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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 6 months

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1968 [Chapter 2: Hera, Goddess Of Childbirth]

A/N: Enjoy Chapter 2 a little early! See you on Sunday for Chapter 3 🥰

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 5.4k

Tagging: @arcielee @huramuna @glasscandlegrenades @gemmagirlss1 @humanpurposes @mariahossain @marvelescvpe @darkenchantress @aemondssapphirebussy @haslysl @bearwithegg @beautifulsweetschaos @travelingmypassion @althea-tavalas @chucklefak @serving-targaryen-realness @chaoticallywriting @moonfllowerr @rafeism @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @herfantasyworldd @mangosmootji

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

You are buzzed at a private party in the Rainbow Room of Rockefeller Center, Midtown, February 1966, chandeliers and candlelight, pink and red hearts made of paper hanging from shimmering strings and littering the floor. Your roommate Barbara Nassau Astor—yes those Astors, Astor Avenue in the Bronx, Astoria in Queens, “the landlords of New York”—brought you along tonight, and the chance to be swept up into her glittering existence is precisely why your father sent you to a school like Manhattanville College of the Sacred Heart. Barb knows people who know people who know other people and every single individual in that grand design is wealthy and worldly and could possibly lead you into the generous arms of your future husband. You are from Tarpon Springs, Florida, heiress to a sea sponge fortune, and your father nurses powerful ambitions of intermingling his blood with the Northeastern elite.

You scan the selection as you sip your Pink Squirrel. You could marry a doctor and sit in the living room waiting for him to come home at 9 or 10 or 11 p.m., fix him a Whiskey Sour or a Sazerac, listen to him bemoan the complexities of nerves and veins before accompanying him to bed and repeating the whole process the next day. You could marry a lawyer or an advertising executive, and your fate would be much the same. Your own parents are partners in life and business, but you have seen enough to know how rare this is. These men of the Rainbow Room, 65 floors above icy streets radiant with headlights, want a wife whose hands will stay manicured and idle: nannies will tend to the children, maids will clean the house, mistresses will massage the knots out of the muscles of his back. And you—a relative upstart, new money among ancient bloodlines—will have no right to demand otherwise.

A man interrupts your reverie. He wants to know about the pendant you wear around your neck. You sigh before you turn to him; you resist the instinct to roll your eyes. And then you see him. Tall, blonde, blue-eyed, with a curious intensity and a teasing little smirk, an Old Fashioned in his grasp like molten gold. You don’t know it yet, but he is a senator from New Jersey, very recently elected, victorious yet still hungry. He steals the oxygen out of your lungs. He drowns you in the amber-musk warmth of his cologne.

“It’s Athena,” you say, touching your fingertips to the silver medallion self-consciously; and you are rarely self-conscious. The black polish has been scrubbed from your nails and replaced with a soft, shimmering champagne. You spent two hours this afternoon having your hair painfully teased and arranged into a Brigitte Bardot-inspired updo.

“Goddess of wisdom.”

“And war and peace. And math.”

“Math?” He is intrigued.

“That’s what I’m studying at school. Math.”

“And yet you are not disinterested in the humanities. You know Greek mythology.”

“Well, Tarpon Springs has a lot of Greeks, and that’s where I’m from, so.”

“Studies math. From Tarpon Springs, Florida. I’m learning everything about you.” He smiles, this magnetic stranger who has captured you like a moon lured into a planet’s gravity. He swallows a mouthful of his Old Fashioned, moisture glistening on his lips. “Do you like Greek food?”

You can’t seem to follow his words. Blood is rushing into your face, hot and dizzying. “What?”

“Greek food. Have you tried it? Hummus, tzatziki, gyros, spanakopita, horiatiki, baklava.”

“Oh yeah, I’ve had it. It’s great.”

“My family owns a house on Long Beach Island,” he says casually. “We eat a lot of Greek food there. You should join us for dinner sometime soon.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Very soon. Maybe this weekend. Are you free?”

No, you’re not; but you’ll cancel plans until you are. “Um, okay. Sure. And who…sorry, I might have missed it, but…who are you…?”

“Aemond Targaryen.” And he shakes your hand like you’re someone who matters. “I’m a senator. I’m trying to end the war.”

With him, you could be a part of something magnificent. With him, you could help save the world.

~~~~~~~~~~

Asteria is the goddess of falling stars, but the home of rising ones. On the north end of Long Beach Island, New Jersey—only 100 miles south of the sleek bladelike skyscrapers of Manhattan—lies the sprawling Targaryen estate. The nine-acre property features one main house and another three for guests, a swimming pool, a tennis court, a ten-car garage, a boathouse, a pier, and an ample stretch of beach that abuts the Atlantic Ocean, open water with nothing interrupting the infinite, miles-deep blue from the East Coast to the Iberian Peninsula. It is the first week of July, 1968, and your 23rd birthday. You are lazing in a lounge chair on the emerald green lawn and eating your third slice of melopita, a cheesecake-like dessert made with honey and ricotta. It originates from the Greek island of Sifnos.

“You two can’t murder each other while I’m gone,” Aemond says. He’s sitting between you and Aegon. His stitches have healed, the worst of his pain has subsided, his poll numbers have only improved since the assassination attempt. He has a glass eye that he can insert for public appearances, but he dislikes it; at home he wears a leather eyepatch that still unnerves the children. Tomorrow, Aemond is flying to Tacoma to campaign ahead of the Washington State Convention on the 13th. Most of the family will be joining him, with only three Targaryens remaining at Asteria: ailing Viserys, useless Aegon, and you, officially too pregnant to travel by plane. You are wearing a floral, flowing, two-piece swimsuit. The sun is blazing in a clear sky. The record player is piping out Time Of The Season by the Zombies.

Aegon waves a hand flippantly, then adjusts his preposterously large blue-tinted plastic sunglasses; he is shirtless, flabby, very sunburned. “I’ll barely be here.”

Aemond looks over at him, amused. “Oh yeah? And what pressing engagements do you have to attend to? I’d love to know.”

You take a bite of your melopita and scatter crumbs across the swell of your belly: seven and a half months along. “I’m sure the prostitutes miss him.”

“They do,” Aegon snaps. “I’m their favorite customer.”

“Well you’re a reprieve for them. It’s always over so quickly.”

Aemond is snickering. Aegon says to him: “23, huh? A 13-year age difference. She could almost be your daughter.”

“And 17 years younger than you. She could definitely be yours.”

“That’s how Aegon likes his girls,” you say. “Too inexperienced to recognize end-stage degeneracy. Still stumbling their way through Shakespeare for English class.”

“Why can’t she stay at the brownstone?” Aegon asks irritably. Aemond owns a historic townhouse in Georgetown for when Congress is in session, though he’s rarely been there since he announced that he was running for president.

“Because Doxie is here to make sure she’s taken care of,” Aemond replies. Eudoxia has been the head housekeeper of Asteria for decades, a formidable battleaxe of a woman who speaks very little English and has a seemingly endless supply of patterned scarves to wrap around her ink black dyed hair. There currently aren’t any permanent staff stationed at the brownstone, and Aemond does not trust strangers. “And because my future first lady is hosting a tea party on the 10th.”

“A tea party!” Aegon gasps, mocking you. “Surely that will patch the wounds of our troubled nation. She’s an inspiration. She’s motherfucking Gloria Steinem.”

“She’s Aphrodite,” Aemond says, beaming with pride, his remaining eye fixed on your belly. He’s lost one piece of himself, but in a month and a half he’ll gain another. “Goddess of love.”

“There must be a more appropriate mythological character. Medusa, perhaps. Lyssa was the goddess of rabies, Epiales was the goddess of nightmares.”

“Aegon, I had no idea you were so…” You search for the right word. “Literate.”

“Io was turned into a cow.” He grins at you, toothy, malicious.

“She’s also one of Jupiter’s moons,” Aemond muses. He draws invisible orbits in the air with his long, graceful fingers. “Beautiful, celestial, pristine…”

“A satellite,” Aegon says. “Mindless. Aimless. Going wherever she’s told.”

Aemond insists as he twists the bracelet around your right wrist, a delicate gold chain he bought during your honeymoon in Hawaii: “Aphrodite.”

“Didn’t she fuck around with, like, everyone?”

“Maybe you should be Aphrodite,” you tell Aegon.

Mimi appears, tottering across the lawn with the straps of her sundress sliding off her shoulders and her Gimlet sloshing precariously in its glass. The children are playing in the surf with the nannies and Fosco, who is entertaining them by diving for seashells and delivering his treasures into their tiny, grasping palms. Criston is supervising from the sand, though he steals frequent glimpses of Alicent as she feeds a wheelchair-bound Viserys—much diminished after a number of strokes—his own slice of melopita, one careful, patient spoonful at a time. “Can we…” Mimi bursts out laughing and almost falls over. She claws her way upright again using the back of Aegon’s chair. “Um…I was thinking…”

“What?” Aegon asks, annoyed, avoidant. If they’ve ever been happy, it was a transient epoch that came and went long before you joined the family. It was before the asteroid killed the dinosaurs.

“We should go back to Mykonos. We had such a nice time in Mykonos. Didn’t we? Didn’t we just adore Mykonos?”

Aegon sighs, glowering out over the ocean. “Yeah, we sure did. Ten years ago.”

“Exactly!” Mimi gushes, oblivious. “When can we go? Next week? Let’s go next week.”

“Mimi, you and the kids will be in Washington, remember?” Aemond says. Alicent will have to be her handler; usually it’s your job to make sure Mimi is ready for photos, eats enough to stay conscious, doesn’t trip over her own feet, doesn’t talk too much to the press.

“Washington?” Like she’s never heard of it.

“The state. Not the city. For the convention.”

“Oh right. Right.” She gulps her Gimlet. You could set your watch by Mimi’s drinking. Tipsy by lunch, drunk at dinner, crawling on the floor chasing the dogs around by 8 p.m. The Targaryens keep a drove of Alopekis, small and white and foxlike. “Well…maybe some other time.”

“After the election,” Aemond says with an abiding, encouraging smile. He tolerates Mimi because he needs her: happy wholesome family, American Dream. Down at the water’s edge, the nannies are giving towels to Fosco and the children as they scamper out of the frothing waves, Mimi’s five and Helaena’s three: Daphne, Neaera—no one can ever seem to spell her name correctly, least of all the six-year-old girl herself—and Evangelos.

Mimi departs, on the hunt for a fresh Gimlet. Aegon reaches into the pocket of his swim trunks—Hawaiian print, royal blue—and pulls out a joint and a Zippo. He sticks the joint between his teeth and goes to light it.

“No,” Aemond says immediately, yanking the joint out of Aegon’s mouth and stomping it into the earth. Then he points down the beach towards the sand dunes. “You know journalists will sneak around trying to get photos. You know we’re never truly alone out here.”

“They can’t tell what I’m smoking!”

“Don’t argue with me.”

“You know there are teenagers getting their limbs blown off in Vietnam right now? I think society has bigger problems than me smoking grass.”

“And yet to solve those bigger problems, I have to win in November. And the suburban housewives will not vote for me if they think I support legalizing marijuana. Trust me, I know. I’ve met them.”

“I wouldn’t want those people’s votes,” Aegon says derisively.

“You’d rather Nixon get them?”

Aegon doesn’t have a speedy rebuttal this time. He contemplates the Atlantic Ocean, the wind tearing at his hair.

“It’s hot as hell,” Aemond says to you, gathering up the newspapers he’s been leafing through, never not thinking about the election, never not strategizing. “Come on. Let’s go inside.”

As you accompany Aemond towards the main house—and of course you follow him, always, anywhere—Alicent waves you over to where she and Viserys are sitting to wish you a happy birthday again. From this vantage point, you can just barely spot Otto and Helaena strolling through her garden, a jungle of butterfly bushes and herbs. The stricken Targaryen patriarch beams at the swell of your belly. Viserys likes you, you are his favorite daughter-in-law, though perhaps this is not so lofty an achievement. Moreover, he likes that you are carrying the child of his decent son. Aemond has already decided on the baby’s name: Aristos Apollo. If it is in fact a boy, you suppose you’ll call him Ari, but he doesn’t feel real to you yet. He belongs to Aemond, to the Targaryens, to the nation, but not quite to you. He is more myth than flesh.

“Nothing is more precious than children,” Viserys tells Aemond, raspy and frail. “I would have had at least five more if I could.” Alicent bows her head, an acknowledgement of her failure in this regard. Viserys expects it. You and Aemond politely avert your gazes.

“Thank God for this baby,” Alicent says. “After the year we’ve had? That the whole world has had? We all need something to be grateful for.”

“Yes,” Aemond agrees, smiling. It must be the promise of a son that has made his maiming go down smoother, and maybe it is his soaring poll numbers too, and maybe it is gratitude that he escaped with his life, and maybe it is even the fact that he has you.

But long after dusk when you’re getting ready for bed—slathering yourself in Jergens, stepping into your chiffon nightgown—as you pass through the sliver of light pouring out of the bathroom, you catch a glimpse of something that stops you. Aemond is standing in front of the mirror with his hands on the rim of the sink, his eyepatch slung over the towel rack, his voided eye socket exposed and gory and irreparably wounded. There’s something in his scarred face that you can’t recall ever seeing before. There is a seething, secret, animal rage. There is fury for everyone who has ever denied him anything.

You remember who you were before you met Aemond at the Rainbow Room in Manhattan at a party you were almost not illustrious enough to attend. You wore your hair long and loose, you downed shots, you smoked, you swore, you slept through class almost every Monday; and then you packed all of this away in your allegorical attic and became someone who could stand beside a senator, and then a candidate, and then a president, someone who could tip the scales of fate.

And you think as you lurk unnoticed in the doorway: Maybe he’s been hiding parts of himself too.

