonders for morale.”

I laughed, “Really? Because I did wonder if such a thing existed.”

Squinting down at me, he said very low and smooth, “Oh yeah. Many, many wonders for morale. And for individuals, too.”

“I’m impressed that vampires are able to put together such comprehensive mental healthcare plans.”

“Can’t have a sound body without a sound mind.”

He said it like he was selling sex and reading off a Yogi Tea bag label. I rolled my eyes playfully - although, I was ultimately pleased to hear that he had access to it.

Breaking away from Max, I wandered over to the piano, “So - you still play?”

“Yeah. Of course - after I got kicked out at my first school, and I finally got going again at my second school, I decided to be a music minor. I took piano lessons, had to perform in a recital once a semester, performed and had my skills tested in juries at the end of every semester, the whole nine yards.” 

He scooted the piano bench back, giving his long legs room, and his arms space to move as he sat down. He pointed at the white chair near the piano, encouraging me to have a seat.

“My abuela was a huge fan of Enrique Granados, and I used to play his Spanish Playera, Op. 5, No. 5 for her every time she asked.”

Running through a few scales first to warm up, he looked back at me and winked, “Okay, now I’m good to go.” I chuckled at how bubbly and eager he seemed to be, to show me his passion.

As his fingers gracefully touched the keys - the low note grace notes, combined with offbeat chords, giving the harmonic sensation of a Spanish guitar - I relaxed back into the chair. Soon, the melody sang over the bass line, haunting and virtuosic, moving through sweet soft moments, into more intense, demanding chord progressions then back again, cycling through various sentiments of ardent fervor and subtle emotion. 

Watching his hands was mesmerizing. His large fingers, you would think would be so cumbersome across the keys, but they were not. Quite the opposite, actually. Agile, smoothly running across, loosely reaching between keys with a practiced posture - the small tendons raising in the back of his hand, the muscles gently flexing. The way he pressed down on the keys, ensuring that each one was only as loud as he wanted it to be, his nuanced rubato was downright erotic.

As he finished, he let his hands sit on the keys, lifting them slightly, holding his foot on the pedal as the final delicate chord hung in the air, allowing it to breathe for just a moment before carefully lifting his foot off the pedal, releasing the notes from their captive audience of one.

Naturally, I slow-clapped for him. He turned around, and gave me his half-smile, and I let him have it, “I enjoyed every second of that. You play so passionately,” I put my hand on my heart, “I felt - everything. It definitely evokes the sensation of dance.”

His smile grew, “I’m glad you liked it. The composer, Granados, was a huge fan of the painter, Francisco Goya, and even wrote an entire piano suite called, Goyescas, based on his paintings and tapestries - which he then adapted into an opera, and then that even got turned into a movie.” 

Max spoke quickly, invested in his subject, “But the saddest part is that he died when he was only 48 years old, after traveling to the U.S. to perform for President Wilson at the White House, and then premiering his Goyescas Opera at the New York Met Opera. He and his wife missed their original boat, and had to take another steamer ship to the U.K., which crossed the English Channel and was attacked by torpedoes from a German submarine. Because it was right in the middle of WWI. The boat sank and Granados and his wife perished, leaving behind six kids. Isn’t that incredibly sad?”

“Uh, yeah, Max. That’s super sad.” Leaning my head against my hand, furrowed brow, “But I certainly appreciate the backstory. I’m very curious about the Goyescas and how they relate to Goya’s paintings –” I drifted off, leaving space for him to tell me more.

“I thought that might interest you. I’ve always appreciated how much you communicate via music.”

He gave me a gentle smile, “There is another piece I’d like to play for you, a little bit calmer - if you want to grab that pillow from the chair, you can lie down under the piano and experience it in complete surround sound.”

As I picked up the pillow and set myself up awkwardly beneath the piano, with a healthy view of Max’s feet on the pedals and his legs - he bent over and peeked down at me, “This piece is by Debussy, it’s called Rêverie - it’s impressionistic, but it uses a lot of 5-7 chords that have a richness predating their common use in jazz. It’s a whole thing.” He waved his hand in the air, as a sort of ‘whatever’.

