#endless loop of look who’s inside again

[themotherofhorses]

pairing: aemond targaryen x handmaid!reader

summary: ...aemond realizes he’s fallen in love with his handmaid five months later as he stands outside his bedchamber.

warnings: explicit language. aemond's kinda horny but mainly a lovesick dude. steamy makeout session towards the end??

notes: welcome back to another short episode of "aemond targaryen being a total fucking simp for his handmaid bc vic is too damn obsessed with this pairing."

his handmaid's tales | main masterlist

Aemond realizes he’s fallen in love with his handmaid five months later as he stands outside his bedchamber.

Through the doors comes your soft voice from the inside, feminine and melodious, absolutely beautiful to him. It’s muffled by the thick walls, but he can hear the verse you sing to yourself. I loved a maid as fair as summer, he chants along in his head, with sunlight in her hair...

He sneaks a peek inside the room. You sit on the settee, crossed at the knee like a highborn lady, with an eyepatch in one hand and a thread and needle in the other. Aemond recognizes that one eyepatch at first glance. The sight tugs at his heartstrings. It was a favorite of his, a rare gift from his father on his thirteenth nameday. Viserys had his name embroidered along the inside in pretty cursive.

Aemond One-Eye.

Viserys’s smile was as brilliant and big as the blue summer sea. My boy…three-and-ten. How you’ve grown so fast before my very eyes.  

But the eyepatch grew too small for him as the years passed, and he hid it away, never wishing to see it again. His father now was nothing more than a half-decaying corpse still sitting the throne in pure mulishness, who hadn’t muttered his second son’s name in two long years. He doesn’t know how you found it, nor does he feel any slight bit of bother.

“I loved a maid as red as autumn, with sunset in her hair,” you hum next, turning the eyepatch around to thread the loop. Your feet are bare, pretty hair tousled, and the servant’s robe does little to veil your blinding beauty. His gaze focuses on your face. Your lips look pink and plump- ripe for him to kiss and bite and swallow in all the endless kisses he yearns to give you, and your eyes twinkle as bright as the midday sunlight.

I love a maiden as beautiful as all the seasons.

“I love a maiden as white as winter, with moonglow in her hair-”

He strolls into his bedchamber, striking you off guard, your singing breaking off abruptly. “My prince!” you exclaim, bolting up to slip your feet back into your shoes. “Oh, my sincerest apologies, my prince. I was told you would be gone for the better part of the day.” Amid your babbling, you drop the needle and thread onto the floor, “is there anything you need from me?”

He wanted to laugh.

“I had no notion that you had such a…lovely voice,” Aemond instead tells you, lacing his hands together behind his back. The compliment widens your eyes, and he hears how your breath hitches in your throat. You resemble a fairytale maiden, doe-eyed and flustered at the sight of her wooer. “I’m very sorry, my prince….”

“Do you sing a lot?”

You bite your lip, and it causes his cock to stir within his pants. No, no, stop that at once, he wishes to say aloud. Only I should be allowed to bite your luscious lips like that. All mine. “My mother sang to me as a little girl,” you admit, braving a faint smile up at him. “Sometimes, when I’m missing her, I sing. Perhaps it sounds a bit silly…but it makes me feel as if she is in the room with me.”

Aemond hums, nodding his head. He then looks down at the eyepatch within your hands, raising an eyebrow. “Pray tell where you found my old eyepatch. I swore I hid it well all those years ago…” and he hopes you catch the thin amusement in his tone.

“Oh…” you fall silent, unsure what to say next. “I was tidying up your desk and bookcase, my prince…I opened a drawer, I believe it was the second to last one to the left of the desk, and I found it there….” you glance at the eyepatch, running a finger over the black cloth patch, “-I thought, perhaps, it would be a nice surprise if I extended the straps so that you could wear it once again. It is very pretty!”

You hold it out for him to take. “Would you like to try it on? Just for me to check if I need to loosen it up some more.”

Aemond stiffens. “Perhaps later,” he says, a bit sullenly. “I do not like to take off my patch when others are still around. I’ve found that my missing eye is quite the…dreadful sight to many.” He clenches his jaw so tight he wonders if his teeth might shatter. But you just shake your head.

“My prince, believe me when I say that no such thing would ever terrify me.” Aemond could hear his brother snigger in the back of his mind, and he shifted uneasily. “I’m your handmaid. Please trust every word I tell you.” He remembers the cool night under the stars when he claimed Vhagar for himself, gazing out into the darkened sand dunes where she slept. Your smile is the warmth he needed.

He tilts his head, searching for any sign of deceit amongst your features. Gods, but you’re too damn beautiful for your own good, he thinks as he sighs and slides the patch from off his face.

Do not dare mock me…flinch…or run away…

But you just stare up at him, studying the dark sapphire he’s stuffed inside his missing socket. The skin stretched around it is rather uneven and tender and pinkish, and his healed scar cuts through his eyebrow. “May I, my prince?” you ask. He nods, and you gently trace the scar with your fingertip, up and down. Your touch is soft, and delicate, sending a shiver up his spine.

“You did not deserve this, believe me when I say that,” you whisper, and he feels your hot breath, “—you were just a boy….”

Gods be good, no one has ever told Aemond those words before. He does not know what to say, remaining silent and still.

Then, without warning, you stand on your tippy toes to kiss his cheek, your eyes shutting as your soft lips press against his skin.  

I love a maiden as beautiful as all the seasons.

“You are still handsome and strong and worthy, my prince,” you mumble, stroking his cheek, a smile flickering across your pink…plump…luscious lips and Aemond…

…Aemond pulls you flush against his chest, swathing an arm tight around your waist as the other tangles his fingers through your hair, his mouth slamming down on yours in a heavy and wet kiss that leaves your knees buckling beneath you. Kiss her. Take her. Make her yours. Your arms fly up to his neck as you sink into his grasp.

“She is yours. Your handmaid. Everything she does next is at your own will and mercy…but do treat her well, Aemond…it is through kindheartedness that you receive devotion.”

And he lays a kiss on your lips, and another, and another…and with them all, Aemond swears himself a man obsessed and blinded by love. He knows he will not survive this miserable, torturous life without you by his side. You, his precious handmaid- his maiden as beautiful as all the seasons.

By the time he lets you go, you’re breathless and dizzy and as giddy as a young girl. He gives you only a few more seconds before he kisses you again, flinging you onto his bed. “My prince…!” you cry out, bouncing as he begins to chuckle, swallowing the rest of your words in his mouth. “Oh, this is improper,” you gasp, toes curling as he pulls at your bottom lip, “it’s so….gods, it’s so wrong…I need to…I need…”

“Shhh,” he answers, kissing your nose and chin, and temple before your lips again. “You don’t leave this room unless I dismiss you, remember?”

tag list: @aemondsblog @dc-marvel-girl96 @neobanguniverse @missalycat21 @enchantingcupcakecollectionfan @padfooteyes @alexizodd @kravitzwhore

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond drabble #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond the kinslayer #handmaid!reader #hotd aemond #house of the dragon #house of the dragon imagine #hotd fanfic #vic writes 🧸

[minisugakoobies]

It's You - Choi San | First Kiss

Pairing: San x Reader Genre: smut, crack, fluff, angst, roommates to lovers, BFF's Lil Bro!AU Series Rating: M (18+) Drabble Warnings: angst!, mutual pining comes to a head, or more accurately to lips, aka kissing Word Count: 1.8k (ok it's a little more than a drabble) Disclaimers: NSFW, obviously I don’t own ATZ - they just inspire me

Summary: He was only supposed to be a temporary roommate. Your best friend's little brother, crashing on your couch for a few weeks. That's it. How did this happen?

A/N: Hi, I'm back. This is the first vignette that's not from an ask but just from my own head. I just really wanted to write their first kiss, so I did! I hope you enjoy. 🥰

Taglist is open! Reblog, comment, or send me an ask to be added! You can also send me any ideas/thoughts you might have for a future scenario - who knows, it might end up in a drabble! 💕

It's You Masterlist 🐈‍⬛ ATZ Masterlist 🐈‍⬛ Main Masterlist

A few weeks after Halloween, Hongjoong invites everyone to a friend’s deejaying gig on the other side of town. Your roommate opts out, saying she’d rather spend one of her rare nights off at her boyfriend’s, so you, San, Wooyoung, and Hongjoong check it out together.

After the gig ends, your ears still ringing, feet aching from all the dancing you did, the four of you make your way home. Wooyoung and Hongjoong both seem hyped from the show, talking excitedly as you wait for the train. You watch them with a fond smile, leaning against the wall and taking turns lifting your feet to take some of the pressure off. 

San joins you. “You okay, Noona?” 

“Yeah. Just wore the wrong boots tonight,” you say. “Didn’t realize we’d be dancing so much.” 

“Oh, yeah. I guess I could’ve warned you,” San grins. “Sorry. We’re not the type to sit through a set.” 

“Clearly,” you reply, smiling back. Honestly, you’d been pleasantly surprised at how well San and his friends dance. They were so free with their movements and their energy had been infectious. You couldn’t have stood still if you’d tried. 

Of course, now you’re paying for it, wincing as your throbbing feet scream at you. You shuffle again, and then, ever-so-gracefully, you lose your balance, tipping over, letting out a loud expletive that draws everyone’s attention. 

Hongjoong and Wooyoung cackle as San grabs your arm, pulling you back upright. 

“No worries, Noona, I’ve got you.” 

He murmurs the words reassuringly, arm sliding from yours to loop around your shoulders, squeezing you into his side, but only for a second, before he scolds the other two for laughing so much. You giggle along as Wooyoung and San pretend to fight, but your heart’s not in it, because it’s still yearning painfully for San to hold you again. Every time he touches you - hugs you goodbye, cuddles with you on the couch, even the briefest moments of contact like just now - it leaves this black hole inside your chest, an endless gnawing need for more and more and more. 

At some point, you won’t be able to withstand it anymore. You’re not sure what will happen then.

The train car is crowded when your group enters. Unfortunately for your tired feet, there's nowhere to sit, and blessed little space to stand, so everyone splits up, trying to find room for themselves. Except for San, who guides you towards the opposite doors with a gentle touch on your back, and then stands beside you, reaching overhead to hold on while your hands curl around a pole. 

Some creepy guy already too close on your right leans over, trying to get an eyeful of your chest, and San smoothly slides around, blocking you from the asshole’s view. You smile gratefully, and he gives you an intimidating look but undercuts his mean mugging with an eyebrow wiggle, and you giggle, which then makes him grin, a chain reaction of happiness that leaves you buzzing. 

The gentle sway of the car as it hurdles down the tracks shakes you. You bump into San with a horribly steady rhythm, feeling sheepish for not having a strong enough core to keep yourself upright and balanced for more than a second at a time. He just laughs, finally throwing an arm around your back to help.

His hold is light, leaving a big sliver of air between you, a respectful distance that frankly makes you wish he’d be disrespectful. But he maintains it, supporting you in the most polite way, and somehow it still makes your heart jump fast as the wheels spinning beneath your feet.  You turn your head, focusing on the window on the door, watching your reflection as the dark tunnels roll by. 

At the next stop, more people pack themselves into the car. The small bubble of space around you pops as the wave of humanity rolls you into San, and you bring your hands up, bracing yourself against his chest, eyes widening at the solid warmth beneath your fingertips. 

“Shit, sorry, sorry.” You apologize profusely, trying to step away, but the train jerks again, jostling you, and San tightens his grip, pulling you back into his arms. 

“It’s ok,” he mutters, in a quiet voice. “I told you. I’ve got you.” 

When your gazes meet, it’s like the air has been sucked from the car. Something shimmers in his dark eyes as they roam your face, and you utter his name unthinkingly, a tiny “San” just slipping from your open mouth, but it feels like a rogue confession of something you’ve been denying for so long. You’re not sure if he heard it but he definitely saw it because he’s been staring at your lips for a few seconds now.

You lean in at the same time he tilts his chin forward, and your mouths meet in the middle. A light kiss, feather soft, like testing the waters. The next one lingers, his lips firmer against yours. His hand splays on your back. You twist your fingers into the front of his t-shirt. 

A third press weakens your knees, as his mouth slots against yours. Lips move together, part, allowing him to breathe in your little gasp. 

The train emerges from the tunnel, and suddenly the lights in the car blast on as it comes to a slow stop at the next station. Immediately, you spring back, and so does San. 

His expression is searing, and you glance away, looking to see if any of your friends are nearby, but the only one you can glimpse is Hongjoong. He’s got his back to you, a few feet and a dozen people away. 

When the train starts up again, a few riders lighter, San loosens his grip, hand gliding up to a spot between your shoulders, far from the small where it had just been resting. By the time you reach your stop, his arm is more hovering than touching.

You and San find Hongjoong a few feet ahead of you when you depart. Wooyoung’s still on the train, since his place is closer to the next stop. Hongjoong slows his quick stride enough for you to catch up. 

“You guys up for some ramen?” he asks, like he always does on late nights like this. You and San look at each other, and you don’t know if it’s the dim streetlights or what, but you can’t read his expression.

“Nah, I’m good,” San answers.

“I think I’m just gonna go to bed,” you start to say at the same time, cutting off to let San finish and then repeating yourself with a nervous laugh.

“‘Kay.” Hongjoong bears the rejection with his usual nonchalance. “I’ll see you later.” He crosses the street, heading for the convenience store on the next block. 

And it’s just the two of you now, walking in silence. Two more blocks and you’ll be home. One more block. Just up the stairs now. Key in door, door closed, shoes off. 

You stare at each other. He blinks first.  

“Should we - “

“Did you want to - “

“Hey guys.” 

Your roommate comes padding out of the kitchen, cup of tea in hand. 

“Hey!” you nearly shout. “I thought you were staying over at Jongho's?” 

If she’s surprised by the volume of your voice, Haneul doesn’t show it. She shrugs. “Yunho was being annoying, so I left.” 

Yunho is Jongho’s roommate. He’s rarely at their apartment on the weekends. Just your luck that this would be the one night a year he strikes out and goes to his own bed instead of someone else’s.

Or maybe it’s for the best. Because it’s not too late to stop now before you do something else. Something potentially foolish. Let it just be a kiss. A one-time loss of rationality. Of caution. 

Even if you can’t stop thinking about that night at the bar. Sitting there with San’s arms wrapped around you just felt so right. 

Even if it’s been ages since you felt this way about someone. 

Even if you’re pretty sure you’re falling for San. 

“Are you going to bed or are you gonna stay up for a bit?” Haneul asks, taking a seat on the couch. 

“Um…” you fight the impulse to glance at San. “I don’t know. I’m not really tired or anything….” Truth be told, you’re a little wired now. “Why?” 

“I was thinking of starting that new drama Jongho told us about. Wanna join me?” She pats the space next to her.

San mumbles something about taking a shower. You watch him leave the room, and it feels like whatever happened on the train is already fading away. Did it really happen, or was it just a dream? Are your fantasies bleeding over into your waking hours now? 

San joins you and Haneul near the end of the first episode, taking a spot on the floor in front of the couch so he can stretch out. He looks so soft, with his dark hair freshly fluffed from a towel, dressed in his favorite hoodie and sweats, and it’s a struggle to keep your focus on the television and not wonder what would’ve happened had Haneul not been home.

Part of you wishes San would catch you looking. But you’re not sure you could handle it if you met his gaze right now and didn’t find what you were hoping to find. 

It’s actually a little odd how quiet he is, staring so intently at the show that you are completely ignoring. Is he doing the same thing you are, replaying the moment in his mind? Trying to freeze it in your memory?

Your stomach drops as you consider another possibility. What if he thinks the kiss was a mistake? 

By the time the third episode is over, you’re exhausted, from your night out but also from the mental gymnastics you’ve been performing, silently twisting yourself into knots thinking about San and the train and what could happen versus what should. So you excuse yourself for the safety of your bedroom, where you can dream in peace.

Nero’s already curled up on his favorite spot on your bed, right next to where you lay your head. He cracks an eye open as you flop down beside him, and you reach out to give him an apologetic scritch, when you catch a scrap of paper poking out from beneath him. A note, with San's handwriting. He must’ve slipped it on your pillow after his shower. The first sentence sends relief flooding through you.

I don’t regret it. 

But it’s what’s written next that has you rereading the note over and over. It’s a simple sentence, just a pleading command, but to you, it’s a revelation. 

Please tell me you want more too.

If you liked this fic, please consider reblogging! Likes do not help it get seen by other readers. 💕

Taglist: @sweetnspicy-noona @krystal-a @jennylychee

© 2023-24 by minisugakoobies. Crossposted to AO3. Please do not copy or repost. I do not allow translations of my work.

#ateez x reader #ateez angst #ateez fluff #ateez fanfic #san x reader #choi san x reader #choi san fanfic #fic: it's you #bff's lil bro au

[toji-girl]

unspoken words | l. ackerman

synopsis:  ‘Through thick and thin’ is something you will never forget telling Levi on your wedding day even when your marriage seems to be falling apart at the seams. 

wc: 1k

tags: angst with happy ending + minors and empty blogs DNI still please + repost from my old blog + modern au but with canonverse season 4 spoilers if that makes sense so block #aot spoilers if you don’t want to be spoiled or anything + crying + any missing tag lmk!

“Levi just let me-” You began getting cut off as he waved his hand in the air ignoring your stare as he moved by himself, there was nothing you could do but watch feeling your heart crack seeing him, the man who everyone deemed so strong has now crumbled to this.

He hissed in pain shifting his weight to get more comfortable before looking at you, shame colored his silver eyes as he gazed at you.

“Can you push me out to the car?” He asked so quietly you weren’t sure you even heard him but nonetheless, you grabbed the bag stuffed with dinner tonight that Kuchel was holding at her house.

You grabbed the handles and wheeled him to the front door grabbing the keys trying not to let the tears stream down your cheeks, if you wiped at your eyes then you knew Levi would say something and it would just blow up more than it already has.

Silently you opened the door and pushed him outside shutting and locking the door. Turning around you glanced up at the sky seeing clouds slowly turn gray, a beautiful bright day now dampened just like your mood.

Ever since Levi came home from the hospital he’s pushed you away more times than you could count and the endless fights left you on the couch most nights unable to comfort your husband. 

You sighed and opened the car door helping him inside before folding the wheelchair and putting it in the back.

More silence settled in the car when you got in the driver’s spot sitting there holding the steering wheel debating on if you should say anything.

“Are we going to sit here all day?” Levi asked looking at you. 

His tone was a bit harsher than what he wanted, a look of hurt flashed across your face before starting the car and pulling out of the driveway. So many thoughts swirled around in your head thinking of the vows you made him wondering if he was going to keep his.

“Are you not going to use your turn signal? And you need the right lane or you’re going to miss your turn. My mom has been texting me non-stop about this damn shitty dinner.” Levi grunted and rolled his eyes watching you weave in and out of the lanes.

“I know where I’m going. We’ve been to your mom’s a lot of times.” You replied cooly trying to keep a level head, all the stress of him fighting and pulling away left you angry and alone but you didn’t blame him, the sudden change threw him for a loop and now he has to rely on you for almost everything and you did so without one word even though Levi was a bit brash with you.

Tears stung the back of your throat again as you focused on driving still missing the turn. “You missed the damn turn, what are you doing? Are you even paying attention?” Levi asked and huffed looking out the window.

You turned to look at him with a watery gaze as you pulled over on the shoulder gripping the steering wheel.

“I have been nothing but good to you ever since your accident and you have been nothing but awful to me. I cook and clean for you then I bathe you afterward and this is the thanks I get? I’m your wife Levi, not some fucking nurse you can speak to that way. I love you but dammit you’re being an asshole to me.” You blurted and looked at the road again.

Levi stared at you slowly chewing on your words knowing you’re right, it wasn’t fair because you put everything on hold to take care of him, your sweet words and touch at night whispering how you still love him and will always think he’s your hero.