~~~~~~~~~~

July 10th, 10 a.m. He’s snoring on a couch in the living room, the one patterned with sailboats. He’s hugging his acoustic guitar like a child clinging to a teddy bear. Sometimes he plays it for the kids: Get Rhythm, Twist And Shout, Stand By Me, You Can’t Hurry Love. That’s about the extent of his involvement in their lives. He has a law degree from Columbia that his father bought for him. Aside from a brief and disastrous stint as the mayor of Trenton, he has never been gainfully employed. You pour the cupful of ice cubes you collected from the freezer all over his bare chest.

“What the fuck!” Aegon screams as he startles awake. “What is wrong with you?!”

“The guests are arriving in two hours. And you’re going to help me host.”

“I’m not slobbering at the feet of those manicured elitists.”

“It’s easy to say ‘vive la révolution’ from your family’s mansion that you reside in as a professional failure.”

“Yeah, you’re right, I’m so worthless. If only I spent more time hosting tea parties.”

“I can’t small talk with governors and congressmen, so I have to charm their wives instead. That’s how it works, you idiot.”

Aegon rolls off the couch and rubs his forehead, wincing, hungover. In the dining room, Eudoxia is readying cups and plates, polishing silverware, folding napkins. The caterers will be here soon, and there are also three dishes that you made yourself: stafidopsomo, a bread with raisins and cinnamon; rizogalo, Greek-style rice pudding; and baklava you spent hours chopping walnuts for. At least one show of domestic prowess is an expectation, two is impressive, three is above and beyond, something for the other political wives to chatter about. You know the importance of making a good impression on them. They are as much a part of their husbands’ careers as the speech writers, communication directors, fundraisers. “I need a Bloody Mary,” Aegon groans.

“You need to pull your goddamn weight. Everyone else is working to get Aemond elected. Your five-year-old kid is out on the campaign trail and you can’t walk around with a tray of hummus and mini spanakopitas? Are you serious?”

“I’m dead serious,” he says, standing with some difficulty and then shoving by you. “Fuck off, Miss America.”

“Aegon!”

But he’s padding off towards the kitchen with his bare feet, tiki print boxer shorts, bedraggled hair. You follow after him in your spotless white heels and sundress patterned with common blue violets. Your earrings are pearls. You’ve wrangled your hair into a tidy French twist. Aegon is getting a pitcher of tomato juice out of the refrigerator, a bottle of vodka from a cardboard Apple Jacks box. He keeps booze and pills hidden everywhere; you’re always stumbling across his caches.

You open your mouth to unleash something hurtful, something hateful, but then you feel the cold flare of liquid on your thighs as the ocean breeze gusts in through the windows. My dress, you think, alarmed. What did I spill on it? One of the ice cubes you threw at Aegon must have caught on the skirt somehow and melted. That’s your first guess, and it is welcome; water doesn’t stain, and you aren’t sure if you have another outfit that is both formal enough and will still fit you. But when you reach down to touch your leg—now the liquid reaches your knees—your hand comes away red.

You look up at Aegon. He’s staring back at you, thunderstruck, horrified. His Bloody Mary ingredients are now forgotten on the countertop. He shouts for the housekeeper: “Doxie?!”

There is indistinct, cantankerous Greek grumbling in return.

“Doxie! Call an ambulance!”

“I don’t understand,” you say to Aegon, bright clotless blood dyeing the whirls of your fingerprints. I ruined my dress, you think nonsensically. “It doesn’t hurt. Shouldn’t it hurt?”

“Don’t move, don’t do anything, just wait for the paramedics.”

But the edges of your vision are going dark and hazy, and the room spins like a flipped coin. Your knees and ankles fold, bones turned to paper. As you drop, Aegon dives for you. You clutch at him, but there’s nothing to grab onto, no suit jacket, no tie, only skin that glows with sunburn. “If I don’t wake up, tell Aemond—”

“You’re not dying, bitch. My luck’s not that good.”