Breathing out, I watched his foot step on the pedal before he’d even started playing a note. Suddenly I was surrounded by left handed rolling arpeggios, as I stared back into the inky black of the piano above me. The right hand melody came trickling in, cutting through like a boat through the mist, slowly floating along the musical river that carried it to its unknown destination. Each lift of Max’s foot on the pedal, a breath between phrases, sentences of a poem, and I relaxed in its embrace.

He lifted his foot after holding the final chord, and I wiped away the renegade tears forming that sought to make a fool of me. I knew they weren’t there because I was sad, but because I felt relieved to be with someone who sought to take such thoughtful care of me - with me. It had been so long, and I had been holding myself in so tightly, that my own body had started to feel like it had become a part of the wall I had put up to protect myself. Every ache and bruise felt new, but at the same time, I felt the warmth of being able to set them down without judgment. 

This was a safe place. Max is a safe place.

Peering under the piano, Max gave me a wondering look, “Are you okay? Do you want to, maybe, come out from under there?”

I laughed lightly, “Yes, of course - that was really, really lovely.”

Max had come around the side of the piano, offering me his hand as I slid out from underneath.

“I can’t for the life of me figure out why you chose to switch to a business major, though? You play so beautifully - talent like that deserves to be shared.” 

“Piano is very competitive,” he started, “and after my abuela passed away, I was all alone. I didn’t feel secure enough to pursue a career that didn’t guarantee that I would have financial security. Can you blame me for wanting a future?”

I shook my head sadly, not completely understanding his situation first hand, but of course, capable of comprehending that life sometimes makes difficult choices for us.

“Besides,” Max smirked, “It could’ve been worse.”

Confused, I tilted my head, “How so?”

“I could’ve grown up to be what I wanted to be in the seventh grade.” His eyes widened, and so did his grin, “A hype man for The Mighty Mighty Bosstones.”

“Are you kidding me?!” I yelped, laughing.

“I had all the moves, I even wore suspenders with a bow tie, and checker-print Vans.”

Looking pleased with himself, he stepped back to give himself space to dance.

“Oh no. I’m trying to picture you in suspenders and a bow tie and all I’m getting is Orville Redenbacher.”

“The popcorn guy?? No way, I was way cooler than that! Check me out!”

He danced. It was dancing. Definitely of the 80’s and 90’s persuasion, some hype-man in there, a little bit of Jack Black. Of course, I gave him a soundtrack and turned on the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Heads Will Roll.

“Hey! This isn’t Ska! It’s not the right tempo.”

Bursting out laughing, I told him, “I know. It’s just so much funnier to watch you try to dance like you’re dancing to Ska, when the music doesn’t match.”

I was crying a little bit, my breathing halted by my laughter, “I had a roommate in college who really struggled with rhythm, and always danced just a little bit faster than the music.” Pausing to gasp, wiping my eyes. “This is bringing back some very happy memories.”

Clutching my stomach, I leaned against the couch to hold myself up, laughing as Max continued dancing, just a little bit too quickly and frantically.

The song ended, and Max did a graceful leap over to where I was laughing, “Oh, I’m sure you had all of your shit together when you were in seventh grade.”

Still laughing, “No. No, no, no.” Resting a moment to catch my breath before continuing, “I was super bored in my math class, so I started drawing Kermit the Frog, and my friends had me draw him doing different things, being different celebrities - Tommy Boy, Pamela Anderson, Jerry Garcia. I made the mistake of showing the pictures to my mom, and from that point on, I never stopped receiving Kermit themed gifts. Henceforth, I was a Muppet Person - everything was Muppets whether I wanted it or not.”

I cried while laughing, caught in a state of humorous melancholy.

Max roared, as laughter tumbled from his lips, “No. No! Really?”

“I wanted to be so much more than that.” I wailed.

“That means you can draw, then - you’re an artist?”

“No, absolutely not. I haven’t drawn since. Well, actually - that’s a lie.”

He cocked his head in intrigue.

“I did do a bit of chalk art for this cocktail shop I worked at, and uh, after I tried to draw a chalk ad in the style of Ryan Gosling’s ‘Hey, Girl’ Era, they informed me that I no longer needed to do the chalk art, because they would be paying a professional.”