He was never good with words that didn’t usually hurl insults or shit jokes but now he was stunned in silence as you finally pulled the car into Kuchel’s driveway seeing her standing on the front porch rushing to the vehicle opening Levi’s door.

You got out and took a moment to collect yourself pressing your sleeves against your eyes hearing Kuchel grab the wheelchair and help Levi in it. “Are you coming in dear?” She asked walking around the car to look at you with a soft smile.

“Yeah, I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Just leave me out here with her please,” Levi said looking at his mom then you leaning against the trunk holding your arms. Kuchel kissed the top of his head and walked back inside to peer out the window. “I’m sorry, I know I’ve been an asshole to you.”

“I don’t think right now is a good time to get into this, let’s just have dinner and go home. I’m exhausted.” You said standing straight walking past him, he quickly grabbed your hand and looked down at the ring he slipped on your finger two years ago pressing a light kiss to the shining diamond.

“I’m having trouble adjusting to everything and you’ve helped me more than anything. Thank you.” His words and tone were soft reminding you when you both stood under the altar confessing your undying love to each other in front of your family and friends.

The rain broke from the clouds drizzling over you and Levi as you stared down at him squeezing his hand, so many unspoken words were left between you as you sat down on his lap burying your face in his neck.

“I love you so much, thank you for being there for me when I need you the most,” Levi whispered hugging you tighter to him afraid that you would vanish in thin air if he let go.

#aot spoilers #Levi angst #Levi fluff #aot x reader Levi #Levi Ackerman angst #Levi Ackerman fluff #aot x reader #levi x reader #levi x you

[astroboots]

RED FLAGS ║ PART 11

CO-WRITTEN WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS

Pairing: Steven Grant x female reader x Marc Spector (x hints of Jake Lockley)

Summary: You overhear things you were not meant to hear. Or alternatively: The girls boys are fighting.

Content: mild angst, lots of eavesdropping on secrets.

Word Count: 6.9k words

Series Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist | Thirstworldproblemss’ Masterlist

[PREVIOUS] - [NEXT]

The music box sits atop of the wooden counter. For a love song, it’s such a sad and melancholic melody. Made sadder by the off-key note that clangs jarringly five seconds in, after you've wound up the music box to watch the little deformed Anubis inside twirl. 

It's oddly mesmerising in a meditative sort of way, how it keeps spinning round and round with nowhere to go. 

Doing the same thing over and over again. 

Stuck.

Has Anubis always looked so unhappy?

Steven's hand brushes against your back, interrupting your musing, and you jump in your seat despite the gentleness of his touch. Looking up, you find him standing in front of you with a worried frown.

"You're going to be late for work, love," he says, "It’s nearly eight-forty."

"Shit." You’ve lost track of time, fiddling too long with the music box. 

You glance at the table where Steven has already stacked your plate. Two pieces of charred marmite toasts sit atop his emptier plate as he's walking over to the sink. A pang of guilt sits in your chest at the sight of it. 

Despite the effort Steven had gone through, getting up early and having it ready for you by the time you woke up, you've hardly even taken a bite of your breakfast. 

You rush forward, wanting to at least help him clean the plates, but Steven waves you off with a shake of his head.

"It's all right, love. You go ahead, don't want you to be late. I'll clear this up. Donna can't possibly get madder at me than she already is." 

There's a forced smile twisting his lips, and when you don't make any moves to go, Steven sets down the dishes in the sink and walks back over to you.

"Have a good day at work today," he says and tips his head, pressing his lips to your forehead. "I don't want you to worry about anything alright? Everything will sort itself out." 

It feels like deja vu when he says it, and for a second you worry, because the last time you heard this sentiment aimed at you, the man who said it disappeared without any physical trace. 

As if he can sense your apprehension, Steven continues, giving your hand a gentle nudge. "Go on, love. I'll pick you up after work, and we’ll order something nice for take out tonight." 

Despite your hesitance, you find yourself nodding as you head towards the front door. The sound of porcelain clinking together and kitchen clutter continues in the background as you click the door shut behind you. 

The hallway is dimly lit and gloomy as you make your way down to the lift. 

Once inside, it’s quiet except for the whirring of mechanical gears from above. It’s almost like being trapped in a music box of your own, except that Steven’s building isn’t fancy enough to have elevator music. There's nothing to distract you here. No twirling Anubis. No melodies. The only thing keeping you company is your own thoughts and memories. 

‘Marc, I mean it. I miss you.’ 

The memory of your own words seems to echo between your ears, and you cringe, shaking your head in an attempt to make it stop. You're restless, the cuticles of your nails itching to be picked as you try to push yesterday's telephone call from your mind. Trying to mute your own pleading voice from playing on an endless loop. 

‘I'm in love with you– ’ 

You’re desperate for a distraction, but the cramped lift offers no distraction. There are mirrors on both walls, and endless Xerox copies of your own reflection stare back at you, repeating off into infinity. There’s no place here to hide from yourself. 

‘–You don’t have to love me the same way. Just come back.’

Your hand comes to your left wrist, seeking something to fidget with to calm your nerves, but the familiar leather strap of your watch is missing. Your forearm is bare.  

Oh, for god's sake. Where have you gone and lost the bloody thing now?

As soon as you think it, you realise where it must be. Can see the watch in your mind's eye, sitting on the porcelain edge of the bathroom sink, right where you left it when you took it off to shower last night. You sigh, pressing the button of the lift back to the fifth floor. This time as the lift ascends the floor, you fix your gaze on the menacing bright red LED sign indicating the floor level, refusing to look into the mirrors on either side of you.

‘Please. I miss you.’

The lift door pings open, mercifully interrupting the replay, and you briskly retrace your steps. You’re so focused on retrieving the watch—and ignoring the unwelcome memories—that you barely register that Steven’s no longer in the kitchen. It’s not until you’re brought up short by the closed loo door that you realise it’s not going to be quite that simple. 

Looking down, you can see the light streaming under the door is cut by a shadow’s flickering movement inside. Steven’s gone to the loo. That’s all well and good—nothing out of the ordinary— except the fact that your watch, which you would very much like to wear to work, is in there with him. 

You sigh. 

You’re already going to be late as it is, but you can’t very well barge in on him in the loo, now can you? The poor man would have a heart attack.

You contemplate your options, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, and you have to resist the impulse to tap your feet like some grumpy old biddy. Trying for patience, you take a few steps back, dragging your eyes away from the bathroom to stare blindly off towards the empty kitchen corner. 

There’s not much to look at, just the morning sun streaming in the window to illuminate the pile of sauce-stained dishes waiting to be washed. Your eyes linger anyway. Your mind fills in the gap with an echo of Marc as you’re used to seeing him, standing at the sink or stove, his back to you, outlined in the soft early light. All that’s missing is his voice calling out a soft greeting.

And for a moment, you think you can hear him—his all-familiar American accent echoing from your memories. Better his than yours. Better the voice you've been missing like an amputated limb this entire time he’s been gone. 

“You need to stop.”

You jerk upright because that’s new. 

You’re no stranger to the flat, demanding tone, but you can’t trace the words back to any memory of what Marc has said to you before. 

That means it’s real.

You whip your head back in the direction of the loo where the voice is coming from. 

It’s muffled. The volume muted by the door, but you’d recognise that grumpy, impatient voice anywhere. Been replaying it enough in your mind, that you could pick the owner out of a blind lineup based on sound alone. And you can definitely identify it now in the quietness of Steven’s flat, where it’s just you and him. 

Marc. 

The room seems to narrow to a needle point, the colours blurring into each other until all you can see is the bathroom door. Excitement rushes to your head and everything feels fast and slow all at once. 

Marc is in there. 

Your legs threaten to buckle, and the wooden flooring underneath your feet seems to sink and warp into porous sand with each step forward. Then you’re standing there, in front of the loo, separated from him only by a few feet and the thin wood panelling of the accordion door, so ancient and flimsy-looking that a gust of wind could knock it down. 

You want to knock it down. You raise a shaky hand to hover just above the surface.

All you want is to grab the handle, fling it open and see Marc again. Not as you have these past months, through the lens of the memory—either your own wistful, wishful thinking or the echoes of him that have been haunting your daily life. 

You need the reality of him. To see him in the flesh and bone. Marvel at the ever-present scowl as he tips his head in irritation. That deep furrow between his brow when he’s consumed in some task. The rare half-smile that never fails to make you feel like you’ve won a rare prize at the carnival when you’ve manage to coax it out of him. 

But you can’t. 

Because you know how that will go. Even if Marc is in there, cornered in the loo, the moment he knows you're here and aware of him, he'll spirit himself away like he did last time.  

So you stay there, hand raised, feet frozen to the floor, staring down at the shifting shadow visible through the wide gap like it’s shadow puppet theatre, trying to discern the plot as you listen in. 

“This is how things are now. It’s better for both of you that I’m not around.” 

He sounds tired, weariness weighing down his words, and your throat aches. You don’t need X-ray vision to guess how Marc’s shoulders must be slumped, his hand rubbing over his face and jaw in frustration. 

The worst part is that you know Marc well enough to know that he truly believes what he is saying. Believes that his presence is a burden. That just by being here, he’s causing everyone trouble. 

He thinks he’s doing everyone a favour by not being around, and there’s nothing you or Steven can say that will make him believe otherwise. You know that. But it doesn’t mean you want to say it any less.

You want to break down the door, take him by those broad shoulders, and shake him until his head wobbles as you scream that he’s wrong. That he would be nothing but good for you. 

Because being around Marc makes you happy. Sitting next to him, watching him sip the “rubbish” coffee you’ve made him, makes your chest light up.  Seeing his puzzled expression when you make a pop culture reference he doesn’t know makes you smile.  And even though you’re not a morning person, he makes you look forward to waking up early because you know you get to spend those extra ten minutes with him. Marc makes you happy.

It goes quiet behind the door, and you can’t hear his voice anymore. Maybe Steven is arguing back. You hope so. You hope that Steven is rebutting Marc’s misguided beliefs the way you desperately want to. 

Maybe for once Marc is actually listening. 

"She doesn't know what she's asking for, Steven.” 

Maybe not, the stubborn bastard.

His voice is pained, and you tilt your forehead forward until it makes contact with the doorframe, hovering as close as you dare. It’s not like it makes any difference; not like he can sense you from behind the door—nor would you want him to, given the flight risk. But your heart hurts for him, and you just want to be closer to him in any way you can, despite the divider between you. 

“If I'm around it'll just mess everything up for–” He stops suddenly like maybe Steven has cut him off. Then there’s a grunt of protest, followed by, "Steven… That's not– Steven."

"You don't know what you're talking about, Steven!" This time he sounds almost angry, his voice is low and venomous. And whatever Steven says next must really strike a nerve, because Marc hisses, “Shut up, shut up! Shut UP!" the volume rising to a crescendo with his agitation.

It takes you by surprise, and you jump back, nearly tripping over your own feet in the process. Then you scramble back to the door, pressing as close as you dare. Worried that you’ve missed part of the conversation because you can’t hear Marc anymore. 

“Look, maybe if you just, like... chill the eff out for a second, we can talk things over, yeah?” 

That’s not Marc at all. 

Instead, it’s Steven's warm South-Londoner accent spilling through the door. They must have switched.

“You can't keep doing this. You know that right?” Steven demands. “What's your grand master plan here, mate? Hiding during the day and sneaking out like a burglar in the dead of night...? A bit cowardly, isn't it? You have to know that’s not gonna work long term."

If Marc was angry, then Steven sounds properly hacked off, his patience on the last string, worn so thin it’s a surprise it hasn’t already snapped. This is clearly not the first, or even second time, they’ve had this conversation. Apparently the fact that he's been talking to Marc is one of those things Steven "can't tell you right now." You wonder how many times they've had this same argument. From the sound of things, you wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Steven has tried again and again without being able to even inch Marc to budge from his stubborn position.

"It's not the perfect life though, is it? Not when you’re being a right proper idiot about all this. She wants you here. I want you here, you great pillock!” Steven’s voice is loud and indignant, and you can hear a rattle in there that you’re pretty sure is Steven grabbing onto the sides of the mirror in a frustrated attempt to throttle Marc through it. “And you can stop trying to peddle ‘normal,’ all right? Nothing about this situation is normal, and I for one am perfectly okay with that!” 

You can always trust Steven to come through with the honest truth.

God, you love that man. 

You can’t help but smile as he quite loudly voices everything you’ve been dying to say to Marc in this moment. You agree with all of it, even the throttling. Because Steven’s so very right. Who needs ‘normal’ when you can have something better together? 

“Just–” Steven cuts himself off, and you hear the deep inhale as he takes a calming breath before he continues.

“Listen, Marc…” His voice is softer now, almost cajoling. Trying to negotiate and soothe. 

You lean up on your tiptoes and in closer to the door, until you’re practically pressed against it. In your eagerness, you forget about how flimsy the material is until it gives slightly under your weight, and you flinch back. Honestly, it’s probably a miracle the flimsy thing didn’t collapse altogether.  

“You’re not fooling anyone, all right? I can feel what you feel when you’re around her.”

You wait with bated breath for Steven to continue, selfishly hoping that he’ll spell it out further because you desperately want to know what exactly it is that Marc feels around you. For you. 

“When you wake up next to her, and–” his voice spills from the bathroom, the dry sarcasm unmistakable, “when you drink that bloody awful coffee.” 

Again with the sass about your coffee! 

You scowl at the door, any goodwill towards Steven’s efforts in this conversation quickly evaporating. Surely, your coffee can’t be as terrible as all that. It’s just beans and water! How much of a difference can the ratio make anyhow? 

“Or… Or the way you clutched onto that jacket for weeks after she wore it. Treated it like some bloody teddy bear, didn’t you?” 

His jacket? The one that gave you so much grief and guilt after the almost-kiss in front of the fishtank? And Marc had… what? Snuggled with it? Your mind boggles at the very idea, even as it warms your heart.

“‘Don’t?’” Steven challenges, obviously repeating something you can’t hear. “Don’t what, exactly, Marc? Don’t state the obvious?” He barrels on, apparently unwilling to give Marc time to reply, "I know how you feel about her. And I know what you think about when you spend those extra ten minutes in the shower." 

Extra… minutes? You frown to yourself. You don't understand. What could Steven possibly mean by ‘ten extra minutes’ in the– 

Oh. 

An invading image pushes to the forefront of your mind. Of Marc's stern and focused eyes closed in concentration. Wet curls plastered to his forehead. His fingers wrapped in a tight fist over his hard cock. It’s true that you’ve not ever seen Marc less than fully clothed, but you’ve seen Steven without a thread on his body, and your brain is more than happy to fill in the blanks.

Heat curls into your stomach and settles there. Your chest feels tight, as though the thought of Marc in the shower is squeezing the breath out of you. Your vivid imagination clings onto the image, no matter how hard you try to think of something else. Your brain is too enamoured with it and refuses to let it go. 

All you see as you close your eyes are his perfect cheekbones flushed a rosy crimson as he shudders in pleasure. 

"Well if you don't want me to tell her, you’d best stop playing hide and seek then," Steven continues, clearly exasperated, "You’re being ridiculous, you bloody plonker."

Despite the fact that he's still technically whispering, he's so agitated that he might as well be shouting and the volume would be comparable. Steven never could keep a lid on his emotions. You can just picture the animated expression on his face. 

“She wants you too, you know.”  It’s quieter, comes after a second or two pause, as if Steven’s deliberately tamping down how loud he was.

More silence follows. 

You wait for several torturously slow seconds, but there’s still nothing from behind the door. Is it because Marc has been replying to Steven, you wonder. And if he has, what has he been saying? Is he angry? Brushing Steven off? Or is it like it was on the phone last night—silent because he’s not replying back at all.

Why is that somehow the worst scenario? 

You don’t hear anything else. Perhaps this is how it’s going to end today as well. Another stalemate. Stuck in a loop, like Gus II’s endless pilgrimage back and forth across the tank, forever spinning in this box that you have gotten yourselves into, with no way out. 

How long can the three of you keep doing this for? 

“Did you know… she had a sex dream about us?" Steven says. 

A cold shock grips the entirety of your spine, and you jolt like someone threw a bucket of ice water over your head. 

"That’s right, about both of us, together—said she couldn't choose." 

Oh god. God! What on earth is Steven saying? Has he lost his fucking marbles? He can’t tell Marc that! 

Embarrassment burns with a fury in your cheeks. You bite down on your tongue, trying to keep yourself still, fighting every nerve in your body that wants to ram down the door. 

“Actually, I quite think you do need to be hearing this, mate. If you would just–” Steven breaks off, then tries again, raising his voice like he’s trying to talk over and overpower someone else in volume. 

“If you would just come back and talk to us about it, I'm sure she would… Marc. Take your hands off your ears, Marc. If you would just listen for one bloody second. Can you please just– Oh, right, that’s really mature!” 

“Oh, that is bloody well it!” Steven shouts, and harsh fluorescent light floods your vision, momentarily blinding you, as the bathroom door is flung open. 

You stumble forward, nearly falling through the doorway. The only things that stops you from going arse-over-tits are Steven's solid frame and the fact that you faceplant square into the middle of his chest.

His hands go to your shoulders, helping to steady you, and it only takes a second to regain your footing. And then you find yourself staring up at your fuming boyfriend. 

Steven’s cheeks are flushed, chest heaving, and his beautiful messy curls are bouncing wildly on top of his head. He must’ve been well and truly hacked off at Marc, but at the sight of you the anger melts off of him. 

"Oh,” he says, blinking down at you in surprise, “hello, love. You’re back?” 

Turning back to the bathroom, Steven narrows his eyes pointedly at the mirror, then turns off the light and slides the door shut firmly behind him.

"How... uhm… how much of that did you overhear?" 

"Quite a bit," you admit, not bothering to beat around the bush. "I'm guessing Marc’s still refusing to come home then?" 

Steven gives an exasperated shake of his head. 

"He's being stubborn, as always."

You nod, but there’s a bitter clump stuck in your throat that you can’t quite swallow down. Steven must notice your struggle, because his hands trail down the length of your arms until he finds yours and weaves your fingers together, squeezing lightly. 

"Don't worry, love. He'll come around eventually, yeah? He just needs time." 

Steven likes to say the two of you have all the time in the world, but you're beginning to wonder if even that would be enough.

The flickering light from the telly is swathing the bed and surrounding surfaces of Steven’s bookshelves in blues and whites. You’re staring blindly at the ocean scenery playing out before you, without really hearing any of the narration as Attenborough drones on about whale wildlife. 

You feel listless. You try to tell yourself that it’s just been a long day at work. Between Poppy stealing your lunch, (which she denies) and that three hour Teams call that nearly ended your will to live, it’s no wonder you’re ready for this day to end. 

But it’s more than that. 

‘It’s better for both of you that I’m not around’.

Marc had sounded so tired in the loo this morning, like he’s exhausted to the depths of his soul, and you hate that for him. Guilt swirls in your stomach, simmering until it curdles into irritation and then anger. 

You’re furious at the whole situation. 

You hate how angry and defeated he sounded. Can't stand the thought that he's doing something that hurts him to keep you and Steven “happy.” But most of all you hate that he’s alone again. By himself, trying to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders like the victim of some tragic Greek myth, condemned to a solitary existence by the gods for all of eternity. 

But your anger isn’t helping you right now, and it certainly doesn’t help Marc.

In fact, nothing you’ve been doing has helped him, has it? All your efforts to get him to come back: spam texting him, poisoning him with your toxic coffee, confessing your feelings… The only thing any of it has achieved is to make him feel cornered and miserable. 

It needs to stop. 

You need to stop. 

“You all right, love?” Steven’s voice near your ear pulls you out of your spiralling thoughts. 

“Hmm?”

Steven frowns at you from where he sits beside you on the sofa. 

“You seem… distracted. Is there something on your mind, love?” 