But his eyes are panicked; and they are the last thing you see before you black out.

~~~~~~~~~~

Arteries of cement, bones like lead, heavy eyelids opening to reveal strange white walls.

Am I dead?

But no: you hurt all over. Heaven isn’t supposed to hurt. There are needles pierced through the backs of your hands, a splitting rawness in your throat.

Was I intubated? Did I have surgery…?

You try to sit up. The pain is blinding; the severed and sutured latticework of your abdominal muscles is a pit of glass. You gasp, moan plaintively, fumble for the nurse call button on the wooden nightstand.

“Will you stop moving?” Aegon says as he walks into the room. He’s slurping on a straw that pokes out from a Dairy Queen cup. The fluid inside is clumpy and red. Instantly, you think of blood, and a wave of nausea punches through the shredded gore that was once your belly. Aegon flops down into the salmon pink armchair beside the bed and props his combat boots up on the ottoman. “They sliced you up like the Black Dahlia. You’re gonna rip your stitches.”

“They did a c-section…?”

“Yeah, you had some kind of uterus…thing. I don’t remember.”

The baby?? Is the baby alright?? “An abruption?”

More slurping. “No…I think it started with a P.”

“Previa?”

“Yeah, that one.”

You remember waking up a few times: on the kitchen floor as men were lifting you, in an ambulance as the siren shrieked. Someone said you were being taken to Mount Sinai in Manhattan. And that makes sense, that would have been Criston’s plan. Mount Sinai is one of the best hospitals in the country. You look around the room for a bassinet or a crib. Instead you see a wheelchair and a myriad of flower bouquets; word has already gotten out, and so the customary well wishes are pouring in. Lady Bird Johnson sent bluebonnets, the state flower of Texas; Abigail McCarthy sent lilies of the valley; Muriel Humphrey sent roses, traditional, safe, uninspiring; Pat Nixon sent blood orange gladioli. Mrs. Wallace, newly deceased, neglected to call a florist. “Where’s the baby?”

“He’s fine. He’s downstairs in an incubator.”

Ari, you think, though he still doesn’t seem real yet. “What…?”

“His lungs are underdeveloped. But the doctors think he’ll be alright. You want a Mr. Misty? There’s a Dairy Queen like two blocks from here.”

“No, I don’t want a Mr. Misty,” you say, incredulous. “I want to see the baby.”

“Well they can’t move him and they can’t move you, so you’ll have to wait.”

“I’m going to see him—” You swing your feet off the bed and feel daggers, fire, a splintering like someone has taken a hammer to your bones. You almost scream; it takes everything in you to choke it down and only gasp as your flesh becomes an inferno. I want a joint, you think randomly, an urge you’d believed you had exorcised from yourself, an archaic relic of a past life.

“Told you,” Aegon says smugly.

You lie panting, helpless, glancing at the phone on the nightstand. “Aemond knows?”

“Oh yeah, I’ve called everyone. He knows.”

“Good. So he’ll be here soon.”

“Sure,” Aegon says, perhaps a tad noncommittally.

“Okay.” You’re still trying to catch your breath. Tacoma is a six hour flight away. Even if Aemond doesn’t leave until morning, he’ll be here by sundown tomorrow. “You can go now.”

“Go?!” Aegon exclaims, then laughs, one of his reckless, taunting cackles. “Oh no. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You definitely are.”

“No, I’m not,” he insists, grinning. “For once in my life, I’m the person who’s exactly where he’s supposed to be. I’m the honorable one. The sacred heir of the favorite son has just been born, and the blessed mother has been sawed in half like Saint Simon the Zealot, and where is Aemond? Where is literally everyone else? Across the continent shaking hands and forcing smiles to win him the great state of Washington. I’m not going home. I’m collecting every second I spend here like coins from a slot machine. I won the jackpot, babe. No one is ever going to be able to call me the family fuckup after this.”

The pain is horrible, insurmountable; you can’t think through it. You close your eyes and try not to sob, to wail, to split yourself open in body and soul. I can’t let him see me break down.

“What’s up?” Aegon asks. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I want a Mr. Misty. Go get me a Mr. Misty.”

“Okay,” Aegon says doubtfully. “What flavor?”

“I don’t care. Not red.”

“They have orange, lemon-lime, grape—”

“Just pick one!” you shout, tears brimming in your eyes. Get out, get out, get out.

“Calm down, psycho!” he yells back, heading for the door.

As soon as he crosses the threshold, you snatch the call button off the nightstand and press it frantically until a nurse arrives. You get more morphine and sink into a stillness like deep water, down, down, down.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s dark outside, stars and a crescent moon. On the television is grainy footage from the Battle of Khe Sanh. American soldiers younger than you are dragging their wounded brethren to a Chinook helicopter for evacuation: bandages, burns, missing limbs and faces. Aegon had dozed off in his chair—assisted by an ample amount of Vicodin, surely—but is stirring awake now. He blinks groggily at the screen.

“It’s so fucking awful,” you say, and Aegon’s eyebrows shoot up; it’s the first time you’ve ever sworn in front of him. You trained yourself to stop when you met Aemond. “30,000 Americans dead, God knows how many Vietnamese peasants, Buddhist monks setting themselves on fire, and for what? So we can say we did everything we could to stop communism? So we can humiliate the Russians? There is no liberation of Vietnam. All we’re doing is making those people hate us. And we’re destroying ourselves too.”

“I didn’t know you cared about the war.”

You look at him, mystified. “Everything I do is about the war.”

“But you never really talk about it.” Aegon yawns and stretches, reaching up towards the ceiling. “You talk about Chanel dresses and tea parties.”

“Well yeah, because it’s…it’s unseemly, I guess. For me to speak on the war. Me specifically.”

He snorts. “Because you’re a woman? Who told you that? Aemond?”

You hesitate, watching the television again. Now there are napalm bombs incinerating villages and rice paddies. “I had a boyfriend before Aemond, you know.”

“What, in kindergarten? Chasing each other around the playground? Illicit snuggles beneath the slide?”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “A real boyfriend.”

“No way. You did not.”

“I did,” you insist, smiling a little. “We met at a party my freshman year of college. He was at NYU studying…oh, I always forgot, that was one of our jokes. It was either archaeology or anthropology. I actually thought I was going to marry him for a minute there.”

“Scandalous.” Aegon is gazing at you with his murky blue eyes, grinning, playful. “What happened?”

“He had a moral crisis about poor kids getting shipped off to Vietnam to be slaughtered while he was tucked safely away in his ivory tower. So he enlisted, and honestly it was shocking how quickly I started to forget about him. We exchanged a few letters, it didn’t last long, I think he was forgetting about me too. But he ended up getting killed in action in October, 1965. His old roommate told me.”

Now Aegon is thoughtful. His crooked grin dies. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s his parents I feel bad for. He was an only child. I heard his father drank himself to death.”

“You’ve been carrying a story like that around with you and you never used it? Not in an interview or an article, not at one of your asinine little tea parties?”

“I can’t,” you confess. “Aemond doesn’t want me to. He doesn’t like to be reminded about…you know. That there was someone else before.”

Aegon throws his head back and cackles, combing his fingers through his disheveled blonde hair. “As if Aemond was a virgin when you met him.”

But it’s not the same. It isn’t to Aemond, and it wouldn’t be to the rest of the world either. It is your eternal disgrace. It is something you will be expected to atone for until you’re in the grave. “Give me a joint.”

Aegon is amazed. “What?”

“I know you have some, you always do. I want one. Give it to me.”

“You smoke grass?”

“I used to. Then I gave it up. But I’m making an exception.”

He gawks at you for a while, then slips a joint out of one of the front pockets of his green army jacket. He places it between his lips, lights it with his little chrome Zippo, and inhales deep and slow. Then he offers it to you.

“I don’t want herpes.”

Aegon laughs. “I don’t have herpes. I swear.”

“Not yet, maybe. Give it time.”

“Are you gonna smoke or not?”

You take the joint and fill your lungs with earth, floral notes, a tinge of spice. It’s been years, but it comes rushing back in an instant as the high hits your bloodstream: calm quiet weightlessness, a sense of wellbeing that fills the honeycomb hollows of your bones. “I need to see the baby.”

Aegon stalls. “The doctors were really insistent that you stay here.”

“And all the sudden you care about rules.”

He considers this, drumming his palms on his thighs. His jeans are ripped; he’s biting his lower lip. Then abruptly, he stands. “Alright.” He grabs the wheelchair and pushes it up against the bed. “Let’s go.”

You take another drag and then discard the joint in your empty Dairy Queen cup. You throw off your blanket and try to touch your bare feet to the cool linoleum floor. It hurts, it feels like razor blades, but you keep going. Then you remember you still have one IV in the back of your left hand. “Wait, how am I going to…?”

“You’re in luck. I am well-versed in needles.” Aegon holds out a palm. Nervously, you give him your hand. He peels off the medical tape, takes a moment to examine the vein, then slides out the needle so smoothly you don’t feel it at all; it barely even bleeds. He balls up a Kleenex from the box on your nightstand and secures it to the wound with the same strip of tape. “You’re welcome.”

“Junkie.” You try to lower yourself into the wheelchair and a yelp rips from your throat.

“Oh, this is pathetic,” Aegon says, but not quite unkindly. “Here.” He leans down in front of you. Too desperate to be prideful, you link your arms around the back of his neck. Aegon’s shaggy blonde hair tickles your cheek; his hands skim gingerly to settle on your waist, steadying you without too much pressure. He helps you into the wheelchair, where you collapse gasping and sweating bullets.