Sighing sadly, I went on, “My dreams for my own chalk art business named Chalka Khan went up in smoke, just like that.” I said, snapping my fingers.

“Was your slogan going to be, ‘I’m every woman’?” Max shook his head dramatically, as though he had long, flowing hair, suddenly channeling his inner diva.

Shaking my head at him, “Psssshhhh. No.” and then I sang, “Anything you want done baby, I do it naaaturally.” Giving him a little wink at the end.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” He held up his hands, palms forwards as if to beg me to stop. “That’s pretty good.”

“Yeah, but my art wasn’t - good - enough.” Punctuating those last three words, really hitting home the point.

Max frowned, “Awww. I’m sure it was so good.”

“It wasn’t. Everyone kept asking me why I drew my coworker, and not Ryan Gosling. I actually - I have proof.”

Pulling my phone out from my back pocket, I showed him the art in question.

He burst out laughing, immediately covering his mouth, “No, no. It’s not that – okay, it’s not Ryan Gosling. At all. I’m not sure who it is, Nic Cage - Jeff Golblum, maybe? But the font’s not bad.”

“Thank you for that! I’m actually really into fonts, and I’ve been into them ever since middle school, when someone got me a little book with a fancy pen. I did them all! I don’t care for Papyrus, though.”

“What about Wingdings?” Max asked, focusing his eyes on me.

“Are you kidding me? I live and die by Wingdings. It’s in my will - my tombstone will read, born: file folder, open mailbox, telephone, pencil - died: peace sign, open book, boat helm, scissors-mid-cut, lit candle.”

“Wow. Planning on living a long time, huh?”

“Who knows?” I smirked. “Maybe forever.”

Keep Reading Part 2 of 2

Return to Masterlist

Take a break and Check out the Easter Eggs for Part 1 of 2

If you or someone you know has been affected by current or previous experiences of SA or toxic relationships, this week's Chapter includes a special Easter Egg section with access to resources and support.

Special Easter Egg Section Here.

[lovesickbrat]

I was wondering how I can make my style more classic coquette? I have red vintage heart-shaped glasses, matching red lipstick, and cherry earrings, but I don’t really know how to style them as far as outfits or shoes. Tysm for your time!

omg i have shoplook collages just for this but before we get to that heres some ideas! ill make a seperate post bc i KNOW this is gonna be long

to start off look for inspo! i recommend lolita 1997 as well as search 1940s sewing patterns as lots of the clothes they wore are what we wear now

gingham will be your best friend, whether its red, yellow or blue. Look for gingham dresses as they'll be perfect casual items that you can pair with your makeup/accessories. Check bonnechance, forever21, tjmaxx, marshalls, poshmark, mercari etc especially during the spring as they are going on sale

instead of ruffle denim skirts look for aline denim and chambray skirts as that is more in line w the classic coquette look. also look for white and pink aline skirts.

for shorts look for sailor shorts and any a line shorts. you can even look for matching sets as well in gingham, seersucker (another great to look for seersucker dresses), and floral patterns! you can even support small businesses on etsy and commission custom matching sets. it's a little more pricey but it has the double benefit of getting exactly what you want and it gives smaller designers more exposure and income!

skirts are also simple they can be plaid, solid colors, floral etc

for patterns in general fruits like lemons, strawberries, cherries, gingham, polka dots and sailor stripes are great to look for.

for tops look for all the above patterns mentioned. but also you can look for vintage style bustier tops, halter tops (much like the ones dolores wore in lolita 97) and bardot tops. they don't have to be cropped if you dont want and its actually quite easy to find non cropped options! little details like lace trim and lettuce hems are also super cute. you can even make a nod to the tomboyish aspect of classic coquette with baseball/ringer tees and vintage graphic tees,

for dresses look for fabrics like cotton or linen as it fits the weather and style more. floral maxi dresses and even halter dresses.

for shoes, keep it super simple with classic sneakers (i loke skechers roadies, pumas and converse), saddle shoes and mary janes. saddle shoes are a great medium btwn sneakers and mary janes as theyre casual enough to be worn every day and add a little more flair to an outfit. i also 1000000000% reccomend cork wedge sandals!