“Yes, sorry, I think I’m just–” you trail off mid-sentence, the screen catching your eye when you lift your head. The credits are rolling and must have been for quite some time without you even noticing. 

“Let’s go to bed, love. Call it an early night, yeah?” he asks with a gentle smile on his lips. 

Curling up in bed with Steven sounds perfect to you in this moment and you nod at him.  

It’s all he needs to start moving,  Steven stooping to gather up the blanket that’s pooled by your feet and reaches over your lap for the remote to turn off the telly. The room dims without the brightness of the screen, and Steven takes your hand, pulling you to your feet. He watches your progress surreptitiously, keeping his hand steady over yours like he’s a guide dog worried you’re going to trip over your own feet. 

He doesn’t let go until you’re safely sat down on your side of the bed, and even then he stays standing there with an uncertain look on his face, one hand hovering in mid-air, the other hanging by his side, fingers fidgeting. 

“Would you like to talk about it?” Steven finally asks, the words bursting out of him as if he’s unable to hold them in any longer. “What happened today, that is. About Marc, and what you overheard.” 

“Marc…,” you begin, and his name barely even leaves your lips before Steven is already nodding enthusiastically for you to continue. “He sounded really quite tired today, didn’t he? It must be hard for him to keep this up. I don’t know why he thinks he has to keep hiding like this.” 

Steven’s chewing on his bottom lip, and there it is again, the feeling that Steven knows so much more than he’s been telling you. You can practically see the weight of the phrase ‘I can’t tell you right now’ perched heavily on his features. 

You look down at your lap, fingers twisting into the blanket. But maybe, it isn’t hard to guess what it is neither of them are telling you. It’s Occam’s razor isn’t it? All things being equal, the simplest explanation is usually the correct one. And maybe the simple explanation here is that Marc just… doesn’t want to see you. Whatever the reasons, he’s made that much abundantly clear, and you’ve gone and ignored all signs and pushed forward regardless. You told the man you loved him, and he didn’t say anything back. 

“I think that what I said on the phone–me telling him I love him—has probably only made things worse.” 

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself as you raise your eyes towards Steven again. 

“I just want him to know it’s okay if he doesn’t feel the same about me. It’s all right if he doesn’t want this or– Or me. He doesn’t have to hide to avoid rejecting me or to spare my feelings. I don’t want him to be alone because of that. Can you… can you tell him that?”

Steven's eyes widens, and he shakes his head vigorously.  

“No. No, no, no, love. That is not what's happening here. That's not– The problem is– Marc is just–" He stumbles over his words a bit before spitting out tartly, "Just a right twit, is what he is." 

You can’t help the grunt-like snort that escapes, and the levity feels good. It’s nice to be able to laugh with Steven, even as glum as you are over the situation that you’re all stuck in. 

Your laugh must’ve pleased him, because he smiles back at you, eyes crinkling adorably. His shoulders relax too, and his hands stop their nervous fidgeting. 

Climbing knee-first onto the bed, Steven sits in front of you. His hand comes to yours, and he settles both your hands on top of your lap.

“Marc isn’t hiding away because he doesn’t feel the same about you.” 

Your face must show your scepticism, because Steven squeezes your fingers between his reassuringly as he continues. 

“Same body and all that, remember? I’m aware enough nowadays that I can usually feel what he feels when I’m not the one fronting.” 

"What does he feel?" You blurt out. It's a question that has been haunting you since your impromptu phone call confession. Longer even.

Steven hesitates, clearly torn, and it’s enough to make you realise what you've just asked of him. How unfair of a question it is.

"Sorry.” You grimace, your shoulders sagging. "I know you don't feel comfortable sharing things about Marc without him here. And I understand. It's okay. Really it is. It's..."

It's only right, isn't it? Of course it’s not for Steven to out Marc’s private matters. And what can be more personal than one’s inner thoughts and feelings?

"Oh, love," Steven says, voice impossibly gentle, “You're right that it's not my place to tell you.”

You nod, looking down at your lap, feeling like your whole chest has deflated. You know it's the right thing for him to do. You’re glad for it even—that he's looking out for Marc when Marc's not here to look out for himself—but you can’t help but feel disappointed all the same.

“Buuuut…” he continues, and your head whips up, searching his face with a tiny sprinkle of hope that perhaps there's still something Steven can share with you. 

“You heard what I said to him in there, right?” Steven prompts, and you nod. His fingers brush over yours, giving you the time to process. 

You try to remember everything you overheard, any other hints you’ve gleaned. How Marc always drinks your “awful” coffee. That he’d clutched onto his jacket after you’ve worn it. The shower. Your fingertips tingle all over again as the image of him in the shower tries to resurface in your mind. 

“Surely it’s obvious by now how Marc feels about you, isn’t it?” 

Steven looks so certain—like he can’t even begin to fathom why there would be any doubt about this—and you desperately want him to be right. Desperately want to think that Marc might care for you in return. 

He says it like all of the pieces of the puzzle are plainly there for you to see. And they should be, you suppose. Marc has shown you so many different sides of himself, and the conversation you overheard revealed more. The problem is that no matter how hard you try to mash the pieces together to make them fit… They don’t.

What Steven’s implying makes sense, and yet here the two of you are, alone. And Marc is still refusing to join you.

Despite everything, the picture before you is still somehow… incomplete. You can’t help but feel that there’s at least one more vital piece of information that you’re still somehow missing. 

“So why is he still hiding, then?” 

And there’s something there, in Steven’s reaction when you ask him. A quick, blink-and-you’d-miss-it flicker towards the direction of the fish tank. The only reflective surface, lit up as it is in the darkness of the room. 

“Steven?” you prompt loudly, fully intent on interrupting whatever tirade Marc is shouting at Steven. You lean forward, squeezing his hand for attention. “What is Marc saying to you? Why won’t he come back?”

Steven’s head whips back in your direction. His mouth is works, but no words come out, and he’s hesitating like he’s trying to decide how much he should tell you. 

“There are things that we—that Marc hasn't told you,” Steven finally says, eyes flicking to the fishtank again, then back to yours, holding your gaze earnestly. “Things that you ought to hear about from him. He doesn’t think he deserves– Well. He thinks that once you know about everything, you’ll walk away from us both. So he’s staying away. I guess in some way, he thinks he’s protecting me again. Buying me some time before it ends."

“That’s ridiculous!” you shout before you can stop yourself. “He can’t possibly know how I’ll react until he’s told me!” 

Your ears burn and you wouldn’t be surprised if there was steam coming out. Why can’t Marc just sit you down and tell you these things instead of making assumptions about what he thinks you would want? What he thinks would be best for you? It’s Steven and the goldfish all over again. 

“And, Steven,”—you look him right in the eye, because you don’t want there to be any doubt about this next part—”I love you. There is nothing Marc could tell me that would make me want to leave you, all right.”

Steven smiles, and even in the dark it’s warm enough to light up the whole room.

"Yes, love, I know.” His smile turns wry, “Like I said… a right twit."

It’s dark. 

Quiet. 

The world isn’t awake yet, and you’re not sure if you are either. You can’t even hear the London traffic outside. There’s too little light in here, and you can’t make out anything except vague shapes in the inviting darkness. You close your eyes again, ready to drift back to sleep. 

Fabric rustles nearby, a soft white noise like the raising of sails. It reminds you of visiting the beach as a child and putting your ear to the opening of a seashell. Everything sounds like it’s underwater.

The surface under you moves, rolling slightly, and then settles again, and it feels like you are out at sea on a small boat. Behind your eyelids, all you see is purple skies dusted with sugared stars. 

Someone is here on the boat with you, warm and sturdy against your side. For a moment or two, drunk on sleep as you are, you don’t quite know where you are or who the person is. All you know is that you feel happy and safe with them. 

The boat rocks again, the surface under you shifting, and the warmth moves away. You want it back. Before you can reach out, the soft weight covering you shifts like a wave, dragging against your hip as it rises up over your torso before settling again, tucked snugly under your chin. 

There are quiet, almost careful footsteps on wooden planks. Then the clink of metal like chains being dragged across the floor. 

It’s all so familiar somehow. 

Didn't there used to be a time when you'd often find yourself like this? Drowsy and half-conscious, pulled towards awareness by the quiet sounds of someone moving next to you, but too far under to fully wake? 

When did it stop?

Oh. Right. When Marc disappeared. 

This must be a dream then. Your brain processing and recycling old memories. Why else would you be out on the open sea? 

The noises stop. 

You can feel the moment drift, pulled away by the currents, but you’re not ready to wake up yet. There’s a long silence, where the dream threatens to slip beneath the inky depth of a wave. 

Squeezing your eyes firmly shut, you try to let yourself float gently on the current, hoping you can relax and prolong this dream. 

The surface you’re resting on dips, and something settles onto your shoulder. A solid, comforting weight. You know this feeling. It’s Marc’s hand, and it inspires the same feeling of safety it did last time, the last time you and Marc were together in person, after you'd cried yourself into exhaustion and he'd agreed to let you fall asleep in his bed. 

It feels nice. More than nice. It feels right.

You nuzzle your cheek into billowing warmth surrounding you that feels like a soft pillow and smells of fresh laundry detergent and coffee. You inhale deeply, sighing contently at the scent, trying to enjoy it while it lasts. 

You don’t want to give this up.

The weight lifts from your shoulder, and you almost rise up in protest, but something sweeps softly across your forehead. Those gentle fingertips, brush the hair from your eyes before coming to linger on your cheek. 

It's a bit funny, isn’t it? A bit cruel even, of your subconscious to conjure up a scenario where Marc’s touching your cheek tenderly like this. After all, isn’t this what you’d thought he might do that night? What you’d wanted him to do, even if you hadn’t known it then? To cup your cheek in his strong, warm hand; to hold you like you're precious to him, beloved, the same way that Steven does?

Marc’s hand moves away again, replaced by the gentle brush of soft lips and bristly stubble against your temple. It’s a barely-there touch, so light and fleeting that you might have imagined it, yet everything inside you aches like a tender bruise. Your skin tingles with an echo of lingering warmth.

You don’t dare to move; barely dare to breathe for fear that you’ll wake yourself up. Your chest constricts with a bittersweet longing that feels large enough to bury you whole. 

"I love you too," his quiet voice says, filling the silence.

Warmth blossoms in your stomach, pouring and pouring through you until you feel filled to the brim with happiness. You think you would be content to stay here, in this safe, quiet space, just basking in his loving presence forever.

For long moments, you do, sinking into the feeling of being loved by this grumpy, stubborn, confusingly gentle man.

Then you hear the heavy sigh.

"That's why I can't come back," he says, voice quiet, resigned, “I need you to be safe. And happy. I’ll make sure of that.”

The sea rises as his weight lifts away from you. The whole of the boat shifts unsteadily beneath you, tilting with the tumultuous waves. Set adrift by the unexpected and unwelcome turn the dream has taken, you’re convinced that the boat is going to tip over and capsize. That you’ll slip into the cracks between the planks of the deck and fall into the abyss, never to be seen again.

You reach out to grab the railing, trying to steady yourself. But where you expected a wooden ledge, hard and wet from seawater, your fingers grasp onto something soft and warm instead. It gives way easily under the grip of your hands, like cotton. Like sheets. 

Still you hold on tightly, bracing yourself for the inevitable descent, and then…

Nothing.

Nothing happens. You’re still on steady ground. Still surrounded in the stillness of the dark night. The only sound is that of soft footsteps moving away and then the unmistakable click of the front door. 

Wait, what kind of dream is this?

Your eyes fly open, and you’re greeted to the sight of the wooden planks, mostly lost in shadow. The bottom of the deck? Are you in the ship’s hold? 

No, it’s the  lowered ceiling over Steven's bed. You’re in his flat.

There’s an ache in your shoulder from having rested on it too long, and you force yourself upright. Your eyelids feel crusty and dry, as though a desert has sprung up behind them overnight. They sting as you blink, wanting to seal closed again. 

Are you awake now? Or is this just another part of a dream? Ten seconds from now, will you find yourself back down on the mattress, forcing yourself to open your eyes all over again?

It’s dark in here, but that tells you nothing. In wintertime, dark can mean 5pm or 7am or anything in between. Turning to the side of the bed, you pat at the nightstand until you find your watch and raise it to your face, squinting in the darkness to make out the dials. 

Eight-thirty? That can’t be right. You and Steven fell asleep well past eight last night, and it’s too dark outside to already be eight in the morning. You reach over to the small lamp, holding the face of it up to the dim light. The arms counting the seconds is taking much longer than a second to hobble forwards. It’s desperately trying to tick along but it’s not doing a great job at keeping time accurately. 

You really need to fix the bloody thing. Or better yet, get a new one. Everything about it is falling apart. Still you fasten it to your wrist by habit before you move to get out of bed. 

With a heavy sigh, you dip one foot onto the floor, and hiss out an involuntary breath at the chill of it. Your shoulders clutch at the quilt tugging it closer around your shoulder.

Wait, this is…

Real.

The biting cold is definitely real. Not a dream; not your imagination. As fantastical as your dreams can sometimes be, your subconscious wouldn't have the attention to detail to replicate the energy bill crisis. 

Turning your head, your eyes drift to Steven’s side of the bed where he fell asleep curled up next to you. Except, he’s not there anymore. 

You reach out your hand, resting it on the spot of the mattress where he would have been lying. 

Still warm and toasty. 

He must’ve gotten up mere moments ago. The door to the loo is open and dark, so Steven’s not in there. He’s not anywhere, and Steven wouldn’t have left the flat without telling you. Must’ve been Marc then, gone wandering off into the night again.

Your neck prickles.

And all of a sudden you’re wide awake, realisation slamming into you like a runaway lorry.

Oh bloody hell, that wasn’t a dream. It was real. 

Marc was really here. 

He really– 

Oh god!

Shoving the comforter away, you leap to your feet. The cold draft in the room punches the air out of your lungs, but you ignore it and focus on trying to find your clothes and dress as quickly as possible. In your haste, you ricochet off one of the bookcases and have to clumsily pat things back into place to avoid an avalanche of Steven’s mess, picking the first pair of boots that is within reach and your coat. Then you’re out of the front door with a loud slam behind you. 

~ Continue ~

a/n: to be notified of new writing updates follow @astroboots-writes and turn on notifs 🤡💖🤡

#oscar isaac #moon knight #marvel #marvel mcu #steven grant x reader #marc spector x reader #steven grant #marc spector #moon knight fanfic #moon knight fic #moon knigh fanfiction #jake lockley #steven grant x you #marc spector x you #jake lockley x reader #jake lockley x you #moon knight x reader #moon knight x you #cici writes

[mariacrow]

HIII! It's so nice to find someone who also enjoys bayverse! If I may, could I request bayverse bumblebee fluff between the events of dotm and aoe, where bumblebee and reader are taking a break from running to stargaze? Poor thing seems so stressed to the point there's no bubbly cheer in the 4th movie

Maybe you could sprinkle in a little angst in which cybertron is mentioned and bee points out its approximate location in the sky? Have a wonderful day/night!

Coming right up ;)

❁ Bumblebee x reader ❁

2nd person

female reader

fluff

takes place between Transformers: Dark of the Moon and Transformers: Age of Extinction

stargazing, cuddling, comfort, reassurance

It’s been a few months since Sentinel and Megatron have been defeated. Everyone is just.. so tired of everything. Running, fighting, dealing with everything all over again. It’s a never ending loop. You’ve also noticed Bumblebee seems a bit down lately… As if that happy bumblebee inside of him stopped buzzing…

Tonight he decided to stay with you, in your garage. He wouldn’t come out though. Usually he’d have fun in your backyard, make some mess on accident, tap your bedroom window and try to come in through the backyard door.

You decided to check on him. You opened the backyard garage door.

“Bee…?”

He let out a low buzz.

“Hey…” you warmly smiled at him and approached, giving his hood a gentle pat, “You okay there…?”

He was silent for a couple of seconds, then he carefully transformed, supporting himself with his knee as he was leaning closer to you.

Standing in front of him, you cupped his faceplate with both of your hands, lovingly looking into his beautiful, shining blue orbs. He sunk into your tender touch, closing his optics… Your heart ached for him but you didn’t let that warm smile leave your face.

“Resting, huh?” you spoke to him softly, your voice like the sweetest honey dripping from your mouth.

He opened his optics, looking at you like a sad puppy… He nodded.

“Come on out. The sky is beautiful tonight.” you stepped aside.

His spark warmed up as he carefully got out, walking farther into your backyard, looking up. He happily buzzed as he slowly sat down on the soft grass, touching it a little.

He then looked at you and let you climb on his servo. He brought you closer to his face and let you sit on his chassis. He kept his servo gently wrapped around you, just in case. You were gently holding onto his index digit while looking up at the starry sky.

“Do you ever wonder how many lives are out there, similar to us? What we’re looking at now is an endless space… Technically, we all share the same sky.” you smiled, “I think that’s beautiful… and unsettling.” you chuckled.

You gave him an idea. He pointed at Venus.

“Yeah, that’s planet Venus.” you smiled.

He lifted his other arm closer to you as a clear hologram of Venus shined from the top of his forearm. Your eyes widened as the hologram reflected in your pretty eyes.

“The planet of love.” he spoke over the radio as he lovingly looked at you, his optics spinning and expanding.

He made you blush and giggle, “Oh you…” your heart fluttering. You gave his face plate a soft smooch which made his spark turn into a puddle and almost leak out of his chassis. He scooted you a bit closer and snuggled against your face and shoulder as you moved your arm under his chin and placed your soft hand onto his face plate.

He then pointed onto another shining dot in the sky. It was Saturn. He also displayed its hologram.

“My favorite— planet in the Solar system.”

Dialogue option 1:

“Aww! It’s so cute you did research. Saturn is my favorite too!” you smiled at him.

“Twins!!” he made you laugh with that girly quote from a movie.

Dialogue option 2:

“Aww! It’s so cute you did research. A lot of people also like Saturn, its rings make it look so unique.”

“What’s your favorite— planet?” he asked over the radio.

You told him your favorite one in the Solar system. He scanned the sky and pointed at it.

“There!” he showed you the hologram of it. While you were looking at it in awe, he was too busy looking at your cute face with wide, sparkly eyes full of surprise and a big honest smile.

°

“Can you show me your planet?” you asked curiously.

Bumblebee looked up at the sky again. He was scanning it a bit longer. He couldn’t find it…

“It’s too— far away… I can’t find it…” he said with a sad face expression.

“Oh, Bee… I’m so sorry… You must miss it a lot…” you said while gently caressing his face plate.

“I do…” he showed you the hologram of his planet he kept in his memory… He deeply vented and ex-vented, as if he sighed…

“Wow… it’s beautiful…”

“Was…” Bee let out a sad buzz as he turned off the hologram.

“Heey heyheyhey.. Don’t lose hope, buddy, okay?” you said reassuringly with a warm smile, “You will bring it back one day. I know you will. Hope dies last.”

He gently nuzzled his face plate against your soft cheek and hair, closing his optics as cute, low buzzing rumbled in his warm chassis. He held you close with both of his servos as you touched his face plate with both of your tiny hands.

He gently pressed his muzzle against your lips, as if he wanted to kiss you… That made you giggle as you gave him a sweet, long kiss. You made his bumblebee-like antennas wiggle as his spark almost started beating like a human heart.

He slowly lay down on the nicely trimmed, fresh grass, keeping you close to him as he was gently petting your head with his index digit. You sighed lovingly and relaxed in his tender, caring embrace.

“I could stay like this with you forever…” you said.

“Me too— Y/N…” he actually said your name… He almost made you cry…

He played “Wicked Game” by Chris Isaak, it’s one of his favorite summer songs.

You continued stargazing and enjoying some relaxing, mostly vintage music that Bee was playing over the radio while cuddling. This might be one of Bumblebee’s favorite moments with you so far.