“If you ever mention this again, I will guillotine you.”

He winks. “Relax, little Io. I never kiss and tell.”

“I’d assume you’re usually too plastered to remember the details.”

“Be nice. I could roll you down a staircase.” But he doesn’t; he rolls you into the hallway instead.

The lights in the corridor are dim for night, for dreams. You see a few nurses shuttling in and out of other rooms from a distance, but none seem to notice you and Aegon. He steers the wheelchair into the elevator and you ride it down two floors, then cross another hallway and pass through a set of doors. There must be a dozen incubators, half of them occupied. The nurse on duty—currently cradling a tiny infant in her arms, a girl judging by the pink hat, and feeding her from a bottle of formula—gapes at you.

“Ma’am? You aren’t supposed to be—”

“Shut up,” Aegon tells her, and the nurse doesn’t say another word.

Aegon pushes the wheelchair down the line of incubators until you reach the one with a name card labelled Targaryen, Aristos Apollo. And there he is: unmistakably fragile, impossibly small, blue veins like a roadmap beneath translucent skin, tangled in tubes and wires. In his sleeping face you don’t see Aemond or even yourself, but rather an inexplicable familiarity. You feel like you’ve met him before. You feel like you’ve known him all your life.

You press your hand to the clear, domed wall of the incubator; shadows in the shape of your outstretched fingers fall over Ari’s face. “He’s real.”

“Of course he is.” Aegon is watching you; you can see him on the periphery of your vision, a blur of blonde hair and high cheekbones. When you turn to him, he immediately looks away.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing.” But his voice is distracted, bewildered, like someone fumbling for a light switch in a dark room.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen ii #aegon ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon targaryen #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon ii x you #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii fanfic #aegon targaryen x you #aegon targaryen ii x you

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muzansfangs · 6 months

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My dear readers, welcome to the “HAVE A DRINK” event. The idea of hosting something new to spice things up have been lingering in my mind for too long. To celebrate the one year anniversary of my account, I have decided to finally give in to the temptation and I have come up with this SMUT EVENT.

• 𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤? It’s pretty simple! Below the theme divider, you will find the list of drinks I have come up with. Each one of them contains specific sexual activities I have chosen to include in the mix. If you like the drink, choose a character from Bleach, Jujutsu Kaisen or Demon Slayer to be the guest star of your request and submit it to me!

• 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭. When you submit your request, make sure to write the name of the drink and the character you have chosen (e.g. Cosmopolitan + Mitsuri Kanroji).

• 𝐀𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟? Some drinks may involve more than one character to pick. Please, pay close attention while submitting your request! As specified in my general rules for my head canons, there are some characters I do not write for and, if you do not specify the gender of the reader, I will write for female reader by default.

• 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐞𝐧𝐝? The event ends on April 1st.

• REQUESTS STATUS: CLOSED!

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

𝐌𝐞𝐧𝐮.

✦ COSMOPOLITAN (virgin!reader, vaginal fingering, vanilla vaginal sex);

✦ BLACK RUSSIAN (spanking, hair pulling, orgasm denial, vaginal sex, creampie);

✦ BLOODY MARY (hate sex, choking, vaginal sex, degradation kink, overstimulation);

✦ SEX ON THE BEACH (semi-public sex, vaginal sex, drunk sex, cowgirl position, creampie);

✦ MOJITO (double!penetration, threesome, anal sex, vaginal sex, marking the partner);

✦ DAIQUIRI (cheating, modern/human!au, revenge sex, breeding kink, desk sex, clothed sex);

✦ WHISKEY SOUR (threesome, sixty-nine, sleepover scenario, nipple play, vaginal fingering, use of strap-ons);

✦ MARGARITA (blow job, cum swallowing, lingerie kink, vaginal fingering, playful face-slapping);

✦ MANHATTAN (anal sex, corruption kink, handcuffs, shy reader);

✦ MAI TAI (exhibitionsim, collar, manhandling, two additional characters masturbating to the sight in front of them, creampie);

✦ OLD FASHIONED (vanilla sex, pet names, holding hands while having sex, morally grey character who is only sweet for reader, sex after a battle).

𝐍𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐬.

✦ GIN (vaginal sex with strap or penis);

✦ VODKA (anal sex);

✦ TEQUILA (shower sex);

✦ RUM (oral sex);

✦ WHISKY (vaginal fingering);

✦ COGNAC (virginity loss);

✦ GRAPPA (passionate sex in front of the fireplace).

You can choose to add ICE CUBES to your NEAT DRINK. Each ice cube is a specific kink, or practice you would love to add to the standard request (e.g.: tequila + Byakuya Kuchiki + two ice cubes: vaginal sex and degradation kink).

Credit for the mdni banner: @cafekitsune

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hwanchaesong · 4 months

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Ready to serve,

The After Hours Bar

🍾 Order: 4 parts white lies, 3 parts sour feelings, 6 minty pick-up lines, 1 tablespoon of sweetness, salty tears for fun and voila! A mojito of mistakes.

☞🍹First Drink: He has lost himself in the sea of vodka and rum, so, why don't you do him the honor of bringing him back down here on earth. 🍸

Read Here

☞🍹Second Drink: Y'all bring gravity to shame because even with its constant pull of 9.81 m/s^2, it still can't put your drunken pieces back together. 🍸

Read here

☞🍹Third Drink: A distraction is all he wanted, yet you came in like a bourbon whiskey that gave him a massive hangover. 🍸

Read here

☞🍹Fourth Drink: A soulless, non-empathic, and unloving man emerging from a hurricane cocktail. Isn't it nice to tempt him? 🍸

Read here

☞🍹Fifth Drink: Nursing his old fashion all night isn't something that he usually does, but he's willing to go through it to observe your beauty. 🍸

Read here

☞🍹Sixth Drink: Living in champagne and sparkles is a dream come true for anyone. But not with him, a mess in his head, won't you fix it for him? 🍸

Read here

Having fun? That's good to hear.

☞🍹Seventh Drink: Beyond the journey of espresso to dry martini, the only thing that he manages to remember is his baby. 🍸

Read here

A long night is ahead of us. So sit back and relax.

a/n: updates will start next week. please do tell me if you wanted to be added to the taglist. this is one of the album inspired short fics that i'll be releasing as a compromise for not posting much bc I TAKE TOO LONG WHEN IT COMES TO LONGER FICS. I really have to do more bc I have been inactive since last year 👺

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revenge-of-the-assbutt · 6 months

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Continued from here

Oh god

#assbutt reads whiskey old fashioned sour

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poohsources · 1 year

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🐝 * ― 𝑪𝑶𝑪𝑲𝑻𝑨𝑰𝑳 𝑸𝑼𝑰𝒁. ( send one or multiple of these to learn a little more about my muse(s). )

[ mai tai ] if they could have any superpower in the world, what would they choose? [ white russian ] what would they do if they won the lottery? [ grasshopper ] what / who would they dress up as for halloween? [ tequila sunrise ] how would they spend their perfect day? [ californication ] what do they think is their greatest achievement in life? [ caipirinha ] if they could change one thing about themself, what would it be? [ painkiller ] what is their greatest regret? [ moscow mule ] if they could travel through time, where would they go? [ dry martini ] what is the most embarrassing thing that has ever happened to them? [ tom collins ] which living person would they most want to meet? [ greyhound ] if they could have a dinner with just one person ( dead or alive ) who would they choose? [ planter's punch ] how long does it take to befriend them? [ sangria ] do they have any special routines they follow every single day? if yes, which? [ whiskey sour ] what is the biggest lie they ever told someone? [ zombie ] do they believe in life after death? [ margarita ] what are their biggest pet peeves? [ mojito ] what is one goal they are working towards? [ appletini ] who do they consider the most important person in their life? why? [ cosmopolitan ] what is their happiest memory ever? [ gin tonic ] who influenced them the most? [ bloody mary ] what would they do if they only had one week left to live? [ manhattan ] where would they like to travel the most? [ old fashioned ] what would their adult self tell their kid self if they could go back in time? [ blue lagoon ] how do they typically react when faced with something they fear? [ sidecar ] what type of person are they most likely drawn to? [ negroni ] what is one piece of advice they would give others? [ hurricane ] ��which song describes them the most? why? [ sex on the beach ] what do they consider red flags in a relationship? [ mimosa ] which incident shaped them the most? [ long island iced tea ] if they had the chance to redo their life, what would they do differently the second time around? [ mint julep ] which was their dream job as a kid? [ singapore sling ] how do they react to disappointments? [ alexander ] what would they do with one million dollars / euros / pounds / whatever currency they use? [ screwdriver ] which habit do they wish they could get rid of? [ gin fizz ] do they consider a glass half-full or half-empty? [ aperol spritz ] which is one thing they still think about a lot? [ piña colada ] how do they show affection? [ swimming pool ] what is the most important lesson they've learned in recent years? [ b52 ] how would they describe themselves in as few words as possible? [ daiquiri ] do they believe in true love? why or why not?

#rp meme #rp memes #rp prompts #roleplay meme #character meme #rph #type: meme #alcohol tw #( just in case )#( this may or may not have been inspired by me drinking too much wine and long island iced tea )#( so apologies for potential mistakes )