other accessories are baseball caps, oversized flannels, varsity jackets, collegiate sweaters, bobby socks, socks with lace trims, hair ribbons ets

this style is also easily transferable to cooler weather contrary to popular belief. Keep sheer tights in black, white and nude (as in your skin tone not the generic nude) and layer them with thicker tights. make sure you have a good quality coat if needed but especially vintage style pea coats much like the one dolores wears, swap out the crop tops for cozy sweaters and long sleeves and nice boots! im not a big ugg girl but if you live in a super cold area like i used to, a little tip is to keep ur cute shoes in ur bookbag/locker and change into them! dresses line pinafores can be worn year round depending on the fabric (cotton/linen for summer/spring and wool for fall/winter)

[peqchsoup]

Taunting prompt 66 with Tangerine x Reader please? 👀

Thank you so much for this lovely, it was such a good way to get back into writing!

Tangerine x fem!Reader

CW: violence (the entire thing is a fight), slight non-con

Rated M: sexual nature but not graphic

You’re not fighting like you used to, what happened? 

How you managed to run into the twins, you didn't know.

It was supposed to be a grab and run. That was it.

So when you turned up in an evening gown to New York's finest auction, you were surprised to see Idiot 1 and Idiot 2, better known as Lemon and Tangerine, dressed in tuxedos on the other side of the room.

Somehow, you felt like they were after the same diamond necklace as you. The diamond necklace worth over 200 million dollars. Which is why it wasn't a surprise when you reached the fire exit of the warehouse to leave, necklace tucked into your clutch, that Tangerine's hand pushed the door closed over your shoulder.

You closed your eyes and released a heavy sigh, turning round to be face to face with Porn Stache himself.

"Tangerine" You feigned excitement, "fancy seeing you here!"

With his hand still on the door that was now behind you, Tangerine leaned down until his face was only an inch away from yours. "Enough with the act, love. Where is it?"

"Whatever are you talking about?" Were his eyes always this blue?

"I know you 've got the diamond, so just hand it over and we won’t have all this carry-on, eh?" He did that smile where he squints and looks mildly uncomfortable.

You leaned forward, warm breath hitting his ear, "give me your worst."

You could've sworn you heard his breath hitch in his throat. There always seemed to be some kind of tension between you. The last time you saw him, you were on a train in Japan with some Russian girl known as The Prince as your target. You had seen Lemon through the carriage doors but thought it too coincidental for it to be him so brushed it off. That was until you ran into Tangerine in front of the bathroom and he started bagging on about some briefcase.

The two of you started fighting, Tangerine clearly on some kind of rampage and you trying to defend yourself. You wound up inside the bathroom, Tangerine pressing you against the sink with one of his hands holding your jaw, his other gripping the sink and both panting in each other's faces. You watched him as he licked his lips, looking down to yours and then back up. If his phone hadn't started ringing, you had a feeling you knew where it was heading. While a heavily-accented man spoke to Tangerine, you took the opportunity to slip out of the bathroom and hop off the train that was coming to a stop.

You were glad you had already taken down your target so you could find a hotel and take a cold shower, leaving Tangerine on the train.

But now, you were back in that same situation. Tangerine looking down at your lips again. You took a deep breath and brought your elbow up to his chin to catch him while he was off guard. You quickly ran to the opposite end of the room, reaching the door that would take you back to the auction hall. Giving it a hard pull, you realised it was locked.

"Did you actually think I was gonna make it that easy to get away? Soon as I came in, Lemon blocked the door, so only one of us is leaving with that diamond." He sauntered over to you, one hand in his pocket and the other gliding over his already slicked back hair.

You knew his hand in his pocket could only mean one thing: he was shuffling on his knuckle duster.

As soon as he threw that punch at you, you ducked and swept your leg out to hit him at the back of the knees. He lost his balance but didn't quite fall, so you didn't have enough time to reach around him and grab him from behind properly. Instead, your grip was loose and he grabbed your wrists, spinning round to push you back into a bookcase.

You groaned in pain and Tangerine's pants suddenly felt a lot tighter. But he carried on and he grabbed your wrists and pinned them above your head with enough force that you dropped your clutch, the necklace clinking inside.

Tangerine smirked, "think I've found what I'm looking for."