Dividers belong to @cute-sushi-roll , @tex-treasures 🌻

#transformers #transformers x reader #bumblebee x reader #bayverse transformers #bayverse bumblebee #transformers dotm #transformers aoe #autobots #transformers bumblebee #bumblebee #x reader #transformers fanfiction

[abibliophobiaa]

My love 🤍 if it has not been sent already for Steve’s birthday prompts imma go with the word glasses.

happy birthday week to steve. here are 400 words of fluffy steve harrington x g/n reader.

-

-

“Come on, it’s not the worst thing ever.”

After an appointment with the eye doctor, the world had, in fact, determined Steve Harrington’s eyesight is not what it once was.

“My eyes are getting shitty,” he pouts, pouring over the endless rows of glasses options.

You pause in front of a rack, fingers curling around a pair of sunglasses. “How do these look?”

The glasses slide up the bridge of your nose, too-big on your face. Instead of smiling, which is your desired outcome, Steve just frowns, huffing audibly. Sensing his frustration, you place the sunglasses back on the rack and make your way around to where he stands against one of the numerous glass cases housing frames. He’s humming to himself as you loop an arm around his waist. You can’t suppress your secret grin when he huffs again and draws you into his arms.

“Guess all those hits to the head finally caught up to me,” he chuckles, trying to make light of his ever present disappointment.

You wiggle closer, shoes knocking against his beneath you, uncaring of those milling about around you who may be unamused by your public display of affection with the man.

“A small price for saving the world a few times over, I’d say,” you remind him, palms coming to rub slow circles in the space between his shoulder blades. “And I happen to think glasses are very sexy.”

There’s an amused puff of breath against the top of your head at your words and the sultry timbre they’ve taken before he untangles from you, palm sliding down to grasp your hand as he turns his attention to the glass display and peers inside.

After another hour of searching, the optician asks if he wants to see any in particular, and ends up pulling multiple options of varying styles that could potentially suit Steve’s handsome features.

Eventually, after he’s tossed pair after pair into a sanitary bin they’ve laid out for him, he settles on a thin, gold wired frame that glints in the light when he turns his head and asks what you think.

“So?”

And there he is, the boy who has your heart with his striking jaw, constellation of beauty marks across the face you’ve kissed more times than you could ever count, a kind smile, with his shirt stretched tight across that sculpted silhouette that houses the biggest heart you’ve ever known.

It’s simple, really. “You look like my Steve.”

-

-

#lunalovessteve #steve harrington blurb #steve harrington blurbs #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fluff

[laracrofted]

baby, i'm high octane (vi)

synopsis: nora goes home with jake.

pairings: jake seresin x nora rogers (oc)

warnings: very 18+, minors and ageless blogs dni, all of the usual warnings, swearing, explicit smut (oral sex, unprotected sex but with a discussion of birth control, multiple orgasms, dirty talk and praise, brief edging, crying, maybe overstimulation). (wc: 6.2K)

note: eventual smut is no longer eventual, everybody cheered 💙

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TAGS: @theharddeck @mayhemmanaged @bradshawsbitch @hangmanbrainrot @its-mara-darling @startrekfangirl2233 @kandierteveilchen @lostinwonderland314 @hangmanscoming @t-nd-rfoot @sometimesanalice @dempy @mlibbydp @djs8891 @bellaireland1981 @clancycucumber230 @kmc1989 @averagereader35 @eli2447 @filmflux @bethbunnyy @roosterbruiser @callsignspark

Nora half expects to wake up any minute now and realize all of this was a dream.

Jenna never called. Nora never poured her heart out in the parking lot of the Hard Deck. She never confessed anything. She never kissed him.

She'll wake up on Fourth of July – like a kind of cruel Groundhog Day – with a dull headache, disoriented and gorged on sleep, and a gnawing ache deep inside of her ribcage.

He must feel the same way – like at any second, Nora'll vanish in a puff of smoke, leaving nothing but sand and ocean breeze – because Jake can't seem to stop kissing her.

He presses his lips to her wrist on the drive home, skimming his nose along her pounding pulse until Nora shivers, breathing in the lingering scent of her perfume.

"You smell so good," Jake mumbles against her delicate skin. "What kind of perfume is that?"

"An expensive one," Nora answers, short on purpose, hoping to hide the breathy quiver in her voice. They're not even out of the car yet for Christ's sake.

"'S nice," Jake says softly. A smile brushes against her skin, and with cooling summer air on her cheeks, she shivers again.

And now, as Nora struggles to unlock her door, Jake's lips are warm and purposeful and and goddamn distracting on the slope of her shoulder, on the side of her neck, nudging the collar of her shirt aside and exposing more skin.

Her hands are shaking like Nora's had four cups of coffee, and as Jake hooks a deft finger through her belt loop and gently tugs her back into him, breath warm on her skin, pleasantly rough palm skimming underneath her shirt, Nora's head spins.

She's not even buzzed anymore, but Nora feels drunk on his warmth, on his skin on hers. A little out of breath. A little light headed.

Unexpectedly, Jake nips at a sensitive spot right below her ear, and Nora feels it like a shock, a zap of static electricity.

Surprised, Nora jerks and misses the lock, scratching a jagged line of paint from the door. She cringes.

No security deposit, at least.

"Son of a bitch."

"Need some help there, Hollywood?" Jake asks. Amusement is audible in his voice. So goddamn smug.

"Nope," Nora says quickly. "I've got it."

Jake chuckles against her neck. A rumble Nora feels down to her goddamn fingertips. Damn him.

Son of a bitch, once more for emphasis.

It's really all Nora can do not to let her head loll back on the strong line of his shoulder and let him press her up against the door in the periwinkle blue of the evening. Let him have her right here and right now.

And right – Nora reminds herself, drawing on her more logical side, shoving aside her hasn't-gotten-laid-in-several-months side – where anyone could come back and see them.

Gathering all of her willpower, Nora gently swats away the hand that's been absentmindedly fiddling with the button of her shorts and elbows him back. She grins at him over her shoulder. "Down, boy."

Grinning, Jake backs off.

Leaning against the railing – rusted and in some spots, flaking from endless exposure to ocean air and sun – Jake looks like a scolded schoolboy; one who’s doing his damndest to charm his way out of trouble, hands shoved deep in his denim pockets. Like, See? I'm keeping my hands to myself now. I'm on my best behavior.

For now, as promised by the liquid warmth in his eyes, volcanic pools of green.

She's sure Jake must be able to hear her heart practically pounding out of her chest, but finally, Nora catches the lock and nudges the door open with a lean of her shoulder.

She does a quick glance around the living room –  A camera sits on the coffee table, next to the day old coffee that Nora had been nursing late last night and definitely meant to pour out this morning. Notes are scattered across her laptop. – all but pushes him down the hall. 

Once in the bedroom, Nora switches on the AC.

Cool air spills into the room, which is uncomfortably warm from an afternoon's worth of sun beaming in from the window, with a quiet hum, and Nora feels a little less on edge.

It's not as quiet with the AC on, not as still.

Even so, Nora has the strangest urge to whisper.

She clears the cobwebs from her throat. "Give me a minute?"

Jake nods. "Sure."

He closes the door behind him with a click that seems to echo.

She swallows and is sure Jake must be able to hear that too. 

Everyone else is out for the night. No one'll come knocking. It's just them. Just them. 

“I’ll… I’ll just be a minute,” Nora repeats. You said that already. 

His lips twitch, but for once, Jake is merciful enough not to comment. 

“I’ll be here,” Jake replies evenly, calm and sure.

She ducks into the bathroom and closes the door.

Dropping one of her hands to the side of the sink, Nora blows out a long breath. Fans her blushing cheeks.

This is happening. This is really happening.

She's not nervous, not about this part, not really.

Everything at the Hard Deck was so vivid and intense and real. She was so open with him. So unguarded. Like Nora handed him her heart, still bloodied and beating, and an instruction manual on how to break it with his bare hands. He's already seen more of her than Nora's been willing to share with anyone in a long time now.

Well...

Anyone who isn’t a licensed professional, and even then, Nora ghosted her last therapist. Avoidant attachment? Please. 

And really, what is this kind of intimacy in comparison?

There's just an eerie sense of inevitability in... this, in them.

Like she is playing out something which has already happened, will always happen. Like she could've done everything differently and still, ended up right here. Right here with Jake.

It's not a bad feeling, more of a disconcerting one.

She washes her hands, and remembering Jake's compliments, does a quick reapplication of perfume, dabbing across her pulse points, crisp greens and soft florals.

Nora splashes cold water on her face, across the back of her neck, and checks her reflection.

Her eyes are bright and blue and filled with something like giddiness.

"This is happening," Nora whispers, hushed so Jake won't hear her in the other room. "This is happening."

She smiles.

And when Nora returns, Jake is sitting on the edge of the bed.

He must've kicked off his shoes somewhere in the living room because Jake is barefoot, ankle resting on the denim of his opposite knee. He is holding a book Nora recognizes from her nightstand, reading the back cover with a slight dip between his brows.

Nora pads over and leans against the dresser on the wall across from her bed. Her arms are crossed over her Springsteen shirt as Nora watches him, hand rising to press against her lips.

"Snooping?"

His mouth kicks up in the corners, dimpling his cheeks, but Jake doesn't immediately look up.

"Just lookin' around," Jake explains. "You can be kinda hard to read sometimes."

She glances around.

She hasn't had much time to decorate, but Nora always adds a few personal touches. A silk pillowcase. A bedside of well-worn paperbacks. A half-burned candle from Diptyque. Flowers. She wonders what Jake sees of her here.

Aiming for casual, Nora asks, "Oh? Learn anything?"

His gaze flashes up to meet hers, vaguely amused, like Jake knows Nora is fishing.

"Oh, wouldn't you like to know?"

Jake leans across the bed and deposits the book back on the nightstands, losing interest now that Nora is back in the room, apparently. She feels the weight of his full attention. It’s kind of exhilarating. 

His crossed ankle drops so Jake is resting both of his feet on the floor. He crooks a finger at her and pats his muscular thigh.

"C'mere, sweetheart."

His voice is so deep, deep enough to dive in, and Jake looks so handsome, sprawled on the edge of her bed, glimmering and gold. He looks like a daydream.

Still, Nora stands her ground.

A small smile blossoms across her features, against her fingers, and Nora slowly shakes her head.

He cocks a brow. "Are we at an impasse? Is this a good ol’ fashioned standoff?” 

“Not at all,” she drawls, cool and calm. "You could come over here."

And pulse racing, Nora slips her shirt over her head and drops it on the floor.

She stands in front of him in her cut-off shorts and her pale blue cowboy boots and a lace bra, which is almost the exact same shade, and Jake scrapes a hand down his face, expression open and raw, near pained.

“Fuck me,” Jake breathes. A kind of awe in his voice. “You’re gonna kill me, sweetheart.” 

Her lips curve coyly. "I sure hope not."

Jake smirks, watching her with half-lidded eyes, almost hoarse with unbridled desire. "Why? You got big plans for me?"

“Why don’t you come over here and find out, cowboy?”

And mimicking him, Nora crooks a polished finger at him. 

She really expects him to spar with her a little longer, but Jake rises so quickly that Nora knocks back into the dresser. Her elbow bangs into a bottle of hair spray, sending it spinning. She barely notices.

Because Jake grabs her around the waist and lifts her up. Her dresser is about the same height as one of her kitchen counters, which is the exact right height for him to set her on top and settle between her parted legs.

Jake cups her hip with a warm palm, spreading his fingers, touching as much bare skin as possible. His index finger skims across the band of her bra, and Nora leans her head back to hold his gaze.

"Gonna let me in on these plans of yours, sweetheart?" Jake asks, stroking all the while, ever so lightly, ever so slowly.

Teeth sinking into her bottom lip, Nora shakes her head. 

“You wanna hear my plans then?” Jake drawls. His hand is burning warm on her side, and Nora claws at his bicep – looking for something to hold onto, something grounding. Muscles flex beneath her fingers.

He waits for her to nod before Jake leans in and, warm lips pressed against her ear, rasps, "Just wanna make you come so hard you cry, Hollywood."

Fuck.

Fuck.

Her breath hitches, and Jake grins lazily against the side of her neck. He draws back, nipping her earlobe on his way, gaze darting back and forth as Nora licks her suddenly chapped lips.

"Just that, huh?" Nora asks. She hardly recognizes her own voice.

“Just that,” Jake murmurs and smirking, kisses her again.

A deep and deeply thorough kiss. 

Has Nora ever been kissed like this before? He kisses her with a consuming and devouring passion, like Jake could never be close enough. He'll always want to be closer, always want more.

She holds onto him because otherwise, Nora might actually collapse. She might slide from the dresser and melt into a puddle right here in the carpeted bedroom of her rented – and not even really, rented – apartment, and Mr. Clean himself will never be able to get out the stain.

Her arms wind around his strong neck as Nora sighs against his open mouth, greedily carding her fingers through his hair – which is as soft as she had ever dared imagine – and Jake swallows the sound with a ragged groan, tongue sliding across the seam of her lips and into her mouth.  

He catches the end of her braid between his fingers and slowly pulls until the elastic comes loose with a snap, and Nora's hair spills like sunshine over her shoulders, across his open palm.

Loose strands wind around his fingers, around the hand settling on the side of her neck and stroking across the underside of her jaw; coaxing her chin up, coaxing her mouth open for him. 

He is so broad between her legs, and Nora runs her hands across his wide back and strong shoulders, searching for golden skin to run her hands over. She wants to swallow him whole. She wants him in her veins. 

Linen is stiff between her fingers as Nora grasps at his collar, almost hanging off of him, desperate and wanting, and Jake catches on quick. 

Not quick enough. 

Because as Jake starts to draw back, reaching for the buttons, Nora yanks hard.

A surprised curse escapes him, and Jake lurches forward, hands slapping on the surface of the flimsy dresser, which rocks under her and knocks into the wall.

Nora grabs at his shoulder with an alarmed laugh, and Jake's chuckle fans across her collarbone.

"Hold on."

He picks her up again, legs wrapped around his hips, and sweeps her from the dresser. She collapses on the bed, breathless with laughter, an embarrassingly wide smile on her face, and Jake follows her down.

"Someone's eager," Jake teases.

She reaches down and runs her palm across his zipper, barely pressing down and smirks when Jake almost shudders and pushes into her hand.

"Yeah," Nora drawls back. "Someone is."

Jake brushes her hair aside and sucks a bruise into a hollow bellow her ear, right on the edge of where Nora'll be able to cover with her hair. A kind of gentle retaliation.

Her laugh becomes a breathless moan, pitching louder as Jake cups her neck with his wide palm.

"That's a pretty sound, darling," Jake rasps. His fingers pluck at the sheer band of her bra. "This is damn pretty too. You plan this or something?" He nudges her head back with his nose and mouths at the hinge of her jaw, mouth warm and wet and heady.

"Just like the color is all." Nora pauses. "But I have thought about this before."

He is all smugness. “Yeah? How much?” 

She rolls her eyes. “I’m so not stroking your ego right now. Take your damn shirt off.” 

He grins.

She pushes up on her elbows, watching as Jake stands and makes quick work of the buttons. He shrugs the shirt from his shoulders, which lands in a wrinkle pile on the floor.

And goddamn, Jake looks good without a shirt on. 

She knew this, of course. She’s seen him without a shirt on before.

She's always been careful to avert her eyes before, careful not to look too hard or for too long. 

She doesn’t have to be careful here. She can look her fill.

He is so… big, all corded muscle and golden skin and a light dusting of fine hair, leading down his chest and disappearing beneath the black waistband of his boxers, which peek out from the denim. 

She’s not sure if she wants to punch him or herself. 

Nora leans in and presses a lingering kiss to the center of his chest, looking up at him from under her lashes, and Jake shivers, heart pounding under her lips. 

And Nora carefully winds her fingers around the chain around his neck and pulls him back down.

As Jake hovers over her, Nora starts to kick her boots off, but Jake's hand wraps around her calf, smoothing over her skin with his fingers, pleasantly digging into the muscle.

She raises her eyebrows, and Jake presses a kiss to the hollow of her clavicle, unhurried and careful and convincing. He hums, “Keep ‘em on.” 

Her mouth drops open, but really, is Nora so surprised? “I’m not keeping them on.” 

And Jake looks so crestfallen that Nora laughs. His eyes warm at the sound.

Still, Jake asks, “Why not?” 

“Because I don’t want them on my sheets. I have to sleep on – Jake!” 

Jake pulls her to the edge of the mattress in one smooth motion, hitching her legs around his hips. His grin is downright devilish. “They’re not touching the sheets, Hollywood. Problem solved.” 

She opens her mouth to argue more, but Jake silences her with a slow and sensual kiss between her breasts. He moves over a few inches and sucks, peaking her nipple through the sheer lace of her bra, and Nora arches into him with a gasp.

Her boots are long forgotten now.

"Jesus, Jake."

She squirms under him, and Jake holds her down with his weight, with a firm press of his hand, spread wide over her shaking stomach.

She's long past a struck match now. She's the one who's been doused in gasoline.

"You're so beautiful," Jake murmurs.

He licks at the lace, a shade of denim blue under his attention, in no rush to slip it from her shoulders, and meanwhile, Nora is coming out of her skin. She needs more, so much more.

"Can you..."

He sucks on the lace, cheeks hollowing, and Nora's question blows away like sand.

"Can I? Can I what?" Jake prompts.

He slips a hand under the cup of her bra and rolls her pebbled nipple between his fingers. Tease. She bends into him, a desperate sound bubbling up and spilling from her lips, and Jake grins.

“Ah, sweetheart, was there something else you wanted?” 

She goes to pull him closer, winding her fingers through his hair, but Jake doesn't budge.

His grin widens. "Ask me nicely, sweetheart. What do you want?” 

She glares at him. "I want your mouth."

"You've already got my mouth, darling. Here?"

He slides her bra aside and kisses her breast, licking and sucking, mouth hot and wet on her skin.

She shakes her head.

"Be specific," Jake commands. "Where do you want my mouth?"

But Nora can’t be specific. She just wants. 

“Everywhere,” Nora breathes.

She shouldn’t have said that. She really shouldn’t have said that because now, Jake is looking at her like he wants to devour her; to pull her on like a loose thread and see how long she needs to unravel.

Like Nora is a four course meal and Jake hasn’t eaten in a week. 

A muscular thigh slots in between her legs and presses up and up and god, up against the aching spot between her legs, and Nora shivers beneath him. He flicks open the button of her cut-offs with a practiced ease and slides them down her legs. She kicks them off.

Another wrinkled mess to clean up in the morning.

“Think I might want to make you beg a little bit,” Jake muses, scraping his calloused palms over the backs of her naked thighs. He leans down and presses a chaste, barely there kiss on her hipbone, lips curling when Nora shudders underneath him. Asshole. “Say please for me, would you, sweetheart?” 

“Oh, not a chance.” 

He looks delighted.

“And what if I said please?”

His lips drag across her skin, warm and damp and purposeful, as Jake brushes the lace edge of her pale blue panties on his way over the opposite hip, pressing another kiss there, one that lingers.

“What if I said I really, really wanna to hear you?” 

Damn damn damn.

Cheeks warm, Nora counters, “You better make it good then,” with a daring smile that makes Jake grin from ear to ear, all gleaming white teeth and dimples, carved into his cheeks like marble.

“Yes, ma’am,” Jake drawls.

And holding her gaze, Jake rises from the edge of the mattress and sinks down on his knees. He lowers her legs over his broad shoulders, boots and all.

His lips brush over the small bandage that covers the scrape on her knee, and overcome, Nora lets out a shaky sigh.

"So goddamn beautiful," Jake swears, warm breath scraping over the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. "So wet, darling. All for me?"

Jake finds the damp spot in the center of her panties and presses in with his knuckle. She's so wet his bent finger slides across the lace with an obscene sound.

A delicious tease. A mere preview.