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ambiguouslady42 · 2 months

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Court

Nanami x Fem! Reader.

You are at your first-ever tennis match. Nanami Kento is also at this match. A chance encounter becomes one to remember.

Tags: Smut. Some choking.

Word Count: 2.5K

This is my first try at writing smut. It was inspired by attending the National Bank Open.

Minors DNI. I will block you.

You have never been to a tennis match in your life. You are very familiar with tournaments such as Wimbledon or the French Open. You have caught glimpses of the sport through television, but you are not that familiar with the rules. You are familiar with the unofficial dress code. People are dressed in crisp linens, khakis, dresses, skirts, and sweaters. It seems like you’re going to a garden party versus being a spectator. Due to the humid weather, you have opted for a form-fitting dress that accentuates your waist, your hips, and the firm ass of yours. Although, those are not the only assets that you possess. If people are talking to you, you must double-check that they are looking at your face and not below the neck.

You carry an allure to yourself. Your perfume smells of sparkling fruit; it’s not overpowering, but it leaves a trail as you enter the venue. Further away from you is a VIP area. Those with the means to enjoy the comfort of watching the game indoors. Marble tables and chairs with cushions are placed everywhere. Visitors can enjoy the buffet. Kento Nanami doesn’t particularly feel interested in this. He feels a hunger for something else. Dressed in his notable khaki suit, blue shirt, and leopard-printed tie. It was appropriate for today’s activities. He was supposed to be accompanied to this event, but unfortunately, his date did not come. He was by himself enjoying an old-fashioned at the bar.

Fortuitously, you decided to enter the VIP area to explore. You had free tickets to access the VIP area, plus the ability to sit courtside. You approach the bar and notice the gentleman standing next to you. However, you wait before you can start a conversation. You flag the bartender, and order your drink: “whiskey sour, please.”

You notice that Nanami’s scent is that of lemon, rosemary, and bergamot. It was lovely. You feel a sudden attraction to this. However, you do not want to make the first interaction. You slowly sip your drip and look at your phone. He notices your scent. It’s alluring to him and he catches a glimpse of your outfit for today’s occasion. He can notice your assets and wonders if you’re alone. You catch him looking as you use your peripheral vision. At this point, this almost feels like a game of cat and mouse.

“Can I help you?” you ask.

Nanami is surprised that you were quickly able to notice his glance. He maintains his composure. “Not at all, I apologize if I startled you. ”

Noticing that you have embarrassed him slightly you relax and approach him. “I apologize. I’m alone and I wasn’t expecting to be spoken to today”.

“Oh, why is that?”

“Well, I was supposed to be here with a friend, but she wasn’t able to come. I didn’t want to waste these tickets. I suppose I can stay indoors and watch the game from here, but that would be ridiculous.”

“Where are you supposed to be seated?”

“Courtside” you respond.

“That’s a coincidence. I’m also going to be seated courtside. I was supposed to have a companion today, but I was stood up.”

“I find that very hard to believe. Based on your appearance, I find it hard for you to ever be stood up.”

“What about my appearance?”

You begin to blush slightly. “Well, you look rather dashing in your suit. I must say that your scent is also quite alluring, so even if you do not have a date, I doubt that you’ll have a challenging time meeting someone today.”

Nanami is taken aback by how forward you are. He is intrigued, but he doesn’t want to make you uncomfortable. “Are you alone?”

“For today, I am. I wouldn’t mind some company.”

“My name is Y/N L/N. What is yours?”

“Nanami Kento. It’s a pleasure” He grasps your hand for a firm handshake. You like the grip of his hand. However, you are the first to let go.

You both finish your drink in silence. “Would you care for another?” he asks.

You give him a coy smile. “Are you buying?”

“I could if you’d like.”

“No thank you. I think I will suffice with just one. I’d like to walk around the VIP area if that’s alright.”

“That’s perfectly okay.” He offers you his arm. You gladly take it.

As you begin to walk around the venue, he glances at your face. He notices the red lipstick that’s around your plump lips. He wonders what it would be like to kiss lips like yours. You look up to him and just smile at him. You look away immediately. His ears turn slightly pink, but you don’t notice. You do begin to feel a warmth on your face, but you maintain your composure. You notice a booth. It’s to enter the Grand Open in Monte Carlo next year.

“Would you like to sign-up?” Nanami asks.

“Maybe. I’ve dreamt of going to the Italian southside. I’ve always wanted to go on a boat in the Italian waters. Have you ever been?”

“I have not. I’ve been to Malaysia. Beautiful beaches. The water feels amazing too.”

“I’d never been to the beaches. I guess i’ll just have to see someday.”

“Let’s both sign-up. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“Sure why not. And what will you do if you win?”

“There’s a lovely individual that i just met. I would hope that she would be my date. How about you? What will you do if you win?”

“I’ll be going with a dashing individual. He seems like the perfect gentleman.”

Nanami gives you a reassuring wink. You both sign-up for the open.

“If anything happens, you’ll be the first to know.” you reassure him.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

You take his arm back as you now realize it’s time to get to your courtside seats for the match. As you are making your way to the stadium, he allows you to get ahead of him in the narrow staircase up to the stands. As you’re making your way, you begin to feel self-conscious about the choice of outfit. However, he cannot help to take a glance at the view that he’s able to take. He clears his throat as you both approach the level. You pass a nearby elevator and notice that no one is there.

“Is there something the matter?” he asks.

“Oh no. Not at all.” You take his arm and continue to walk towards your seats.

Coincidentally, both of you are seated right next to each other. Your knees are able to touch, but you make sure to remain calm and collected. Nanami proceeds to cross his legs. You place your arms on your lap. The sun is shining and you put on your sunglasses. You are able to catch a glance of at his stoic figure. You imagine what it would be like to run your hands through his carefully combed hair. He turns to look at you and you just proceed to just smile at him. He smiles back. He’s beginning to imagine what it would be like to kiss you. He can smell your perfume now that you’re sitting very closely to each other.

“I’m pretty interested to see today’s match. This is my first time being at a game.”

“Oh I agree. I heard the American player is a force to be reckoned with.”

“I’ve heard she’s won her titles. She’s already made a name for herself. I’m sure her competitor will be fierce competition.”

“Agreed. The match is about to start.” Nanami says as he faces forward.

Without thinking too much about it, Nanami’s hand grazes your knee. He’s about to move it as he notices that you take a deep breath, but you gently place your hand on top of his. You interlace your fingers with his.

You begin to feel excited. You just met this man, but you feel prepared to do just about anything. The match begins. There are three sets of a total of 6 matches that need to be won. The first set began, but the competition got intense midway through. You begin to brush your thumb on his hand. You felt tense as you were rooting for the American to win. She was already world-recongized and you wanted her to win. However, you did not want to get too boastful next to the perfect gentleman.

“Excited much?” he asked. “Don’t worry, it’s actually cute.”

“Just cute?” You ask.

“No. However, i don’t think this is the time or the place to discuss this.” he whispers into your ear. You begin to feel aroused by his voice. You don’t respond. At this point, you began remembering about the elevator that was nearby. You keep your eyes on the match.

Nanami begins to focus on the match as well. He starts to notice the grunting of both players playing. He starts to caress your knee just a little more, and slowly lifts the dress slightly above your knee. You slow him down and whisper to him “I don’t think this is the place to be sneaking around. Although, I know of a place where we can.”

He leans closer to you. You can feel his breath on your neck. “And where might that be?”

“Meet me by the elevator in the next 5 minutes.” you whisper back. You slowly make your way up and straighten your dress. Nanami takes one final look as you walk away. He glances at his watch. He begins to time himself. He straightens up his tie and combs back his hair with his hands. He takes a mint before he makes his way to the elevator.

You are glancing at your watch. You notice how particularly quiet this area is. However, you do notice that there are people just walking by. You see Nanami approaching. You heart begins to race. Once he approaches you, you feel like your heart is going to burst. Without speaking a word.Nanami takes your hand and you push the button to the elevator. It opens. You turn around to make sure nobody is nearby. The elevator closes. You press it to level 3. Nanami is quick to press the emergency stop button.

He suddenly wraps his arm around your waist and you wrap your arms around his neck. He places a soft kiss upon your lips. You immediately laugh. “You just got lipstick on yourself.”

“Who cares”.

He notices that you took your glasses off. He loves the colour of your eyes. You also notice that he took off his glasses. You love his brown, hazel eyes. They were beautiful to look at.

He proceeds to deepen his kiss. You moan as you feel him. You proceed to run your fingers through his hair. You begin to feel his tongue. You begin to gently bite his lower lip. He begins to moan. His hands are no longer on your waist. He begins to travel them towards your ass. He squeezes it as you begin to fall into the trance of his kiss. You begin to pull his tie towards you and he proceeds to kiss your neck. It starts with small, tender kisses, but moves to gentle love bites. He takes off his jacket and you begin to feel his biceps. You feel further aroused as you feel his muscles.