"Come on, that was too easy."

You chuckled as Tangerine's smirk fell and was replaced by confusion. In seconds, you kicked him in the groin, which distracted him enough for you to pull your switchblade out from your boot. After a few swipes and Tangerine defending himself, he was lying on his back with you straddling his hips, knife mere centimetres away from his face.

"You're not fighting like you used to, Tangerine. What happened?" You pouted as you taunted the man lying beneath you.

But you got too carried away and in seconds, your knife was across the room. Tangerine's hands found their way to your waist and ground you down on top of his hardening bulge. The moan that came from your throat was practically pornographic. You hadn't expected this at all. Your hands were suddenly on Tangerine's thighs as you were grinding down more, his hands still guiding your hips. You were totally at his mercy. And it was a big mistake.

In the blink of an eye you were on your back with splitting pain in your head, having hit the concrete floor on the way down.

Through blurred vision, you could make out Tangerine pulling the necklace out of your clutch and throwing said bag on the ground again.

Tangerine grabbed your chin between his thumb and forefinger, "This was nice but, my brother's waiting. See you round, sweetheart."

He winked at you, and the next second, he was gone.

A/N: THAT WAS MY FIRST FIC IN SO LONG My requests are open, please send them to me, I have a prompts list on my blog and will be reblogging more :')

[spidervee]

coming soon! -> the good man's grace • tangerine x fem!reader

summary: tangerine doesn't make mistakes. until he does. and it all starts on the day he walks into the owl's hollow, a pretty little bookshop tucked away in an alley somewhere in london. his theft, a collection of poetry from one of his favourites, should be the end of it, but something (or someone) draws him back between the cluttered shelves. the shopkeeper, his sweet sparrow, who may not know his name, but knows much more than she's willing to let on.

a/n: i cannot stop thinking about this man and how he'd fall in love with the sweetest heart only to be (pleasantly?) surprised that she's more than meets the eye so this is my latest brain worm that just won't go away. dropping within the next couple of days! (before 2023)

warnings: 18+ only; canon-typical violence and gore; cursing (like, so fucking much of it); fem!reader who is also bi!reader; britishisms written by a canadian with zero clue; bookshop!reader has no racial or body type descriptors, other than being shorter than tangerine (and having smaller hands than his); kidnapping; non-con photos and a threat of a*sault (but no actual a*sault); protective!tangerine; protective!lemon; smut (fingering, unprotected sex, dirty talk, slight dacryphilia, fantasizing about oral sex); angsty!tangerine; semi-graphic descriptions of injury; bird motif; copious amounts of petnames; unnecessary references to bluey because the author loves that show

preview: The more often he visits, the worse it becomes. 

Tangerine contemplates burning your shop to the ground, only after checking that you’re not inside, of course. All he’d have to do is toss the fuckin' match and walk away. You’d collect a nice little insurance payout and he’d have no more excuses to see you. 

But therein lies the problem. Because as much as it makes no bloody sense, his fucked up brain wants to see you. He wants to see you every day in more places than this cozy little shop you've created and in less clothing than those bloody colourful dresses you're always wearing.

And you?

You think you might be developing a crush on moustache, as you've taken to calling him. Which is stupid because you don’t know anything about him aside from the fact that he’s got a mouth like a sailor and hands that look large enough to wrap around your throat and blue eyes that pierce your very being. And a moustache that reminds you of that seventies porno you'd watched years ago with your college girlfriend, just for shits and giggles. This bloke is the shit romance novels are made of—tall, dark, and handsome—and you’d gladly stock a hundred of them if he were on the cover, even though you like to think your shop is a little more refined than that. 

You watch him over the pages of your book as he weaves in and out of the shelves, a few volumes of poetry in his gloved hands, pointer finger tapping a frenetic beat on the hardback covers. He seems less at ease than usual—in fact, he's downright intense. How utterly Byronic of him.

Making up your mind, you set the book down and step out from behind the waist- high counter, floral skirt swishing about your hips.

“Is everything alright?” 

He blinks at you with those cerulean eyes that sit like sapphires upon his face, framed by fine lines of crow's feet. And then, before he can reply, you bite your lip and try a smile.

“Can I make you a cuppa?”