A needy sound is out of her mouth before Nora can stop herself, and Jake pauses.

"Oh? Did you want something?" Jake asks with an edge of mocking.

"You're such... ah, an asshole."

"You like when I'm a little bit of an asshole," Jake murmurs, eyes gleaming.

It’s not a question. He doesn’t need an answer. He already knows.

And Jake pulls her panties to the side and opens his mouth against her wet cunt.

God. His tongue.

A sort of whimper catches on the rough edges of her throat, and Jake's answering chuckle blows across her exposed core.

“Everything okay?” 

So goddamn smug. 

He sounds so damn pleased with himself. Self-satisfaction oozes from his tone, and Nora is starting to understand what Jake meant about being smug later. He’s good at this, at all of this, like so infuriatingly good. She kind of hates him. 

“I don’t like you anymore.” 

“Liar,” Jake says and leans back in. 

He licks her open with a moan, a deep and deeply satisfied sound, rich and rough, like Jake is the one who's getting the most pleasure out of this. He works her open with a finger, then another, laving over her with broad and eager strokes of his tongue.

He's almost greedy in his licks, bringing her to the edge and right when Nora is clenching around his broad fingers, legs quaking on his shoulders, boots digging into his bare back – Jake pulls back.

He smears a wet kiss across her inner thigh and starts all over again, parting her with his fingers and spearing her open with his clever tongue.

She sucks in a breath that sounds like his name, desperate and wanting, biting down hard on her lower lip, brow drawn.

"Jake..."

"Come on, sweetheart," Jake hums the words against her, practically licks them into her. "I wanna hear you. Please, can I hear you?"

She's so close so close so – 

He eases back again, right as Nora is starting to feel fuzzy all over, and Nora almost cries. She grabs at his shoulder, at his hair.

"Please," Nora gasps. "Please, Jake, please."

He exhales a pleased sound against her cunt, breathing fanning across her, making her shiver and making her cant closer to his mouth, desperate for his tongue again.

He curls his fingers inside of her. Just so. Just enough.

"So good for me, darling, sweetheart. So perfect."

And Jake kisses her clit, winding his tongue around the neglected bundle of nerves, and Nora comes with a gasp, crumpling the sheets between her fingers.

She catches her breath as Jake licks her clean, murmuring sweet praises against her skin, bottom half of his face glistening with saliva and her.

Just so sweet and god, like heaven, sweetheart and so good for me again.

Pushing up on her elbows, Nora is panting. "I wanna be on top."

Jake kind of chokes on a laugh. “‘Course you do.” 

Her panties are eased down her legs, but Jake doesn't move from between them; if anything, Jake spreads them wider, pinning her open with his shoulders, pinning her down with a steadying hand on her pelvic bone.

"Jake..."

It’s closer to a whine than Nora would’ve liked. 

"Just a second, sweetheart," Jake soothes, words an unhurried drawl. His rough palms run over her quivering legs and back again. "Now I've been thinking about these pretty legs in those goddamn boots all night. I'm not quite done down here. Need one more from you."

His warm breath ghosts across the apex of her thighs, open and dripping for him. "You've got one more for me, don't'cha?

He regards her with a wide and leonine grin, a knowing grin.

"Yes," Nora whispers.

Jake rewards her with a bruise sucked into the inside of her thigh; a gentle but firm press of his canines; a flick of his tongue over the sore patch. "Good."

And as Jake spreads her open and presses in with his mouth and his tongue, savoring her like a lavish dessert, Nora slumps back on the rumpled sheets, hair fanning out around her like a golden halo. Her mouth opens in a soft gasp as Jake drags her back under. 

Late evening still pours through the window, casting the whole room in a golden glow, a dreamlike haze.

Everything feels more intimate somehow.

It's not a rushed press of hands and mouths in the darkness, desperate to keep quiet in the quiet of the night. It's a slow exploration – or at least, as slow as either of them can stand. It’s feverish and leisurely and intoxicating. No one’s in a rush. 

As Nora steadies her breathing, recovering from a brain-melting-out-of-her-ears orgasm, Jake eases her boots and her socks from her feet. He kisses her ankle, kisses the hollow behind her knee, cheek scraping against her skin.

Standing, Jake reaches for his belt buckle. His mouth shines in the waning light, eyes slanted and warm. He loosens his buckle one-handed and in one smooth motion, drops his blue jeans, leaving him in his black boxers.

He stands in front of her, straining against the fabric, and Nora’s mouth actually waters.

She kneels on the edge of the mattress and eases the elastic down until Jake’s cock is revealed, hard and proud and beautiful. Her lips part in an admiring exhale, and Jake chuckles, stroking her cheek with the side of his thumb. 

His amusement is short-lived.

It becomes something darker, richer as Nora wets her fingers with her tongue and wraps them around his cock and strokes him once and again. A bead of pre-cum catches on her thumb as Nora runs it across the slick head of his cock.

Looking up at him, Nora sucks it from her finger, and Jake’s chest heaves with a ragged exhale.

A strained curse escapes him. “Shit.” 

Nora smirks, and Jake sucks in a deep breath.

She doesn’t do more than press a glancing kiss to the mole below his v-line; do more than lick at the underside of his cock; do more than let out a satisfied exhale at the weight of him on her tongue, eyes fluttering closed, before Nora pulls back.

Her voice lowers into something honeyed, something teasing. “Say please for me, cowboy?” 

Then, Nora is on her back in the middle of the mattress. 

Jake looms over her, breathing hard, chest heaving and flushed; coarse hair brushing against her breasts.

"As much as I've been fantasizing about your mouth..." He runs his thumb across her glistening lips, and Nora can’t stop herself from kissing the pad of his finger. “... I really want to fuck you right now. How’s that sound to you?” 

Good. So good.

But Nora can’t pass up an opportunity to be a little smug.

“What’s wrong?” Nora asks. "Afraid of embarrassing yourself?"

"Yes," Jake says. "I'm so fucking worked up right now I'll come in about six seconds with your mouth on me. And right now, I don't wanna come before I've had a chance to feel you coming around my cock."

His earnestness is so goddamn sexy that Nora loses her breath for a second. "We can probably make that work."

He smirks. “Thought so.” 

Jake stretches out on the mattress, rearranging the pillows with one hand and reaching for her with the other. He draws her in until Nora is in his lap, her hands braced on his massive shoulders, running over his muscles. 

“Condom?” Jake asks. He runs a hand over the length of her spine until Nora arches into him with a sigh. He palms at her ass and ducks his head to mouth at her breasts, sucking and licking and nibbling. She'll have marks in the morning for sure. He's a biter.

"I have an IUD. And I'm clean."

"I'm clean," Jake mumbles against her collarbone. "I haven't been with anyone since I met you."

She freezes, and mistaking it for discomfort, Jake lifts his head.

"We can still use one," Jake offers. She can read his sincerity in his eyes. "I've probably got one in my wallet or something."

“It’s… not that.” Nora shakes her head. “It’s… No one? Really?” 

As Jake shrugs, Nora’s arms rise and fall with the motion.

“No one.” Jake brushes a strand of hair from her face, resting his palm on her nape. “Just you.” 

Chest pinching, Nora grasps his neck and kisses him hard, almost bruising.

He makes a low sound against her mouth, and as Nora wraps her hand around his cock again, squeezing his length ever so slightly, Jake moans. He wraps his hand around hers, guiding her to run his head across her dripping entrance.

Jake slicks his cock with her arousal, coating himself in her wetness with hard and quick motions, and starts to press in.  

Her legs shake as Nora sinks down on him, slow. God

She bites her lip at the delicious searing stretch of him. God.

Nora gets halfway down, mouth falling open, and and Jake swears under his breath. A reverent sound. He says it like a Sunday school prayer.

"Goddamn, sweetheart." Jake kisses her sloping shoulder, her slack jaw, her open mouth. "You feel so good. You're so.... You're so fucking perfect. Jesus Christ."

She braces her hands on his shoulders, on his bulging arms, and eases down – slow, one inch at a time, and when Jake is finally – blessedly – seated inside of her, Nora can feel a prickle of sweat at her brow. 

She moves, almost like a reflex, desperate for friction, desperate for more, but Nora's barely moved when Jake seizes her hips, pressing in, and holds her in place. She's pinned open, knees spread wide, denting the sheets on either side of his massive and muscular thighs, and full, so goddamn full.

Her brow pinches in frustration, and Nora rocks down experimentally, but Jake firms his grip. He stills her movements.

Her brow wrinkles, and Nora rocks down experimentally, but Jake firms his grip and stills her movements.

"Jake," Nora complains or maybe, pleads. She doesn't even know anymore.

All Nora knows is that Jake is so big. 

"Ah, darling. Let me savor this for a second," Jake croons, brushing her hair back from her damp forehead. His voice sounds strained around the edges, which is no small satisfaction. He's as affected as Nora.

And when Jake moves, finally, Jake starts slow. He savors again.

He holds her hips and guides her up and back down. He pushes in so deep and so slow Nora can't help but feel like Jake is punishing her somehow. He is making her feel every inch of him. His pace is downright excruciating.

She needs more. She needs needs needs.

He handed her an ace earlier, and Nora reaches for it now. 

She licks at his neck, a broad stroke of her tongue across his sweaty skin, and whispers, “Please, Jake,” hot against the shell of his ear. She nibbles at his earlobe. "Please."

Jake bucks up into her. A gasp punches from her chest, and Nora digs her nails into his shoulders.

 “Please what?”

Nora can hear the smirk in his voice. She doesn’t care. 

“Fuck me. Fuck me until I cry. Please."

It’s like Jake was waiting for those words. 

He fucks up into her at a near brutal pace. Rocks her down on him in hard and delicious and delirious strokes until Nora is gasping against his shoulder.

And Jake runs his mouth.

"Look at you, sweetheart," Jake drawls. He sounds so in awe and so unbearably smug. How is it even possible to be both? "Those're some pretty sounds you're making for me right now. How's it feel? How's that cock you begged for feel?"

Fuck. She clenches around him. 

A wide grin stretches across his face, and Nora wants to kill him. She never wants to be anywhere other than right here. 

“You’re… ah, talking too much. You’re ruining it.” 

She’s such a liar. 

"S'that right? You don't wanna hear about..." Jake rolls his hips and hits a spot deep inside of her that makes her keen. His smirk widens. “How much I fucking love the way you feel around my cock, so goddamn good?"

"How pretty you looked when you were coming all over my face, making the prettiest sounds? How wet you got for me? How gorgeous you look right now?" He seems to notch in deeper with every word until Nora is almost boneless against him. "You sure about that, sweetheart?"

She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t feel capable of answering.

His lips glance over her cheekbone, smoothing and mocking in equal measures, and mouth over to her ear. Jake rasps, "Well, by all means, sweetheart, shut me up."

Nora draws in a steadying breath. And pushes him back into the pillows.

“There’s my girl,” Jake murmurs in his melted brown sugar voice, hoarse with desire, and Nora damn near melts. 

Instead, Nora plants her hands on his chest and rides him, determined.

She rises up and sinks back down in a sudden motion, knocking the breath out of both of them. She rocks down on him, clenching and squeezing, until Jake is the one who is ragged and uneven and desperate. He grows sloppier, kissing her shoulder, open-mouthed and moaning. 

“God, Nora,” Jake groans, a rough sound, and Nora will never forget the wrecked sound of her name on his lips. No one else should ever say her name.

She kisses him.

And kisses him and kisses him and gasps and moans into his mouth as Jake holds her hips hard enough to bruise and circles her clit with precise and delicious circles. A shock of arousal pulls in the pit of her stomach with every deliberate caress. 

“Come for me. Come around my cock. Need to feel you come around my cock,” Jake urges in a strangled rush of breath. He must be close. “Please.” 

Nora comes with a soundless moan. She sobs his name into his shoulder, biting down, moisture spilling down her flushed cheeks, scratching down his back.

And soon after, Jake has her on her back on the bed, pinning her knees open and plunging in deep until Jake follows her over the edge and spills inside of her with one last groan.

After, Jake pulls on his boxers and gets them both a glass of water and fetches her a damp washcloth. She pushes it aside with a languid smile and drags herself out of bed to use the bathroom. She doesn’t want an infection. 

Indigo shadows grow long in the room, bruises of the night, as Nora lies across the bed, arms crossed underneath her head, chest resting on her forearm, watching him. He drags his fingers down the length of her spine, drawing invisible patterns. She feels content and warm.

And Jake is gazing at her in this intense way, eyes deep and green and smoldering.

He is gazing at her like gaze is a diminutive of stargaze, not another word for look; like she is a whole night sky, unraveled and wide and open before him, and Jake's determined to map out every last constellation, commit them to memory.

She wonders if he has always looked at her kind of like this; like he's afraid to look away.

“Go on a date with me,” Jake murmurs.

She blinks, lashes skimming her cheeks. Her voice is a kind of drowsy hoarse. “Hm. Where?” 

A small smile pulls at his mouth. “Let’s see. You already turned me down for what? Dinner and coffee? What else’ve I got left?” 

She grins against her arm. “Breakfast. Lunch.” 

“Breakfast,” Jake repeats. “I make a mean pancake.” 

“Do you?” 

“I do,” Jake promises, solemn, a hand-over-heart level of seriousness. “Family recipe.” 

“I don’t even think I have the ingredients for pancakes in the kitchen,” Nora admits.

He coasts his knuckles across her back, over her shoulder and back, and Nora closes her eyes, relaxed.

“I know a good diner,” Jake offers, voice low and rasping. “They’ve got coffee.” She opens her mouth. “And non-dairy milk.” She closes it again, pressing her lips together in a half smile and squinting her eyes open.

“And is this magical diner your apartment?” 

He laughs. A real eye-crinkling laugh.

“No, smart ass, it's a real diner on Orange."

"Shame. I kind of wanted to see your apartment," Nora says, rolling over and stretching her arms above her head. "You've seen mine. It's only fair."

"Careful..." Jake warns. He closes the distance between them, wrapping an arm around her side, pulling her close. "If I get you in my bed, I might wanna try and keep you there."

"Well...." Nora winds her leg around his hip to pull him closer. He grows harder against her leg, already leaking. "You can definitely try."

Her lips curve, and Jake grins.

And as Jake rolls her under him, hands skimming up her sides, and pushes inside of her again, Nora catches a glimpse in the distance over his shoulder. A firework sailing upwards and bursting open in a shower of sparks, wide and beautiful, across indigo skies. 

end note: wowwowwow it's been a good 33,000 words of build up so i really hope i did them justice 🤍 likes are always appreciated, but comments and reblogs make my whole day. i love hearing from y'all.

want to be tagged in the next chapter? fill out this form!

#will probably need to proofread again in the morning #but i wanted to post her asap #also only one more chapter ?!?! #stop i'm emotional #jake seresin fic #jake seresin x oc #jake seresin x nora rogers #hangman x oc #hangman fic #hangman smut #jake seresin smut

[kckt88]

A Time for Grief.

Summary:

In the aftermath of Blood & Cheese, Vaera and Aemond struggle to cope with the loss of their son Aemon.

Warning(s): Grief, Mourning, Child loss, Suicide attempt, Desperation.

Word Count: 1140.

Author Note: A companion piece to Harrenhal and the Rivers but can be read as a one-shot.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon or Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated.

Ever since the funeral, Vaera had felt like she was stuck in an endless loop of grief, replaying Aemon’s death over and over again in her mind.

The way he stood in front of her and Rhaegar, so brave and fierce just like his father.

His struggles against the vile fiends who seized him, the way he thrashed, screamed, and kicked at his captors.

The way his innocent amethyst eyes widened in alarm as the blade slashed at his throat.

Vaera couldn’t stop seeing his little hand grasping out for hers as his blood poured onto the stone floor.

Even Rhaegar’s voice screaming for his father to come and save them will stay with her forever.

Every night she would pray that it was just a nightmare and when she woke, she would see her sweet boy again. But it was real. All of it. She didn’t know how much longer she stand the pain.

Then one day, in her grieving haze. She wordlessly rose from the chair in her chambers, left Rhaegar with the nanny and walked the length of the corridor, ignoring the looks of the concerned guards and maids as she walked past.

Where she was going, she didn’t know. What she was doing, she didn’t know. But she walked nonetheless, her bare feet slapping against the cold stone floor of the Red Keep.

Then she was there, the room where Aemon had died. It had been shut up and abandoned since, but Vaera pushed open the door and took a step inside.

The blood stains had been cleaned but Vaera could still see them. Running like rivers in every direction.

It was there, that pain in her chest. It wouldn’t go away. She just wanted to see her sweet boy again, to hear his voice.

Then like a smiling seductress, the tendrils of salvation reached out towards her.

The open window. Beckoning to her. For weeks she had been lost in a sea of darkness, but here was the light.

This was how she would see him again. Her sweet boy, her little dragon.

Vaera opened the window as wide as it would go and clambered up onto the windowsill.

Ignoring the panicked shouts of Ser Arryk who had found her chambers empty and chased after her.

“Get Prince Aemond. Quick”.

The sun was shining, the birds were singing. Vaera closed her eyes as the wind caressed her face.

Just as she was about to step forward, Vaera heard Cannibal roaring in the distance.

Almost as if he was begging her not to do it, she could feel his sadness and despair.

“I-I have to” whispered Vaera.

The squire raced through the Red Keep, towards the council chambers. Praying that he made in time.

Not even bothering to knock he burst through the wooden doors.

“P-Prince Aemond. Come quick”

“There is a council meeting in session you-“ raged Otto.

“-It’s Princess Vaera. S-She’s going to jump” shouted the young squire as he whirled around and raced out of the council chambers.

“WHAT” shrieked Aemond as he took off running after the squire, ignoring the frantic calls of his mother and brother.

Aemond’s heart was pounding in his chest as he chased after the squire.

Not to their chambers, but to the room where Aemon and Jaehaerys had been killed.

Ser Arryk was hovering near the door softly calling Vaera’s name, seemingly terrified to take another step inside the room.

When he came to a stop at the door, he understood Ser Arryk’s hesitation. 

Vaera was standing at the open window, her hands gripping the frame as she teetered on the edge.

“Issa jorrāelagon” whispered Aemond (My love).

“Nyke jaelagon naejot ūndegon zirȳla aril” replied Vaera (I want to see him again).

“Nyke gīmigon ao gaomagon, yn daor raqagon bisa” (I know you do, but not like this).

Vaera shook her head and closed her eyes.

“Kostilus issa jorrāelagon” begged Aemond (Please, my love).

“We’re never going to hear the sound of his laugh or see his face again” cried Vaera.

“W-We will. In our hearts”

“He made us so happy. Him and Rhaegar” said Vaera.

“We will talk about him, every single day and we’ll laugh, and we will cry. Vaera, no one will remember Aemon like we do”.

“H-How do I stop this pain? How do I make it go away?” wailed Vaera as she staggered on the edge of the windowsill.

“We deal with it together” said Aemond is voice wobbling.

“I-I just want him back. I want him in my arms” wailed Vaera.

“I know you do. But please Vaera, don’t do this. Think about Rhaegar, he still needs his mother” cried Aemond as he motioned for the Kings guard to stay where they were.

He didn’t want to spook Vaera, she was so close to the edge. One wrong move and she’d either slip or impulsively jump.

The Cannibal and Vhagar could be heard roaring ferociously in the distance.

“I don’t know how to live without Aemon”.

“Please, my love. Do not let me also suffer the agony of losing my wife” begged Aemond.

“A-Aemond I-I can’t-“

“You are the love of my life, my reason for existence. If you die. I die. I cannot live without you. Please come away from the ledge. Please don’t-“ said Aemond as he extended his hand and slowly walked forward.

“I don’t want to forget him” sobbed Vaera quietly as her body shook.

“We won’t. I promise” said Aemond seizing his chance as he quickly lurched forward, secured his arms around Vaera’s waist, and yanked her back from the window.