Wasting no time, he begins to lift up your dress. He continues to move his hands towards your ass. He starts to caress his fingers to feel your skin. He slowly begins to slide your panties off. You begin to losen his tie and unbutton a few of his buttons. You press small gentle kisses on his chest.

With gasps in between “I’ve wanted you all afternoon…” you whisper in his ear.

“I knew i wanted you the moment we were at the bar.” He begins to slide his fingers into your sex. You begin to moan, but he proceeds to kiss you. “Shhhh, you don’t want anyone to hear us…”

“I guess i’ll need a way to make me shut up.”

Nanami proceeds to kiss you. You moan as he deepens his kiss. His fingers are beginning to slide between your pussy and your clit. You can’t tell which part feels amazing, but as you’re moaning, he keeps silencing it with a stolen kiss.

“I…need you now…” you whisper to him.

“I know sweetheart. I can tell that you’re ready for me. Your pussy is so wet for me.”

“Yes…Nanami”.

“It’s Kento” as he whispers and proceeds to bite your ear.

You unbuckle his belt and his pants. He quickly slides his pants and underwear. You see his cock exposed. You proceed to grab his cock and slowly massage it.

“Do…you…want me?” you whisper into his ear.

“Yes, sweetheart. I’m ready to make you mine”

He lifts you up and he slides his cock inside of you. As he notices that you grab on to his arms, he begins to give you another kiss as you moan. Each thrust, he can feel your moans getting harder to suppress with every kiss that he shares with you.

“Ken…fuck me…harder” you whisper.

He slams you harder against the elevator wall. As you wrap your arms around him and kiss his cheek and his neck, you further lock your legs around him. He begins to thrust harder and faster.

“Will you fuck me like this…in Monte Carlo?” you ask him

“Sweetheart, I’ll fuck you when I take you out to dinner.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow night. I know a place.”

As your next moan is approaching, he steals another kiss. “Mmm, it’s a date…Ken”.

Nanami begins to softly choke you as he is thrusting. You suddenly begin to hear someone outside of the elevator “i think it’s broken…hmm?”

“Oh…fuck…Ken…people are outside.”

“Shh…sweetie.” He begins to choke you just a little harder; you release one final moan and Nanami begins to cum. He takes one final kiss as your releasing your final orgasm. You can an feel him cumming inside of you. In this moment, you are his, and he is yours.

With one final kiss, he slowly sets you down. You straighten your dress and he begins to buckle his pants.

“You have lipstick all over you.” as you approach to turn off the emergency stop.

Nanami grabs his handkerchief to remove the lipstick smeared all over him. “At least i’ll have the memory of this.”

As the elevator approaches the third floor. “I’ll meet you downstairs. This elevator seems to be broken, eh?”

“Yes, i’m sure your companion must be wondering where his lovely date went.”

“He won’t mind. He promised me to take me on another date tomorrow.”

Nanami feels enthralled by you. He knows that he will wine and dine you tomorrow. Later, he will make love to you before he fucks you. He hopes that he can do the same in Monte Carlo the following year.

#jjk x reader #jjk smut #jjk fanfic #nanami kento #nanami kento x fem!reader #jjk x you #nanami kento x you #nanami kento x y/n #jjk x y/n

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solbaby7 · 21 days

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BLURB BAR

[ choose your drink, pick your vibe, find your guy ]

[ as of now: INBOX/ REQUESTS OPEN ]

— DRINK MENU —

•OLD FASHIONED : $12

“no, no. leave your clothes on for me.”

•MARGARITA : $9

“got quite a mouth on you. someone should teach you how to use it.”

•WHISKEY SOUR : $7.5

“i’m not usually the jealous type, but what’s mine is mine.”

•MANHATTAN : $10

“don’t make me put you on a leash.”

•ESPRESSO MARTINI : $8

“kiss me like that again and i’ll start to think you’re in love with me.”

•GIN ‘N’ TONIC : $7.5

forced proximity “you can’t seriously be insinuating that i should sit on your lap.”

•VODKA CRAN :$7.5

“why do you even care?” “because i do”

•DAIQUIRI : $9

“can you help me with my zipper?”

•MOJITO : $9

“loving you is a torture i enjoy too much.”

•BLODDY MARY : $7.5

“it’s not safe for a pretty thing like you to be out here alone.” “she’s not alone.”

•MOSCOW MULE : $7.5

“i just don’t like the way he / she looks at you”

• PINA COLADÁ: $9

“are you crazy? we are in public.” “then you’d better keep quiet.”

•COSMO : $8

“what are we?” “a beautifully, dangerous combination.”

•LONG ISLAND : $7.5

“are you really so oblivious?”

•BLUE MOTHERFUCKER : $8

“i keep trying to move on, to be with someone else but you’re the only one on my mind.”

— THE VIBE — — THE GUY —

• SUGAR RIM - fluff •on the rocks - Rhysand

• SALT RIM - smut • frozen - Cassian

• ADD LIME - angst • neat - Azriel

#acotar x reader #a court of thorns and roses #acotar #acotar x you #azriel #acotar azriel #acotar fics #rhys acotar #acotar cassian #send asks #praying this cures the block i have on my most important works

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https-florals · 1 year

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i know what you tell your friends - r.c.

part one || part two

word count: 4.6k

summary: you’re losing your rules and all your resolve.

warnings: suggestive, angsty?? fanon rafe, protective rafe, misogyny, catcalling, kelce and topper being rude and nasty, drunk rafe, showering together but not in a sexy way, cursing, rafe yelling at you, rafe being a swiftie for fun, shitload of toxicity

a/n: I GOT VERY CARRIED AWAY ITS SO LONG!! hopefully y’all like this even tho there is no kissing or sexy times 😳 im v proud of this little miniseries!!!! pt3 will hopefully be in the works soon! read on beautiful people!

Rafe has never been good at following rules. It’s just not his thing. Parts of him simply forget restrictions, his mind deciding what it wants and his body following. Other times, he looks at a rule like a dare: he breaks them out of pure spite.

He can’t tell which reason is making him push the limits with you.

It’s a pretty Saturday night at the country club, Rafe and his friends all crowded at a table in the corner of the club restaurant. He’s hoping that you’re not working and simultaneously praying you are.

Much to his chagrin (enjoyment?) you’re the first to bounce over to his table, pulling out your notepad and pen before you look up at the customers.

Rafe is painfully aware of the way your breathing hitches, your smile not quite reaching your eyes when you realize who is seated at your table.

“How are y’all? What can I get started for ya?” You’re the damn picture of a perfect waitress, short black skirt stretched over your thighs and white polo purposefully unbuttoned. Rafe is thinking that there’s definitely a porno about something like this when Topper nudges him.

“Bro? Your drink?”

“Whiskey. Whiskey sour, please,” he says, getting a side-eye from a buddy at how strained his voice is and how he deigned to even say please.

The only thing he can think about is how pretty you would look with that skirt pushed up about your hips.

“Dude? The fuck is wrong with you?” Kelce hits Rafe across the chest as you walk away, snapping him out of his stupor.

He blinks hard and shakes his head, like he’s trying to shake rain out of his face. “Nothing, man. I’m just tired.” Lying is currently Rafe’s number one hobby, apparently. First to your face about a multitude of things, now to his best friends. He doesn’t like to think of himself as a dishonest person- the principle of integrity has been drilled into him since he was a kid, and even though he’s managed to shake off a lot of guilt, something about lying to the people he loves grates on his conscience.

Not that he loves you, or anything.

When you come back with their drinks, Rafe tries his hardest to ignore the way his friend’s eyes rake over you.

You’re so bubbly and customer-service-y as you pass out drinks, smile bright when Topper thanks you for his old-fashioned. A slight twinge of jealousy hits Rafe, and he wishes you’d smile at him like that.

The second you walk away, Topper makes some offhand comment about how he couldn’t help but look straight down your shirt when you gave him his drink, and Rafe bites back a comment about how Topper wasn’t worthy of that smile you gave him. He focuses on picking out what he wants to eat.

Rafe drifts in and out of the conversation with his boys, but mostly watches you as you go from table to table. You’re back for their food order, and it’s almost like you’re avoiding making eye contact with him.

Topper is leering at you, Kelce is being rude to you, they’re all being dickheads, but who is the one person you aren’t even looking at? Rafe.

As you leave, Kelce grins. “She’s fine as hell, Top. You see the way she looked at you?”

The boy’s cheeks tint pink as he takes a sip of his drink. “Practically begging for it,” he chuckles.

Rafe is silent as Kelce howls for no damn reason, slapping the table as a joke that just isn’t funny.

“Man, this is your opportunity,” Kelce chirps as you walk from table to table. “Ask her if she’s doing anything after her shift!”

Topper throws his hands up, attempting to act bashful but the bold smile on his face betrays it. “What am I supposed to say, dude?” He shifts his tone, making it nauseatingly breathy and smooth. “C’mon, babe, let me give it to you right,” Topper practically moans in her direction, sending Kelce into another howling fit.

“Shut the fuck up,” Rafe groans, slouching in his chair and downing the rest of his sour. His friends are insufferable, he knows that. He’s never really cared before, in fact he himself often goes along with their lewd jokes- flirting with club staff, making gestures behind their backs. Why it’s just now grating on him so hard, he doesn’t know.

If the boys hear him, they don’t act like it. They’ve moved onto horrific pickup lines.

“If I flip a coin, what are my chances of getting ahead?”

“Roses are red, violets are fine, you be the six, I’ll be the nine!”