“How is she?” asked Aegon as he hovered near the door to Aemond and Vaera’s chambers.

“Sleeping, the maester gave her something” replied Aemond sadly as he stared at his wife’s sleeping form, her hands clutching one of Aemon’s old blankets.

“I-I’ve never seen her like that” whispered Aegon.

“I don’t know what to do brother. I-I-“ gasped Aemond, his breath catching in his throat.

Suddenly Aegon wrapped his arms around his brother and held him tight.

Aemond struggled against his brother for a moment before he broke down.

“I-I can’t s-stop-” exclaimed Aemond his face pressed against Aegon’s shoulder.

“-You don’t have to. Just let it out” urged Aegon.

Moments passed as the brothers embraced one another. Ignoring the members of the Kings guard who were hovering nearby.

“H-Helaena?” asked Aemond as he wiped his nose on his sleeve.

“Mother is always with her and the children” said Aegon softly.

“What about you?”.

“I can’t think about it. If I do I end up drinking to forget. I need to have a clear head right now. This cannot go unpunished. They took our sons. They will pay” said Aegon firmly.

“Fire and Blood” replied Aemond.

“Fire and Blood” repeated Aegon nodding.

#house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #hotd fanfic #hotd aemond #aemond fic #aemond fanfiction #aemond x oc #aemond x original female character

[strangemagicc]

Can You Keep a Secret? | Part Four

masterlist | <prev | next>

pairings: brother’s best friend!Steve x fem!Reader, set in modern times (will be going back and forth from past to present), both reader and Steve are 20 in flashbacks and 22 in the present

author’s note: it's about to get angsty ❤️ yes yes, reader has a complicated relationship with her parents (who doesn’t) but despite their antiquated values or dated world perception she does still have a strong love and bond with each of them (when I say dated or antiquated I mean that both her parents believe in maintaining a perfect and well curated image a la stepford wives lol)

w/c: 3.6k

warnings: smutty smut smut, oral (reader and Steve receiving), masturbation (reader), fingering, swallowing, mentions of parental death, grief (wow all that in the same sentence? 🫠 yikes)

This is an 18+ blog, MINORS DNI

You hadn’t been home in years, not since summer two years ago. A lump formed in your throat, nerves rising as you drove down the familiar street and approached your childhood home. Bracing for the memories it would conjure up. For the lump to turn into tears. You wished this visit were a good one, wished you were here for any reason but a funeral. Your dad’s funeral. It happened two days ago, a ski trip turned tragedy. You could hear your mother’s sobs over the phone, an endless loop that played even when you slept and you wished to God that you had made it home more often, that you hadn’t stayed away because of him. That the last conversation you had with your dad hadn’t been over the phone, a five-minute conversation that ended abruptly with a hasty goodbye and a quick see you later. Except you never would. You pulled into the driveway and placed the car in park, the engine running idle as you examined your shaking hands in your lap. Your brother’s car was already here and you could picture the two of them grieving on the couch, arms clutched around each other and you weren’t ready. You took calming breaths, deep and ragged before you turned the car off. Keys jingled as you got out of the car and grabbed your bags from the backseat. A maroon BMW caught your attention from the periphery, memories flooding and creating a new knot in your gut. You slammed your car door, heeled boots tapping hastily against the pavement as you walked towards the front door. Head bowed slightly as you pushed the wood and stepped inside. The house was warm, manufactured heat thrumming through the vents. The scent of cinnamon and cedar greeted your nose from lit candles.

“Hello?” You called into the home but you were met with silence. The distant sounds of paws against hardwood grew louder as your mother’s dachshund approached. Stubby legs and floppy ears rounding the corner and you bent to greet her.

“Hi, Daisy,” she flipped onto her back, stomach pointed in the air in a silent command and you obliged. Hands massaging soft tummy and her tail wagged happily.

“Have you seen our mama?” You asked and glanced around again. Looking towards the kitchen you saw aluminum pans lining the kitchen island, a reminder of why you were here. You patted Daisy lightly and stood, walking further into your home. Pictures lined the sage walls, smiling faces and happier times. Your dad, young and cradling you, next to it he is older with his arm wrapped around your shoulder. Your high school graduation, puffy eyes, and a proud smile. What you would give to turn back time, relive that moment, and stay in it a while longer. Chatter cut through your reverie, muffled voices coming from the other side of the thick sliding glass door. Your brother’s familiar rasp moved your feet forward before you could think to wonder who he was speaking with. You slid the door open, eyes trained on Derek’s silhouette, the recognition and sorrow in his eyes as he took you in. The tears came easy now, flowing evenly as you sought comfort in his arms. The two of you grieved despite the audience, silent sobs wracking your body as he held you a moment longer. You broke away from him, wiping at your eyes with the sleeves of your cardigan.

“Good to see you, baby sis,” he greeted with a sad lift of his lips. You couldn’t find the words, not yet and you nodded. It was good to see him, to be with someone who understood the depth of your grief.

“Where’s mom?” You asked and noticed movement from the corner of your eye. You glanced absently at the shuffle, eyes widening only a fraction as you realized who was privy to your display. Steve.

“Hey Punky,” he said softly. Doleful. You glanced at him briefly avoiding his direct gaze, nodding your head a small fraction in acknowledgment. If it was awkward your brother didn’t notice.

“She’s taking a nap, finally got her to sleep,” his head tipped towards her room, the window that overlooked the backyard with its shades drawn tight. Your lips formed a thin line as you thought of the pain she was experiencing, you lost your dad but she lost her husband. The only partner she’d known since she was sixteen. And the thought brought fresh tears.

“I’ll, um, be in my room,” you stammered and pointed absently toward the house. You could feel Steve’s eyes on you, almost willing you to look at him. To say something, anything, to fill the radio silence that existed between the two of you since the last summer you were last home. But you didn’t give him the satisfaction, instead turning back toward the house and wandering through the threshold. The silence felt suffocating, the absence of your father reverberating through you. Reminders of him scattered from his empty recliner to his favorite mug. Still in the dish strainer like any day before. You grabbed your bag from the entryway and took the stairs two at a time, carpet plush under your socked feet. Doing your best to stay quiet. You grimaced as your bedroom door creaked open, and it was like stepping into a time capsule. The walls were faded lilac, posters and stickers stuck to the wall peeling in various corners. Photobooth pictures pinned to the plaster, memories scattered and filling every square inch. The light of the setting sun filtered through the sheer lace curtains that hung against your window. The tangerine glow illuminated the space. Quietly you closed the door behind you and sank into your mattress. Plush foam caressed your spine as you stared at the ceiling, thoughts of yesterday circulating your hippocampus until your eyes grew heavy and sleep overtook you.

He tells me he’s gentle when he wants to be

So I think he wants to be gentle with me

You hummed to yourself as you got ready for bed, the room illuminated in the faint glow of your dimmed table light. It was only last night that Steve was between your legs, your name on his breath until he was spent and spilling into you. All day you tried to steer your thoughts away from the memory of his lips, the way he stretched you, and watched as you came undone. Hooded eyes and a saccharine smile. Small kisses pressed into your temple when he dropped you home. A sweet goodbye as you watched him pull into his driveway, waving discreetly from your spot across the street until he disappeared through his front door. A secret that tethered the two of you together. 

You thought of him now behind the protection of your locked door. Yearned for his kisses and the weight of his deft hands as they explored your flesh. You massaged moisturizer into your skin, smiling at the love bites along your shoulder and thought of his lips. Plush, perfect and it made you needy. Hungry. A familiar ache grew between your thighs and you clenched them together as you finished your nightly routine. You climbed into bed tucking yourself into your sheets, comforter at the edge of your bed. Useless with the summer heat. The ache hadn’t disappeared, thoughts lingering on Steve’s tongue, the curl of his fingers, and the way his scruff felt along your inner thigh. You traced a line to the tops of your shorts and played with the waistband before tucking your hand underneath. Fingers skimming over your mound and towards the slick that had collected between your legs. You rubbed your middle finger in a line along your folds, a low moan escaping your lips as you circled your clit. Memories of the way Steve’s thumb felt. You closed your eyes and toyed with yourself, finger prodding your entrance until you were knuckle deep in your cunt curling into your spongy center. Mind reeling with thoughts of the way Steve pounded into you, stretched you until the air was filled with the sound of your squelching pussy. You picked up the pace of your finger and added another, other hand busy rubbing mean circles into your clit as you worked yourself close to the edge. Steve’s name spilled from your lips in needy moans. You chased the feeling deep in your center, the building of your orgasm like a rubber band about to snap. You bit your bottom lip as you got closer, fingers making lewd noises against your wet cunt. But you didn’t finish, interrupted by a light rap against your window that startled you out of your sheets. Eyes wide and trained on your bedroom window, curtains obscuring who was visiting you so late at night. You tiptoed to the glass, apprehensively pushing the lace back only to be met with Steve’s cocky grin and raised eyebrows.

“Let me in,” his voice was muffled and you rolled your eyes sliding the window up.

“Why are you climbing through my window?” You asked in a hushed whisper.

“So I could see you,” he stated it as though it were obvious. He pushed his legs through the opening, awkwardly folding himself until he was standing in front of you. Proud and a little smug.

“You could’ve just used the front door,” you argued, hand absently pointed towards your own. Breath caught in your throat and you wondered if he saw you through the thin fabric of your curtains.

“Yeah but then your brother would know I was here and I wouldn’t get to do this,” he bent down to kiss you. Warm lips pressed against yours, big hands sliding under your camisole. He tasted like spearmint, and beer and you savored the feel of his tongue, wet and flat against yours as he explored your mouth. Your hands wrapped instinctively around his neck, fingers tugging at the hair at the nape of his neck. He pulled away abruptly, nose rubbing against yours. Heat radiating from his palms into your bare skin.

“What were you doing?” And from the glint in his eyes, you knew that he knew. That he’d seen you from his spot on the trellis outside your window.

“Just getting ready for bed,” you shrugged.

“Oh, trying to sleep?” He asked lips pursed and eyebrows raised as he questioned you.

“Yeah, I mean what else?” You met his gaze now, and saw the small tug of his lips as he chuckled at you.

“I saw you pretty girl,” he mused, voice just above a whisper as he leaned toward you. Warm breath fanning your ear. You shivered at his words, heart racing as you thought of him watching you close to coming undone.

“Oh?” You decided to keep up your charade, to hear the dirty words come from his pretty mouth. Lips puffy from your kiss.

“Mhm,” he laughed and walked you toward the edge of your bed. “Saw the way you worked your pretty pussy,” he traced a finger from your navel to the hem of your shorts, finger teasing the top of them.

“Did you finish?” He asked, his voice lower.

“No, someone interrupted me,” you pouted. Lip dramatically jutted out as you looked into his darkened gaze. He tsked at your words, head shaking and he held your gaze.

“I should make that up to you,” and you nodded with him, mattress hitting your knees until your ass bounced against it. Steve hovered over you, knee between your legs, as he balanced on his palms. Dark eyes measuring yours.

“Will you let me take care of you, honey?” You swallowed hard, nodding as his words registered. His lips were on you, a kiss laced with urgency as his tongue dipped past their seam and his fingers inched into the top of your shorts.

“No panties?” He breathed against your lips and you shook your head, a small whimper escaping as he traced a line down your folds. You shuddered against the contact, hips bucking as he teased your entrance.

“You’re so wet baby,” and your heart thudded at the new nickname, heat rising until the effect of his words was evident on your cheeks. The glint in your eyes.

“What were you thinking about, pretty girl?” He asked, nose a whisper against yours and he continued to tease your cunt. Finger inching at your entrance and out again.

“A-about you,” you stammered.

“What about me?” He spread your legs wider with his own, stretching you with his thick finger no longer teasing. Groaning at the way your wet center felt wrapped against his middle finger. You bit into your lip, swallowing a moan and rolling your eyes at the stretch of his digit. He withdrew suddenly and you whimpered.

“I’m waiting,” he breathed, rubbing your sensitive bud.

“I was thinking of how good you feel, how you stretched me with your cock,” he nipped at your bottom lip with your confident confession. The evidence of his arousal pressed against your thigh and straining against the fabric of his jeans.

“Is that what you want, baby?” He peered down at you, hand removed from your shorts and placed on either side of your head.

“Please, Stevie,” you begged against his pout. He pushed your shorts off discarding them beside your bed as he kissed you. Slow and deep as he guided you further up the mattress. He pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, lips hastily creating a line down your chest over pebbled nipples and your exposed abdomen. You felt the warmth of his mouth against your mound as he situated himself between your thighs. He swiped his tongue over your heat, a low groan vibrating against your clit and you squirmed at the sensation.

“I’ve been thinking about this pretty pussy,” he whispered, finger pushing past your entrance.

“How sweet you taste,” he withdrew his finger, spreading your lips so he could tongue your cunt. Lapping at your arousal as he circled your clit with his thumb. Steve’s tongue created lewd sounds as it jutted in and out of your sopping entrance. You jerked against the movement, fingers threading in his hair instinctively as pleasure rippled through you and you began grinding lightly against his face. His groan vibrated through you, soft moans escaping your lips. His tongue teasing. You couldn’t take it anymore, needing the delicious stretch of his cock until you were filled to the hilt.

“Steve, I need you,” you pleaded, pulling him toward you and licking your arousal from his swollen lips in a hasty kiss. He nodded against your embrace, hand reaching down to unbutton his jeans as you deepened the kiss, and worked your tongue past the seam of his lips. His tongue met yours, wet and flat. Swiping, exploring until your lungs burned and you both needed to pull away for air. You slid the rough denim of his jeans along with his boxers down his legs impatiently until they landed with a thud beside your shorts. He eyed you with a dark gaze laden with want. You held his gaze as you licked your palm and began stroking him, thumb swiping the bead of precum that collected at the tip. Sticky and slick. His length jumped in your palm at the sensation, breathy moans creating goosebumps as he moved to your neck. His teeth grazed the sensitive skin of your throat as you continued to stroke. To tease. And you needed a taste, to feel the weight of his cock against your tongue. 

Far from coy, you turned him over. Eyes devilish as you pushed up the hem of his shirt exposing the softness of his stomach, the line of brown hair leading to the patch of curls at the base of his dick. You hummed at the sight of him, thinking of how good he felt stretching you and now you got to finally see the evidence of his arousal instead of just feeling the weight in your hands. He had a pretty cock, thick and long with a vein protruding underneath creating a mean line to his tip. You dragged your tongue across it and watched as he gasped at the sensation, hand tugging at his hair as he watched you. You looked at him over your lashes as your tongue swirled around his head, briny precum coating your tongue and making your pussy pulse at the thought of him filling you once again. He moaned your name pretty, eyes rolling as you took him into your mouth inch by inch until he hit the back of your throat. You quickly drew your head back, pulling off his tip with a pop before sinking your mouth over him once more. Drool soaking his cock as you set a quick pace, hands cupping his balls and lightly massaging the sensitive flesh. He watched propped from the pillows on your bed as your ass wiggled while you swallowed his dick, moans of satisfaction vibrating against his length. Steve weaved his fingers into your hair, assisting you as you bobbed against his arousal and savored every groan from his pretty pink lips.

“Fuck, baby-“ his words are cut off as you picked up pace, wanting to hear his desperate moans as you took him deeper and let him settle in the back of your throat. You gagged around his cock, drool trickling into the patch of hair as you took the rest of him. Nose nuzzling against the curls. His fingers tightened in your hair at the sensation, palm resting against your head.

“Holy Christ, I am not going to last like this,” and despite your need to feel him stretch you, there’s a tingling between your legs as you think about how it would feel to have him finish in your mouth. So you keep going. Free hand rubbing circles into your clit as you suck him dirty, enthusiastically swirling your tongue against his length as you continue to deep throat him. Your fingers ache as you get closer to the edge, jaw sore as you continue to bob. Lips wrapped around Steve’s perfect cock.

“Baby, I’m going to cum-“ he groaned, and you continued with the same pace. Eyes tearing at the impact against your throat. Your own orgasm built, stretching in your abdomen as you rubbed your clit and chased the high. Steve twitched in your mouth letting you know he was about to cum and you massaged his balls with your free hand, guiding his release. Needy for his cum. Your eyes rolled at the first warm trickle against your throat, moaning against his dick as he coated your mouth in white streams while your own orgasm shuttered through you. White hot and causing your vision to blur. You heard your name on Steve’s lips as he cursed and groaned, bucking the rest of his cum into your open mouth and watching you swallow the load with a whimper of your own.

“Fucking hell,” he groaned watching you suck his sensitive tip, milking the last of his load. Your pussy still clenching around nothing as your orgasm rolled through you, legs like jelly when you finally pushed your way up the bed. You curled into Steve’s chest, nose nuzzling into the warmth of his shirt as he stroked your back. Both your chests heaving as you came down from the bliss and laid nearly naked in bed. Your eyes were heavy, post-orgasm sleepiness taking over the longer you lay on his chest and he rubbed small circles in your back. Sweet kisses in your hair, scruff lightly scratching your forehead whenever he pressed his lips to your hairline.

“Did you like it?” You questioned, eyes closed as you fought the sleep. Steve’s head turned to you and you missed the way he looked at you incredulously.

“Are you kidding,” he pressed his finger under your chin and you stirred, staring into his hazel eyes.

“Your mouth feels like fucking heaven,” he stated, and from his tone, you knew there wasn’t room for questioning if he was sincere. You giggled at the severe crease between his eyebrows, hand snaking up to rub the tension from his forehead.

“But y’know, that’s not why I came over,” he insisted, wiggling your arm lightly for emphasis.

“And why did you come over Stevie?” You asked eyes fixated on the plush of his lips as he spoke. Understood that he was nervous by the way he bit the inside of his cheek. You rubbed your finger against the swollen flesh of lips and eyed him, watching as his eyes closed with a light chuckle. Handsome features illuminated by your dim bedside table.

“Is it weird to say that I missed you?” His face scrunched as he said it, cheeks turning a shade of pink as he admitted his truth and you beamed. Wide awake with a cheesy grin on display, heart hammering against your chest and you were sure he felt it.

“Only if it’s weird for me to admit that I missed you too,” you told him, hands shaking with your own nerves but he took one in his own warm grasp. Clutching onto your much smaller hand as he tried to calm the flutters he was feeling too.

“No, not weird,” and the feeling spread through his chest. The feeling he had tried to ignore for years whenever he looked at you, heard you laugh, or saw you smile. Even on the bad days. He didn’t have a name for it but it was bigger than him, felt in every inch of his body. And he wanted to tell you but god what if he lost you too? He never thought of what would happen if he didn’t say anything at all.

-

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[peachesofteal]

The Fragile Ones

Relationship: Morpheus/reader One shot - 1.1k words Warnings: Character death, pregnant reader, tragic death, No HEA, hurt no comfort Endless aren't meant to love such fragile things.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this, you think. Or maybe it was, maybe it was all part of the plan, and everything was falling right into place. You weren’t sure. You weren’t really sure of anything, actually. You could vaguely hear people shouting. The sun was high in the sky, beating down on you, dancing across your skin that felt unusually cold. What were you doing? You weren’t sure of that either. Someone was talking to you, leaning over your body and blocking out the sun. The back of your head kind of hurt, but for some reason you couldn’t lift your arm to rub the sore spot. Your arm laid limply on your swollen stomach, where your child slept. Your child. The appointment. That’s what it was, you had an appointment. A 20-week ultrasound, you were going to see your baby. What’s happened? Your mind is fuzzy, frozen in a time loop as you stumbled over everything in your mind. “Asshole drove off.” Someone said behind you. 

“Everything’s going to be okay, 911 is coming.” That was a stranger’s voice. There was a stranger speaking to you. Why? You tried to turn your head to look at them but were met with a chorus of rejections. 

“Try not to move.” Your brain suddenly roars to life and your breath catches as pain radiates through your body. Your child. The appointment. The car. You hadn’t seen it, you remember now. You had been in a crosswalk, weren’t crosswalks safe? It had come around the corner so fast, you’re not sure you could even tell someone what color it was. You moved your other hand, the working one, to cradle your belly. You tapped, just barely. Move. Please, move. Your stomach was still. Quiet, like maybe your baby was still sleeping. She did that a lot, in the middle of the day. She was a night owl, staying up so she could listen to her father read sonnets to her inside your womb. 

“Dream.” You croak, to no one. To none of these strangers who have any idea who you’re calling out to. “M-Morpheus. Dream of the Endless.” You try again. Your tongue wets your lips, and you taste blood. Salt, and metal. It makes your head spin. You were cold, and it was July. A hot, sticky day in July. The kind of day where popsicles melted if you didn’t eat them fast enough, where the air was heavy like a wet blanket. You shouldn’t be cold. The feeling wraps it's icy fist around your throat. You think you can feel the earth tilting. You're dying. You see the flicker of a black coat out of the corner of your eye and a sob shakes your chest. He’s here. 

His eyes are wild. You’re not sure what’s happened to the strangers, but their voices have all but fallen away. He leans over you, fingers grasping your chin as he speaks your name, once, twice, and then a third. You try to crack your lips into a smile. 

“Hello handsome.” You manage to string the two words together that you used when you tried to pick him up at The New Inn. A lightweight, emboldened by a recent breakup, you had sauntered over to where he sat with Hob and offered to buy him a drink. He had looked taken aback by your presence. Offended almost. Hob likes to joke now that it was love at first sight, but you knew better. You and Dream’s relationship grew, over time, with patience, and a lot of miscommunications. You had been infatuated with each other from the start, sure. But you had been seeing each other for nearly six months before he told you who he actually was, and even then, he only gave you half the story. 

“I’m here.” He’s frantically looking around. “I’m right here.” 

“It hurts.” You try to explain. 

“I know, I know it does. It will be alright. You will both be okay.” 

“She’s sleeping.” You whisper to him, your fingers desperately trying to grasp onto his jacket. The tears in his eyes are falling down onto your neck. He makes a choked sound, horrific to your ears, it’s wet and guttural and pained. One of his hands desperately presses to your belly, clutching onto you while the other strokes hair from your face. He’s so beautiful, you muse. How can something be so beautiful? 

“Yes.” He tells you, and his lips tremble against your forehead. “She is sleeping.” 

“I hope she’s warmer than me.” You mumble. 

“She’s very warm. You’ve kept her safe, and warm, and she cannot wait to meet you. Her mother.” 

“D’ you, you think she looks like you?” His eyes squeeze shut. Your vision is kind of blurry, but you think his face is wet. He makes a pained sound in his throat. 

“No, my love. I think she looks like you, I think she will be just as beautiful as you.” 

“I still want to name her Ophelia.” His hand blankets yours overtop your belly. 

“Ophelia is perfect.” 

“You lie. You hated it, last time.” Your face feels wet too, you realize. Are you crying? “Dream. I can’t… I can’t really feel.” The words are sticky on your tongue, like they’re having trouble forming. 

“That’s okay. Keep your eyes open. I’m going to take you home.” His voice has an edge of determination to it and you wonder what he means. Surely, you’re dying, aren’t you? And you’re definitely not asleep. How could he get you to The Dreaming? You see his sister over his shoulder. You’ve always thought she had the kindest face. You’ve always wondered, how it must feel to see her and know. Turns out, it’s not so terrible. Dream whirls, still crouched, his body creating a physical barrier between the two of you. 

“No.” his voice snaps like a whip. Her façade cracks, and she kneels beside him when he turns back to you. 

“I’m so sorry, little brother.” 

“No. No, please.” His hand is iron around yours, like a tether, a chain to him and this realm. 

“I love you.” Your hand tries to find his. 

“No. I do not accept this.” His eyes light with rage as he hisses at Death. Her eyes close as she shakes her head. “Please. Please, sister.” 

“Dream. There is nothing I can do.” 

“Let me bring them into The Dreaming.” 

“It’s too late, you know this.” He covers your body with his, face pressed into your cheek. 

“I love you.” You tell him again, watching as he pulls back to look at you. He strokes your cheeks with his thumbs. 

“I love you, my sweet girl. I will see you again. Both of you.” His lips press to yours desperately as you feel another hand take yours. She’s ready for you. His soft caress is the last thing you feel as your soul severs from your body, holding Death’s hand as you walk together into the dark. 

#morpheus x reader #dream of the endless x reader #the sandman fanfic #dream x reader #peaches writes

[trollprins]

To Loke: Part 4

Disclaimer: The image accompanying this story was generated using artificial intelligence (AI) technology. It is not a depiction of real people or events. The story and its characters are entirely fictional and are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual individuals, living or deceased, or events is purely coincidental. 

What is the line between love, admiration, and obsession – it’s like tiptoeing on a tightrope made of emotional chaos. Weeks have passed since our last encounter, and I find myself in a constant state of mental acrobatics, as not a single day goes by without your image invading my thoughts. It’s been a while since I’ve felt such intense emotions for someone, and it’s exhausting to navigate through them. Right now, I’m a mere shell, a walking, talking husk among people who mean nothing to me, while your memory plays on an endless loop, both brightening and saddening my mind. Pathetic? Yeah, but who said emotions played fair? 

I found myself once again at another afterwork event, not for the camaraderie or the beverages, but in the desperate hope to catch a glimpse of you. Alas, you were a no-show, much to my disappointment, leaving me to drown my shallowness in laughter and small talk. There I was, sitting, sipping my drink, engaging in conversations, and putting on a facade of cheerfulness to hide the emptiness inside. But every now and then, you would sneak into my thoughts, and I would find myself mentally free-falling into a pit of sadness. I half-expected you not to show up, thinking you must have sensed my presence and decided to spare me further agony.

In the desolate office building, I would wander aimlessly, hoping to accidentally stumble upon you. I felt lonely and lost in that endless labyrinth of empty office corridors, where the more I yearned for you, the less likely our paths seemed to cross, and the maze of my emotions seemed to grow more intricate with each passing day. Letting the thoughts of you go felt incredibly wrong, like peeling off an old bandage, knowing that even though the wound beneath may have healed, the process of unveiling would sting anew, and I feared an even greater void it would create.

One gloomy November afternoon when darkness descended shortly after lunchtime., the office windows once again framed my solitary contemplation. There you were, leaving the building, dressed lightly as always, a fleeting silhouette against the dreary backdrop. I took a step back from the window, not wanting to be seen by chance, but I stayed close enough to see you hop on your bike and leave. The ache in my chest expanding with each step you took away. It was a moment frozen in time, etched in the cold glass of the window, a visual representation of the distance between us. For a second, I saw my hollow reflection, and in that very moment my spirit burst like an overflown water balloon. I had to gather myself and make my way home with the weight of unspoken emotions.

I had completely given up on the idea of ever meeting you. And the thought of asking you out felt like navigating a minefield of potential rejection or awkwardness. I always fear coming across as imposing, but people often confuse my caution with outright arrogance. But truth be told, I'm haunted by the fear of being hurt, the terror of not being fascinating enough to be worthy of a place in someone’s social entourage. Writing this down has become a form of catharsis, a way to express the turmoil of emotions within me. Maybe someday, I’ll look back at those memories and either laugh at my naivety or shed tears at my misery – likely both.

Today, as I was sitting by the window, sipping my morning coffee, and gazing at the parking lot, I caught sight of you. Instantly, a wave of relief washed over me, and the prospect of seeing you propelled me to new heights of optimism. While sitting in the lobby, engaging in small talk with my colleagues, I couldn't help but scan the surroundings, hoping you were around. And just when I least expected it, there you were, passing by. You stopped, and engaged me in conversation. Time stood still, and the world around us blurred into insignificance. Your eyes, like warm embers, held my attention captive. Your eyebrows danced up and down, and your laughter filled the air as you shared stories and jokes. Why must you be so perfect? I wonder if my admiration was painfully obvious. I could have stood there forever, listening to your clever remarks about professors and assignments. Sadly, I had to return to work, as I had already taken up too much time. Although I desperately wished I didn't have to. "See you around," you said. Those words pierced through me, knowing they would echo in my mind long after the day had faded into memory.

Read other parts dedicated to Loke.

#writeblr #short story #gay fiction #newblvotg #gay men #fiction #creative writing #gay #gaylife #loke

[ichijager13]

Teach Me How To Be Loved

Chapter XIV

I've got a burning desire for you

Pairing : Eren Jäger x reader, past relationships: Reiner Braun x reader, Jean kristein x reader

Characters: Eren Jäger, Annie Leonhart, Pieck Finger, Reiner Braun, Jean Kristein, Carla Jäger, Sophie Jäger.

Tags: Unhealthy coping mechanism, unhealthy relationships, childhood trauma, physical and verbal abuse, self-esteem and trust issues, domestic violence, implied/ referenced cheating, and a touch of sweet, lovable, and non fuckboy Eren Jäger

This fic is brought to you by Lana Del Rey’s songs

Masterlist, AO3,  Playlists: Reader’s POV, Eren’s POV

A/N: Hey, hey, heeeeeey! Guess who have decided to pick up her fanfic and update it. Yes, this lazy Ichi! I'm really sorry for taking so long to update, I didn't abandon this story, I promise.

Also thank you so much for reading and supporting my works.

Ichi  ❤️  

“Eren,” you moaned, wrapping your arms around his figure. Just like every time you had him this close, you were on the verge of losing your mind. His scent, his teeth grazing your shoulder, and his warm breath fanning against your skin felt ethereal. It felt like a dream. One, you didn’t want for it to end.

In response to the sultry noises escaping you, he brushed his lips against your pulse point, making the last threads of sanity grow thinner and more tense before they slowly vanished in the air.

Laying on your couch in the middle of your dimly lit living room, you tried to trace back the events of this night. You tried, without success, to figure out how innocent tickling led to him half naked and hovering over your nude body.

Swimming in an endless sea of joy and sensuality, you tried to capture and memorize this moment. The faint ticking of the mechanical, vintage clock sitting on the fireplace, the aroma of your fabric softener, and his heart rate. You were mindlessly indulging in your fantasies when his rich voice brought you back to present time.

“Are you ready, love?” he inquired once again.

His large hand caressed your cheeks ever so gently as you nodded. It took you a while to manage to utter a broken yes.

A genuine smile, the same one that captured your heart and bewitched your soul, broke through his lips as he kicked out his shorts and repositioned himself above you. He slowly guided himself past your wet folds. It stretched, burned, and filled you, and it never failed to make you feel complete. His thumb still traced gentle cercles against your burning cheeks as he praised you and chanted how perfect you were for him. how beautiful, dazzling, and amazing you were.

By the time he was fully inside you, your brain was so fogged that the line separating reality from fantasies blended, making it hard to tell what was real and what wasn’t. His hands were all over your body. His lips were littering soft kisses against your burning skin, reminding you that he wasn’t a product of your imagination. Reminding you that this was real. That what was going on between the two of you was real.

And you believed him. You believed and held on to all the unspoken promises he sealed against your skin.

So, you let your head fall back, eyes screwed shut, and gave in to the pleasure waves idly hitting you. You closed your eyes and let them drift you away from all the terrible thoughts that had haunted you for years. You let him trade the darkness devouring you with beams of sunlight and the twinkles of a million stars.

Eren couldn’t get over how dazzling you looked underneath him. With each thrust, the noises that spilled from your mouth pushed him over the edge. He tried to contain himself and take it easy on you. But your parted, swollen lips made it so hard for him to control the violent hurricane of feelings he was trapped in. And you asking him, in your high-pitched, broken voice, to go faster made thinking straight even harder.

His arms looping around your waist and pressing your writhing body against his gave you a sense of safety. You had no idea why, but whenever you found yourself in his arms, all your worries washed away, and the dark clouds invading your sky disappeared. Whenever he was around, all the sad melodies you spent your life listening to changed into happy ones. Smiling, you made a mental note to share this thought with him. to tell him about all the wonderful things he made you feel. to thank him for loving and accepting you as you were. But the unholy rhythm he was pounding on you made your thoughts dissolve like a spoonful of salt in a bottle of water.

Lost in the blissful mist of the building up pleasure, you didn’t realize that he had changed position until he hit that sweet spot that made you see the stars in the middle of your apartment. That particular angle that never failed to make your soul get lost forever in the abyss of your orgasm.

He continued moving in synch with your heartbeat and your lust-filled thoughts. With every buck and every groan, he was bringing dead parts of you back to life. Parts you completely forgot they ever existed.

By the time he collapsed next to you, your ability to think or form a coherent sentence was inexistent. Craving more of his soothing warmth, you instinctively nestled your face in the crook of his neck. A pair of strong, tattooed arms looped around your shaking body, and it felt like home. With the tip of your finger, you absent-mindedly traced the one climbing up his arm and covering his shoulder blade. Caressing his tattoos was one of the numerous habits you developed after you got together.

You remained like that, in each other’s arms, enjoying the comfortable silence until you fell asleep.

When the sunlight filtering through the beige curtains woke you up the next morning, you found yourself tucked under the soft, satin sheets in your bed.

Eren was nowhere to be seen. Sitting with your back pressed against the headboard, you perked your ears, trying to locate where your boyfriend was. But to your surprise, the apartment was as silent as the city streets on a snowy Sunday morning.

After you left your bed, you fished for a t-shirt and exited your bedroom. Your clothes and his, which were scattered all over the living room, were gone. Assuming it was Eren who picked them up, you put some order in the living room before heading to the bathroom to take a quick shower.

You were in the kitchen making breakfast when you heard the door.

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[prpfs]

‹ 28, he/him, 😈 › — Hey, guys. I'm back yet again, looking for some long-term partners to write some dark and unhinged smut plots on Discord. Threads not for the faint of heart, threads that would lean very hard into themes of degradation and the like. Here's one plot of mine that could serve as an example.

"My guy finds this girl who's either fresh out of a break-up, or is lamenting over how she can't keep a man to save her life. Guys always use her for sex, and she can't - for the life of her - understand why they always leave her at some point in time. What she doesn't know, though, is that she's pretty easy to win over, and doesn't just attract the wrong kinds of guys, but also gravitates towards them. (Like, if she's paired up with a more soft-spoken and introverted guy, she loses interest pretty quickly.) It's an endless loop that keeps repeating itself, because she's either too naive to really learn her lesson… or too broken inside to really reach that point of recognizing the pattern. Like, maybe she feels like she needs a man in her life, because her sense of self-worth is so dangerously low. Anyway, my guy catches this girl at a low point, and initially presents himself as someone who wants to cheer her up, and give her the validation she needs… but then of course, it turns into him just fucking her brains out and calling her all sorts of names and shit, preying on her low self-esteem and such." And who knows, maybe this is just another footnote in this girl's life… or this is the straw that breaks the camel's back, where she feels like she can't afford to lose another man. Especially one like him, who 'gets' her.

This is just one idea, though. I have plenty of others, if you'd like to see them. As far as kinks go, I only draw the line at scat and bestiality. Everything else is pretty much on the table and up for discussion. And as far as muses go, I write dominant male OC's exclusively, looking to play against submissive female OC's. (I'm a bit picky when it comes to FC's, but that's another thing we can talk about while we're working things out.) If you're interested, go ahead and like this post.

Thank you, as always!

like if you're interested and op will reach out

#oc rp #oc roleplay #mxf rp #fandomless rp #fandomless roleplay #1x1 rp #original rp #dead dove

[normanbateswife]

Never Any Other Option

Philip Graves x fem!reader

Warnings: mw2 spoilers, canon level violence, smut (it isn't a major plot point but it's there), graves being an asshole

It started slow. Much slower than Graves would’ve liked, that’s for sure. He had his eyes on you the moment he saw you and they sure as hell never left, not through the entire briefing. His eyes battled with everyone else in the cramped room to meet yours and you never once looked up. 

He admired your strength. It reminded him of him. 

He barely heard the resolution to the brief and made a mental note to reconvene with someone who was actually listening before he went out into the field. You left the room quickly but that didn’t stop him. Graves looped around the hallway till he met up with you at the stairs. 

“Yes Commander?” you asked under your breath, glancing up at him as you opened the door. He held it for you and then followed so that he was walking beside you. 

“Have you thought about that dinner?” he questioned. You side eyed him and tried not to show any emotions. You refused to be one of the girls he slept with in a coat closet and left behind. Dinner could be a step forward. You just weren’t sure if you could resist that charming side smile much longer. 

“I’ve thought about the mission we’re meant to leave for tomorrow morning. Have you thought about that?” you asked. He blew a sharp breath out of his nose and shrugged. 

“Enough.” 

“You get to be in the confines of a helicopter. I have to be out there. You got it easy this time Graves.” 

“I’ll cover you from the sky. Everyone else will be jealous.” 

“If you don’t help, everyone else will be dead.” 

“They can handle themselves.” 

“So can I.” He skipped so that he stood in front of you, not letting you walk past him. You halted. There was no point in making an attempt to exit the conversation. Plus. You didn’t really want to. It was an easy part of your day, flirting back and forth with the Shadows Commander, stringing him along and pulling him back. 

“One dinner. Then you can go back to thinking we wouldn’t be fantastic together.” 

“Philip,” you crossed your arms. 

“One.” 

You clenched your teeth together, narrowing your look at him. He waited in anticipation, eyes wide open. You let out a breath of finality, guised as annoyance. 

“One. Just cause we might die tomorrow.” 

He smiled brightly, clapping his hands together in triumph. He pointed at you, not quite sure what he was doing with his hands anymore. 

“Fantastic. I’ll pick you up at 8? I’ll text you. I won’t keep you out later because of work, no worries.” He looked up and moved his tongue around in his mouth. “No later than you want me to, that is.”

“Don’t you make me regret this Philip.” 

“I would never sweetheart.” 

-

Thus started the on again off again relationship you had with Philip Graves. You were not often in the same place at the same time which left some things to be desired. But everytime you came back it was a free for all. It was like neither of you had left. 

You unclenched your jaw as you exited the helicopter, keenly aware of the cold nipping at your sides. You were eager to go inside and wind down for the night. It had been a long couple of days and you weren’t exactly happy to go back the next day. For right now you would enjoy a nice long shower and sleep the day away. You were anxious to scrub the day from your body. 

“Heading to bed already?” Price asked as he caught up to you. You nodded, stretching your neck to the side. You had an endless amount of knots in your back. 

“What do you mean already? It’s 9:30 Captain,” you joked dryly. 

“You didn’t used to be a lightweight,” he said with a small knowing smile. You rolled your eyes. Your work alongside John Price and his friends could go back years. You were used to the men that had lived long enough for you to remember. 

“And you used to only smoke once a day. You’ll get cancer Price.” 

“If cancer takes me out after all those shots at me, I deserve to go.” You nudged him and gave him a nod as you split ways. You walked up the stairs to your small room. You would’ve gone home to your apartment if you had the time but right now the dorm like space would have to do. You needed sleep more than you needed comfortability. 

You opened up the door and were already sliding off your shoes when you saw Graves sitting at your desk. You had no idea he was back. You thought he and his team were half way across the world at this point but you supposed no one owed you the information of where they would end up. He looked up at the sound of the door opening. 

“Graves,” you hummed with a pleasant smile. 

You weren’t sure when looking at him had started to bring a kind of comfort. You were so used to a sense of instability. When had he started to feel stable? “What are you doing?” you asked softly. 

He stood up, an uncharacteristic gentle look on his face. For a moment you worried that someone had died. He only ever gave you that look in the middle of the night when your faces were even against the pillows and tracing each other's features. At a time where the world was asleep and no one but you could catch him with his guard down. But instead of saying anything he closed the gap between the two of you. 

Your breath caught but he gave you his. 