Rafe sighs, wishing he had at least two more drinks sitting in front of him. “Can you not? You’re acting like douchebags.” His words are coated with annoyance. He sounds like a mother chiding her boys.

“Who pissed in your cereal, man?” Topper scoffs. “We’re just messing around. You’ve been so tight lately, bro. You usually eat this kinda bullshit up.”

It’s true, but it makes him cringe. He’s been guilty of the very thing he’s angry at them about, and it’s probably the reason you think he’s a shit person.

Kelce laughs. “You’re just mad she ain’t looking at you, dickwad.”

They’ve finally shut up by the time you come back with their food, much to Rafe’s relief.

His hand just barely brushes yours when you hand him his plate, and you jolt so hard that the club sandwich almost slides off. There’s a flash in your eyes like you’re hoping he doesn’t notice, but of course he does.

He notices everything about you.

He also notices the way your skirt shifts up as you move, and Rafe resists the urge to reach out and tug it down.

You clear your throat as you set everything else down, wiping your hands on the front of your skirt, pushing it down a little.

Thank God.

“Okay, gentlemen! Anything else we need?” You smile, and Rafe thinks that he needs you to kiss him like, right this second, but he bites his tongue and shakes his head.

You’re just about to turn away when Kelce clears his throat, saying, “One more thing I need to know, miss!”

It’s like he’s talking in slow motion. Every part of Rafe is filled with an inexplicable dread as he begins to speak.

“Job policy make you wear this?”

You pause, a little perplexed frown on your face. “No, I just wear an Island Club polo for fun.”

Kelce grins, and runs his hand down your arm, not faltering at your tone and not even when you jerk away. “Strictly that? Nothing else?”

You’re preparing for some lewd joke about whether or not your wearing panties.

“You need some more… accessories.” He grins, innocent when he looks up at you. “I’ve got one that would look great in your mouth.”

Rafe’s vision goes a little red when your jaw drops open. He stands up quick and slams his palms on the table. “Get the fuck out, man.”

“Has that ever worked for you?” you blurt incredously as Rafe moves around you. His hand tucks on your waist as he slides you away from Kelce, but you pretend not to notice.

Kelce gasps when Rafe grabs him by the sleeve to pull him out of the restaurant.

“Dude! Chill out!” Topper protests.

The look on Rafe’s face scares you a little when he whips around to look at Topper, snapping, “You wanna quit acting like a douchebag, or do you want me to haul your sorry ass outta here too?”

Topper flushes and sits.

“Don’t ever let me catch you talking like that to any of these girls here, alright?” Rafe is seething as he pushes Kelce into the club bathrooms. The other boy’s jaw is dropped open, nodding his head.

Rafe knows he can be scary. Right now, he uses that to his advantage, hand fisted in the collar of Kelce’s shirt as he towers over him.

Kelce is trying to break free, but Rafe refuses to budge. “You are gonna go back out there and say you’re sorry, and then leave her the biggest tip she’s ever seen. Got it?”

The shorter boy nods fervently when Rafe lets go of him, and practically sprints back to find you.

Rafe steps out of the bathroom, leaning up against the wall as he watches Kelce find you and apologize. Your eyes are wide while he’s talking to you, and you give him a timid smile right before he walks away.

Rafe hates him. He hates the way he spoke to you, and hates the way you don’t punch him in the dick. If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself, he thinks.

When you walk away from Kelce, Rafe follows you before even really thinking about it.

You’re finally within reach and he grabs your wrist, spinning you to face him.

Yanking your arm away from him, you hiss, “What are you doing?” The stilted customer-service kindness is gone.

“I’m sorry my friends are assholes,” he whispers, taking a step back from you, his hands up like he’s begging you not to shoot.

Your shoulders sag. “It’s not your fault, Rafe. You don’t have to apologize.”

“No, I do,” he says, voice thin. “I acted like that, before, and now they think it’s cool to be dicks.”

“Before?”

Before you, he thinks, but doesn’t say.

“I try not to be like that anymore,” Rafe says instead. He holds his hand out like a peace offering, and you accept it, your palm sliding against his in an awkward shake.

“Friends?” He asks, soft and questioning.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” you joke, not quite catching the way Rafe frowns. “I gotta go. Text me later, okay?”

He promises he will, then he’s moping back to his table, where he slaps down two fifties and makes Kelce add two more to the pile. The boys are gone before you can even offer a check.

You get off late, heading back to the Chateau drained. You pass on a game of poker with your friends for a shower, receiving a boo from John B and several rude names from JJ.

After a good half-hour shower and coating your body in lotion, you’re feeling up for cards, and settle at the table with a glass of apple juice.

“Ooh, now that is hard liquor,” Sarah comments, teasing as she deals you in.

“I don’t feel like drinking tonight. Y’know, in case I have to drive anywhere.”

“Where would you be driving?” Pope asks, and you shrug in return, even though you know exactly where.

“She’s gotta see her little kook boyfriend,” JJ says, but there’s a bite to his words.

“Not my boyfriend,” you state, hands up.

Kiara makes a face, but you don’t miss it.

“Guys. We are strictly just fucking.”

“Ew! I don’t wanna hear about that shit!” JJ shouts, and the rest of the table makes disgusted noises.

You look at him with an incredulous expression. “Can a girl not get laid anymore without everyone having to give a damn opinion? We are just messing around!”

“It’s not like he’s the absolute worst,” Sarah ventures, her hand sneaking over yours.

John B frowns at her while JJ chimes in, saying. “Sarah. I know he’s your brother, but he is actually the worst.”

“He’s getting better!’ She defends, voice high.

Almost like he knows he’s the subject of your conversation, Rafe’s caller ID pops up on your phone. You motion for everyone to be quiet, and answer it. Your volume is up and for once the Pogues are so quiet that they can hear the other line without you even putting it on speaker.

Rafe croons your name over the phone, one, two, three times before you can say anything.

“Rafe?”

“Hey, baby!” There’s a crackle and the sound of fabric shuffling against the speaker. “Shit. I’m not supposed to call you that.”

“What are you doing?” you ask, though it's more of a scold than a question.

“I need your help,” he says, and you can hear music in the background. “Top was supposed to be my DD, and I can’t find him.”

“Are you drunk? How many shots have you had?”

Rafe doesn’t answer you, but keeps rambling. “Sarah didn’t answer any of my texts, and I don’t know who else to call.”

Sarah’s eyebrows knit together and she checks her phone, turning it so you can see that she has no notifications from her brother.

“Come pick me up? Please?”

There’s a moment of silence on your end, and Rafe repeats, “Pretty please.”

He says your name again, so soft it makes your heart ache. “I need you.”

You sigh and stand up, JJ throwing his hands up in exasperation, but having the courtesy to remain silent. “I’ll be there soon, okay? Send me the bar and for the love of God, don’t drink anymore!”

“You’re the best,” Rafe answers, and doesn’t hang up, so you have to hit the button.

You’re rushing out the door, ignoring your friend’s remarks and jabs.

“I”m not letting you in when you get back here at the asscrack of dawn,” John B warns as you grab your keys.

You ignore him and race out to your car. When you get to the bar, Rafe is sitting outside on the steps, head between his hands.

You park illegally in front of the entrance, ignoring the loud honk from a car. Rafe’s face lights up when he sees you hop out of your car, and starts to stumble toward you. He trips when he’s just a few feet away from you, and you stick your arms out to stop his fall. It doesn’t quite work, and the breath is knocked out of you when your back hits the metal of your car door.

Rafe jerks back, eyes wide. “Are you okay?” He’s inspecting you like you’re an apple in a grocery aisle- spinning you around, checking for bruises.

You nod, and make an odd little squawking noise when he hugs you tight and effectively takes your breath away a second time.

“I missed you,” he exhales into your hair, and you realize just how drunk he is.

You pull away, squinting up at the redness in his face. “How many drinks did you have?”

He shrugs and grins, eyes stuck on your lips, unashamed. “Too many.”

Blowing out a breath, you open the car door and help him in. “I can tell. Arms in, bud.”

There is too much sweetness in your tone, but you realize it a little too late, and can’t find it within yourself to even care.

When you slide into the driver’s seat, he slumps over the center console, head nestled on your shoulder and his hand slipping to your knee.

Spotify is shuffling all of your favorite Taylor Swift songs, and you notice about halfway through the drive that Rafe is quietly singing along.

His fingers idly play with the frayed hem of your sweatshorts, humming, “if I showed up to your party, would you have me, would you want me…” It’s a little slurred, but he hits every note right.

“Didn’t know you were a swiftie,” you joke, pressing your cheek to the top of his head.

He shakes his head, but laughs all the same. “I let Sarah have aux whenever I gotta drive her places. She really likes the album that’s like, blue, and it’s got all those songs about Harry Styles on it.”

“1989?”

He nods. “She loves that one. Good album.”

“You’re so right.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then Rafe is saying your name, whispering it like it’s a taboo word.

“I’m sorry my friends were such assholes earlier.”

“You already apologized. It’s alright, I’ve heard worse.” His face after you say that makes him look like he’s in physical pain. “Seriously, Rafe. Kelce’s question was maybe the most PG thing I heard today. Teenage boys say some wild shit to waitresses.”

He frowns. “I’ll beat those little motherfuckers up. Gimme a list, I’ll rock their shit.”

You tell him no, but you’re laughing. “I don’t need you to protect me, Rafe.”

He shrugs, acting like the phrase just rolls off his shoulders. “I don’t give a shit about what you think you do or don’t need,” he says, too nonchalant.

“Excuse me?” You swerve a little as you whip your head towards him.

Rafe sighs, stretching out in the passenger. The muscles of his thigh tense as he moves, fully on display with his little 5-inch inseam shorts.

“I’m not repeating it, baby.”

Your chest tightens, breath a little shallow as you keep your eyes on the road. His hands are red hot on your thigh, like his fingerprints are burning into your thigh. You need to push his hand off before he can lay claim on you like that, but you don’t move, his fingers pressing and sliding and flaming.

“Sarah told me you had a date the other day.” His voice has a little bit of venom.

“I did,” you confirm, giving him a side-eye.

His profile looks like stone as he stares out the window, streetlights reflecting on his skin. “Why? Who was he?”

“You don’t know him, Rafe,” you sigh. “He’s from the cut. Works with JJ.”

His tongue pokes into his cheek as he laughs. “You and these Pogie assholes. You ever gonna try something different?”

“I have some range. Not just pogues. You’re a Kook asshole, and we get along just great.”

Rafe’s brows narrow. “Get along? You just want to fuck me, that’s why we get along.”

“You’re so right. Good job!” You try to joke.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

You jump and swerve at the sudden change in his voice. You’ve heard him yell before, but it’s never been directed at you. “Why are you yelling?” you shout back. You don’t know why your eyes are burning.

“I”m yelling cause you’re a fucking idiot,” he groans, but his hand is still painfully hot on your thigh.

You scoff and push it off. “Shut up, Rafe.”

His jaw tenses and shudders a little. “They’re so shit to you,” he practically cries. “And I’m here. I would be so good to you. Better than any of these dickheads.”

You rub your eyes, telling yourself it's because you're tired and not because you're about to cry. “Why are they dickheads? I think you’re an dickhead.”

“Don’t say that,” he whines.

“What makes them worse than you, Rafe?” you huff.

“Cause they don’t love you like you need to be loved.” He’s looking everywhere but you, and you’re thinking about pulling over because your heart is beating so fast you feel like you might die. Then his eyes finally shift to yours, piercingly blue. They remind you of the waves that break overhead when your surfboard pulls you down under the water.

His fingers are tracking back to your thigh, and you do your best to keep your damn eyes on the road and drive, no matter how hard he’s staring at you.

“Like I could love you.”

Your knuckles are white on the steering wheel. There’s no words stuck in your throat because you can’t think of any; you’re panicky and you can’t breathe.

His face turns to the window and he begins to hum to the radio. Nothing else is said.

Rafe is still humming when you help him out of the car, his arm slung around your shoulders.

“Thank you for coming and getting me,” he says, breaking the heavy silence when you reach the door.

You stare at him like he’s an alien. He never says thank you. You're still reeling from the car conversation, but you clear your throat and pat his shoulder, like you’re just two buds. “You good from here?”

“No.” He says it so quickly, bottom lip poking out like a little kid. “I need you.”

I don’t give a shit about what you think you need. The thought twinges in your brain, and you stop yourself from saying that you don’t think you need to stay.

“You can at least make sure I don’t like, drown in the bathtub. And get in bed.” He smiles that heartbreaker grin.

You can’t tell if he’s sober or drunk, or what. You sigh, and push past him, dragging the tall boy in tow. “Fine. No funny business.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He gives you a little salute, and stumbles along with you.

It’s so hard getting Rafe upstairs that you give up on being quiet, and settle for praying that none of the Camerons wake up and catch the two of you. When you finally get to his room, you push him into the bathroom.

“You reek,” you sigh, shutting the door as quietly as you can.

“Rude,” he responds, peeling off his shirt.

You try not to watch him shuffle out of his clothes as you turn on the water, running your fingers under the stream and checking the temperature. When it’s warm enough, you turn back to Rafe, doing everything but staring as he stands shamelessly naked in front of you.

“I- your- The water’s hot.”

He laughs and shuffles past you. “Don’t act like you’ve never seen me naked.”

Your cheeks heat, but you blame it on the rising humidity in the bathroom. After making sure he’s alright, you slip out.

You pace Rafe’s room, messing with the few trinkets on his desk and marveling at the cleanliness. He has a little oyster shell dish with a little painting of UNC, and a couple of rings lay in it. You’re trying on his signet ring when you hear a thud.

“Rafe?” you whisper-yell. There’s just the sound of running water. You rush into the bathroom, flicking on the fan to clear a little of the steam. Against your better judgment, you slide open the shower door. Rafe is slumped against the tile wall, eyes shut, mouth open. Dead asleep. You step in, water drenching your clothes as you smack his cheeks, trying to wake him up. “Rafe, when you said I needed to make sure you didn’t drown in the bathtub, I didn’t think you meant literally,” you mutter as you try to push him up and out of the water stream.

His eyes blink open, then roll back, then close again.

“Rafe! Come on, baby,” you mutter, and smack him again.

His eyes fly open and you jolt back as his lips curve into a grin. “You called me baby.”

You frown. “Did not,” you lie.

“I love when you lie. You’re bad at it.”

Self-righteous asshole, you think. “Sit down,” you instruct him, pointing to the built-in shower bench. He sits, and you squirt some of his shampoo into your palm. You’re pleasantly surprised that it’s not 3-in-1. It even smells good. Standing between his legs, you push the shampoo through his hair, raking your fingernails over his scalp and giggling at all the little moans he lets out.

Your clothes are soaked, uncomfortably so. Your tee clings to you, and Rafe’s hands fiddle with the hem of it.

“Why are your clothes on?” He asks, tone genuine.

“Because you’re drunk,” you answer, “and I wanted to keep them on.”

He nods, and you rinse the suds out of his hair. The casual intimacy of the moment hits you hard when Rafe rests his head on your chest. It’s so soft and sweet and so out of the ordinary for the two of you that it’s nearly blindsiding.

You get him cleaned up, and then track water all over the tiles when you grab towels. He wraps it around his hips, and you shiver as you pull it around your shoulders.

If the shower sobered him up at all, it’s not evident in his attitude towards you, but he is walking a little straighter. Rafe pulls a tshirt out of his drawer, and two pairs of boxers. One pair is for him, and he slides into bed, watching you expectantly.

You stare back at him. “What?”

“Shirt and boxers are for you. You can’t sleep in soaking wet clothes.”

“Close your eyes.”

Shockingly, he does, throwing a hand over his eyes without further questioning.

You strip and don the outfit. The boxers are soft, and there’s a few holes in the collar of the shirt. It’s worn, with a faded Rolling Stones emblem. “I never see you wear this,” you say, and his eyes open, lips pressing together as a smile just flickers over his face.

“Cause I don’t. It looks good on you.” Rafe’s cheeks are a little pink, and he’s looking at you with pure adoration.

You turn to hide the shakiness of your hands, and sit on the bed to pull on your Tevas before grabbing your keys. “You all good? I gotta head back to the Chateau.”

“No, I’m not good,” Rafe answers with a groan. “You should stay.”

You stare at him, taken aback. “No, I should not. I really need to go back.”

“Why?”

You shrug. A good reason is not floating through your brain at the moment, or at least one that’s real. You could say they need you back for… something. It’s a lie. You could say you have to help JJ with something. Also a lie, plus it would make Rafe mad, you think. Not to mention the fact that you aren’t sure if you and JJ are still on speaking terms after the way he glared at you when you left.

You could always say you don’t want to stay. But damn, that’d be the biggest lie of all.

“I just need to. Rules, remember?” you remind him as an afterthought.

He sighs, loud and overdramatic. “Rules, schmoolze. Just stay.”

When you fiddle with the strap of your sandals, deciding whether or not to take them off, he reaches for your wrist, fingers hooking on your bracelets.

“I’ll be good,” he whispers. “Promise.”

Well, shit. How can you say no to that?

Within seconds your shoes are off, keys tossed somewhere, and you’re crawling into bed with him. You’re rigid at first when he slides his arms around your waist and pulls you a little closer.

“Relax. Quit acting like I’ve never touched you before.”

“You haven’t like this,” you answer, voice strained.

“Don’t worry. Cuddling up won’t make you fall in love with me,” he huffs, and your leg hooks over him as your head tucks against his chest.

He’s wrong, you think. He’s wrong, and you need to go home. Right now.

But then his hand is on your back, and he’s humming another damn Taylor Swift song, and his thumb is circling your shoulder blade so, so slow.

You’re too far gone to leave now.

“Comfy?” He stops humming to ask.

You nod, just a little bit, trying to find a place for your gaze to rest. Your options are endless- his eyes, his mouth, his chest- but none of them seem safe. You settle for a freckle on his cheekbone. “What about you?” you ask in return.

“Never been better.”

He’s comfortable in the silence, and you most definitely are not. It’s foreign, being in his bed with your clothes on and a part of him not inside you. You’re not sure how to act about it.

Rafe clearly does, either that or he’s winging it. His hands are soft and soothing all over you, willing you to loosen up. He unwinds the coil in your shoulders, the tightness in the small of your back.

As your eyes start to drift shut, you feel his lips against your forehead.

“Goodnight, honey.”

“Goodnight,” you repeat.

Your stupid little list of rules is doing nothing.

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