His hands held your sides, effectively taking the weight of the day into his palms. He was still wearing his clothes from combat. What had happened to him? What was the emotion bleeding into your lips? Even as you started to move back he pushed his face forward needily. He bit your lip. It felt like he drew blood but you didn’t mind, blinded by the haze of his eyes being so close. 

“What happened to you?” you breathed, hand flat on his chest. 

“Long fuckin day,” he muttered. You dragged your hand up to his chest and brushed hair out of his face. “Missed your face.” 

“Mmm that sounds vaguely romantic of you Commander,” you mused with a sly smile. He rolled his eyes.

“Don’t push it.” 

“I’m not pushing anything. I was gonna take a shower. You look sweaty, wanna join me?” He breathed out a long sigh of relaxation at the mere thought. 

“Yes ma’am.” 

“You got clothes to sleep in here?” you questioned starting to walk towards the bathroom. His hand let go of your waist only to hold your pointer finger as you walked away from him. 

“When have I ever needed clothes in here darlin '?” You looked back at him with a pointed look but couldn’t deny the pretty look in his eyes as you pushed open the door with your free hand. 

You didn’t speak as you turned on the water too hot. He started to remove his layers. The bathroom was tight enough with one person so there was no avoiding bumping into each other silently, soft grunts filling the room as you landed on just undressing each other. 

His lips found yours again. Familiar. Almost as warm as the water you were pushed into. You were pressed against each other, your only stability a hand on the steamy glass wall between you and the rest of the bathroom. The routine of your bodies was something you had never thought about till that moment. You lazily realized that you knew his moves now. You knew his calloused hands and the bump of his scars and the feeling of him sliding inside of you. 

He was sloppy, as usual, but slow. He was allowing some sort of feeling to meld between the two of you in the heat of the shower. You held him close and he had no denial of burying his head into your shoulder as he stroked in and out of you. When he resurfaced from your skin he kissed you lazily. 

But it was the look in his eyes when he pulled away that made you realize it. 

He was in love. 

You kissed him again before he could take back his silent words, allowing yourself to melt into him like the water was washing you both away. 

-

“Who’s in the sky?” you questioned, looking up at the helicopter trailing your group. 

“Shadows,” Ghost said evenly. You glanced up. Graves. You suppressed a smile. You never got to be in the field together. Sure you had three of the best in the business surrounding you but knowing your Graves had your six made you feel almost at ease. Almost. 

“It’s good to see you guys,” Graves said into your earpiece. 

“Likewise mate,” Ghost said. 

You were trailed all the way through till you were able to get extraction and Hassan. You were escorted back to base by the helicopter in the sky. Hassan remained masked and quiet throughout the drive. You were just trying to ignore the fact that you would get to actually see Philip in person. It had only been a couple of weeks, nothing either of you hadn’t lived without before. But if had started to move towards more serious categories. He was starting to talk about babies during pillowtalk. Retirement one day. A home instead of an apartment. 

You parked before they landed. You led Hassan back with Ghost and Alejandro but left when they had him set up in the middle of some field. You waited at the edge of the field as the helicopter landed. 

The ramp lowered and the shadows started to exit. You could see Philip amongst the faces and didn’t miss his smirk as he caught sight of you. He walked directly for you, one hand in his pocket. You raised an eyebrow. 

“Well?” he asked. 

“Well what?” 

“No thank you? No ‘my hero’?” You laughed, genuine laughter and he returned it with some of his own. 

“It was some fantastic air support. You heard Ghost.” 

“Ghost doesn’t have a sweet as silk voice like you,” he teased.

“I don’t know, Ghost’s voice is pretty good…” you joked. He rolled his eyes and looked back at the Shadows passing him into base. You leaned against the wall and followed his gaze. He was waiting until everyone went inside. You didn’t mind. You just wished you could kiss him now. The scruff of adrenaline hadn’t left him. 

“Thank you for your help Graves.”

“You mad at me?” 

“Huh?”

“It’s like saying my middle name when you say my last name.” You rolled your eyes. “I prefer Philip. Or Commander works too.” You scoffed and finally the last of the Shadows seemed to have trickled away so that you could stand up straight to get in his face. 

“I’m not mad Commander. Thank you for your help.” 

“Atta girl.” 

He dipped his head and kissed you, taking your breath away as he did everytime. He held your chin between his thumb and pointer finger as he pulled away. 

“You sleepin with me tonight?” 

“As in fucking you or sleeping in your bed?”

“Both,” he said plainly. You grinned, unable to hide the butterflies that blossomed in your stomach. You had missed him. 

“There was never any other option Commander.” He kissed your forehead, lips lingering for a moment. 

“Let’s go beat the shit out of Hassan.” 

“I don’t think you can legally do that.”

“When have you ever cared about legality?”  

“Aren’t we legality?” 

-

You were already working within the 141 Task Force when you started to work with Graves more on the missions to obtain Hassan and the American missiles from the enemies. You had worked with Ghost countless times before and you were starting to enjoy your time with this Soap kid. Not to mention you and Alejandro got along swimmingly. Price always knew how to pick em. 

You were on the boat with Ghost that held the missile and you were there when Soap and Graves changed course of the missile. It wasn’t an easy one and you weren’t envious of Soap who was in front of the missile controls. 

Graves had stood in front of you almost the whole night. It made you wonder at what point he started to truly believe you were his to protect, like you couldn’t handle yourself. You had to get back to Alejandro’s base before you could question him about it though. 

You took a helicopter back onto the ground and then piled into two cars. You and Philip forced the others in the task force into one as you took one with just a driver. You shut the window between the front seat and the back ones as you relaxed back into the seat, still soaked from the rain and bleeding in various places. 

You turned your head to look at him. He had his hand on your knee. 

“You sleeping with me tonight?” you questioned lazily. He looked over at you with a gentle smile. 

“There was never any other option,” he said gravely, dipping his head. You laughed a bit and grabbed his hand that was resting on you. You rubbed his gloved skin. 

“You know I can handle myself out there,” you muttered. “You don’t need to protect me.” He looked over at you, silently. He chewed on that for a moment. 

“I want to.”

“That’s very sweet but I don’t need you doing both of our jobs Philip.” He scooted closer to you so that your shoulders were touching. You watched him carefully. 

“I like to.” 

“What are they paying me for then?” 

“To look pretty and stay alive,” he said dryly. You scoffed, rolling your eyes. 

“Alright Philip.” You brought his hand up to your lips and kissed him. The road bumped underneath of you, making you both jolt around the car. 

He looked at you with solemn eyes that you didn’t catch. He had never quite had someone like you. Someone he liked. Someone he…

“I love you,” he whispered, barely audible. You looked back up to his eyes again. 

“Huh?” He leaned forward and kissed you feverishly like you were going to die in the next moment. You were taken about by his ferocity but countered it easily after a moment. 

“I love you,” he repeated against your lips before diving in again. You smiled into the kiss. 

“Never thought I’d hear those words Commander,” you mused. 

“Yeah, well listen and weep.” You giggled. 

“I think it’s read and weep.” 

“Whatever.” He was peppering kisses against your jaw. You grabbed his chin and forced him to look at you. 

“I love you too.” He let out a breath. 

“Good.” You laughed heartily as the car stopped. He looked towards the window and picked up his gun. 

Still laughing, you spoke, “Are we not on base? Whatcha need your gun for Philip?” 

“Don’t worry about it baby. Stay in the car.” 

“I love you,” you said, relishing in the words, “but no.” You opened up your door and noted you were parked outside. You hadn’t pulled in. The guys got out of the car behind you. 

“What’s that face?” Soap asked you. 

“Nothin.” He narrowed his eyes at you but Alejandro spoke before he could. 

“What’s this?” 

“This is the immediate future,” Philip said on the other side of the car. You circled around so you were standing beside Soap. “Darlin get back in the car,” he said pointedly. You furrowed your brows. 

“What?” you asked. 

“Y/L/N,” he said sharply. 

“Graves,” you said back. “What’s this about?” He let out a sigh, closing his eyes for a moment and then turned around to the men standing behind him. 

“Take her gently.” “What?” Soap asked, stepping forward. 

“Step away from the gate,” Graves said. 

“What?!” Soap said louder. 

“You heard me.” 

“You’re crazy. This is my base,” Alejandro said, gesturing with his hands. 

“It’s not a base. This is a sizable covert facility and I admire it - so I’m takin it.” He said it so calmly. It was like a moment ago he wasn’t confessing his love for you in the back of the car he was standing beside. 

Your smile had fallen as you attempted to process what was going on. 

“You boys have been relieved. Thank you for your service.” 

“No no no. I don’t take orders from you,” Alejandro argued. 

“Didn’t Valeria say that? Now that makes me wonder what else I don’t know about your affiliation with a drug lord?”

“Graves!” you said sternly, Alejandro speaking over you. 

“What the fuck did you just say to me pendejo…” Soap grabbed his arm. 

“You’re out of line,” you said, eyeing Graves. Soap approached him. 

“Don’t do that. Don’t. No one needs to get hurt here,” he promised, pointing to you and to Soap. 

“Are you threatening us?” Ghost asked from somewhere behind you. 

“Soldier, I don't make threats. I make guarantees. So let's not do this.” You couldn’t wrap your head around it. What the fuck was going on? 

“I’m calling Shepherd,” Soap said, speaking your thoughts. 

“General Shepherd sends his regards. He told me y’all wouldn’t take this well.” 

“He knows about this?” Ghost questioned. 

“He put me in command of this operation from here on out. So y’all need to stand down, it’s time to let the pros finish this.” You scoffed, catching the eyes of the other guys who were looking around, catching on much faster than you were. “And why the hell are we talking like this is some kind of negotiation? It’s not. I’ve got my orders and now you have yours.” 

“And who the fuck do you think you are carbon?” Alejandro asked. “My men are inside!” 

“I’m afraid not.” You set your jaw. “Your men have been…detained.” 

Alejandro pushed forward, cursing and was immediately stopped by the guards beside Graves. You weren’t prepared for this kind of fight. You were so caught off guard you barely had time to move away from a gunshot. 

“I said gently!” Philip yelled. He rushed forward, knocking Alejandro out with his gun. He had grazed Soap from the sound of it and Ghost was nowhere to be seen. He turned the corner to get Soap but he had scampered away. You started to back away, tripping over your feet. Some other men were looking for Ghost. 

“Philip what the fuck!” 

“I’m following orders,” he promised. “You were supposed to stay in the car!” You scoffed sliding away as he walked closer. 

“Graves you’re fucking shooting our friends!” 

“They’re just soldiers, they aren’t friends.” 

“Then aren't I just a soldier?!” you asked angrily. 

“No-” he shook his head quickly, “no but they-”

“You’re helping the enemy?”

“I’m following-”

“Orders?! Yeah I fucking heard!” You finally got back up onto your feet and had reached the edge of the driveway. You breathed heavily as he walked forward. 

“Let me explain.”

“You shot Soap! What the fuck is happening to Alejandro?! Where the fuck is Ghost?!” You took a breath. “I loved you!”  

He paused. He was pointing a gun at you still. You never thought you would be on the end of Philip Graves' gun. 

“They’re all a liability.” 

“And me?” 

“I could’ve saved you.” You scoffed, shaking your head. 

“Did you love me?” 

“Of course I do. Please just let me-”

“I don’t know what to believe anymore. Which of your faces am I staring at Graves?” 

"There was no other options."

You didn’t recognize the look that was staring back at you. It was supposedly a jaw you knew well with a scar you had traced before falling into slumber and eyes you had seen above you countless times. 

You didn’t recognize the look in his eyes. 

He scared you. 

You gripped a knife that was at your side and tossed it blindly at him. It hit its mark in his leg and he screamed as you fell over the edge of the railing and rolled down the shrubbery until you landed somewhere hard and dark. You looked up at the sky, the gunshots muffled. It was a dark night. 

You allowed yourself to heave an angry cry into the stars. You wouldn’t be sleeping in the familiar comfortable bed tonight. 

You picked yourself up and forced yourself to walk away, hopefully towards Soap or Ghost. Tears pricked at your eyes as you did so.

#shout out to izzy fr #its giving no time to die by billie eilish #or casual by chappell roan there in the beginning #philip graves x reader #graves x reader #philip graves x fem!reader #call of duty imagines #call of duty fanfiction

[tabbyhoney]

Gorgeous

A fanfiction for the story of 'Fear of You' by @sleepwalkersqueen

Note:Hello again! Sorry for the delay but this chapter was kinda difficult to navigate and work with(I actually had to delete a lot and start over).

Anyway, only one more chapter to go, and the story on my end is finished:). Now there is only one question for the ending since I have two options I am unable to choose from. So I won't spoil anything let's just divide them into Extreme angsty and normal kind of angsty (Chose wisely if you guys wanna decide)

One last thing and then I stop talking. I couldn't decide on which song so I only linked one and the others are mentioned.

<<Last ••• Next>>

Warnings:Not a therapist, mention of mock execution, swearing, discussion of abortion(Not explicit)

(Alternative songs to use or listen to: Je ne parle pas francais cover by Selphius, Curses by The crane wives, Usseewa by Ado and 夜に駆ける by YOASOBI)

Chapter 04

Minori was an interesting person. She always was and will forever be a mystery to me. She talks without a care in the world and if she loses a limb because of her mutation she always has a weird thing to say. So incredibly proud.

Sometimes I would like to be more like her. Someone proud of my body as it is, someone too proud for their own good.

"Minori!" I called while picking up a hand from her. "Minori, I mean it come here and get your hand!"

I heard fast footsteps approaching on the creaking wooden floor. Someone was breathing heavily and leaning against the doorframe. The door slammed open with so much force it made the shelves unsteady.

"Sorry," she said out of breath "I just wanted to-"

"Lend me a hand"

She chuckled before sitting down exhausted on the floor "Exactly", thumbs up in approvement.

I hand her her hand before sitting down beside her. The splinters of the wooden floor pushed uncomfortably into my skin.

Like they couldn't afford to sand them from time to time.

"Anyway... What do you think?" She asked while grinning widely.

"About what? Your guy? Eh still think he is not good" I shrugged

"Yes well... I uhm..."

"What is it?" I asked looking at her, squinting my eyes.

"I really really love him like... Actually... I know he is bad. Not a good guy in any way... But ya know... Harima is actually pretty gentle... With me at least"

"I don't actually have to like him though, right?"

"No, but... It's getting pretty serious and I would like for you two to get along"

"Like how?" I asked already feeling weird, like my biggest fear coming true.

"Like... Pregna-"

"Okay"

I was not able to look her in the eye, staring at the ground with no expression. the only thing I felt at that moment was her eyes staring into me, confused.

"Are you serious? This is your reaction?" She stands back up, looking down at me with the most disappointed looks I have ever seen on her perfect face. Her usually spotless face was twisted in a way I never thought would be able to.

"I... I'm sorry I don't think I can react better right now..." I could feel my gut twisting and cold sweat running down my spine. Regret filled me up that I said that the moment it left my mouth. Hearing the words of the doctors repeated in my head like an endless loop.

"Can't you just be happy that I am happy?!" She yelled.

"I am afraid I can't right now"

"You know what?! Fuck you! Don't call me" she stomped out of the room. Her words stung like venom in my veins.

The worst part is I felt like she meant it. To never call my closest friend again, only because I was incapable of showing my happiness to her.

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

The tall heels clicked on the cold metal floor of the hallway. Stomping with wide steps and a burning rage inside of me.

My shoulders back, chest out, and chin up as I swiped the card and typed in the code on the lock.

Bursting through the door I practically ran up to one of the guys who most likely was responsible for this mess.

"You overscheduled me" I spat, tapping my finger warningly against his chest.

"Excuse me?"

"I will not excuse this stupidity! You have thirty seconds to get him off of this chair or I will claw your eyes out and do it myself!"

"This is an exe-"

"It's not and even if it was you have no right to overschedule my precious time. Twenty seconds"

"I can have you removed by force!"

"Fifteen" I warned, gritting my teeth. Talons ready to strike the taller man.

"Hey, you! Get her out of here" the guard yelled towards another one.

"No uhm... She is right, it says in her contract that we cannot overschedule her"

"Five"

The guard gave me a furious look before he waved his hands and some guys took Shinyo off the chair. Pulling him carelessly over the ground because Shinyo had no strength to hold himself up.

"I dare you to do that again and you will beg to have never been born at all" I spat before walking away with the other guards and Shinyo.

The walk was thankfully short and they immediately left us alone once I stepped into the cell after them. They didn't even chain him up again, which only means they had done a terrible job.

"You would think that people working here know what they are doing, but of course, there are always people like them who have no clue what their job is supposed to be" I complained while pulling up a chair to sit down.

Silence.

"What's wrong?" I turned around in my chair to face him, still standing at the spot they left him.

"Nothing"

Lie

"Aye..." Why did I copy him?

Again the room fell quiet. At this point, I would find it more relaxing if he would sit down instead of standing like a mannequin in this empty room.

"I know this probably isn't relaxing right now but this was not supposed to be a-"

"Don't tell me" He said, staring at the floor, eyes wide open. "Because if you say it now it will haunt me more than ever"

"Alright... Uhm... What did you eat?" I asked, fully turning around to sit more comfortably in the chair. Trying to ease the waters by focusing on the better parts.

"Snake," he said with a flat tone.

"You know I actually came around to try it, since you always talk about it and stuff and I must say it isn't the worst"

"Since when do you eat animals?"

"You make it sound weirder than it is" I chuckle stretching my arms and back. "I just have some trauma that I never worked on"

For the very first time since we walked inside, the room had a comfortable atmosphere. A thick uneasiness still filled the air, but way more manageable.

But even the almost execution was not able to shake off something that wasn't there before.

"I have never seen you that angry before, was almost hot" Shinyo rasped with a suppressed chuckle.

"Sweetie I am hot" I laughed with a smirk on my face "But really I just hate people not taking my rules seriously"

"Your rules?" He asked

"Yeah, I am the first therapist that they ever hired. Took way too much work to get in here and maybe if I go back I wouldn't work here in the first place" I looked down to Shinyo with a soft expression. No snarkiness or arrogant atmosphere surrounding me that can make blood boil hotter than Endeavour's butt.

"What would you have done then? You are pretty good at tormenting people from the inside out and apparently also from the outside" he asked, sincerity in his sharp eyes.

I laughed at his comment. Feeling pride rise in my chest for getting a compliment from him, a compliment that was meant as an insult but felt sincere.

"Therapist wasn't my first career choice if I am honest I-" I stopped for a moment, contemplating if I should tell "I wanted to be a singer"

"Singer?" He repeated. "Just a singer or like an Idol? Ooooh! Do you write your own songs?" He asked unusually interested.

"I also write yeah. But I stopped like uh... Four years ago? I had a fight with my best friend and we were a duo at a burlesque bar and after that, I didn't dare to go up on stage again" I rambled, feeling all the pain from our parting rise in my chest again. Gnawing at my heart.

"Aye, suppose that makes sense" He mumbled.

A quiet room was always either comfortable to dwell in or one of the most horrible feelings you could have. Around half a year ago we never had any of these unpleasant silences anymore. Now they only hold a pleasant comfort, like sleeping in with a lover for only five more minutes that turned into an hour. Listening to only the breathing and heartbeat of each other.

"Can you sing? Like now"

"Come again?"

"Like can you sing something"

"I don't know... Haven't sung in quite a long time"

He shrugged, lips curling into a grin "Aye but in that case, you have a good excuse for why you sound horrible"

I laughed at this with a smile. With a sigh, I started thinking about something I could sing.

"Any wishes?" I asked not sure what I should choose. There were too many good choices.

"If you've been in prison for this long anything would sound good as long as it is something"

"Alright, then I'll just choose what I like"

Taking a very deep breath I stand, preparing myself to sing after all these years.

Curling my lips and taking another moment to breathe before I just started singing whatever came to mind.

I wouldn't even have said that this was my worst performance. Sure I started off a little shaky with my voice and way more timid than what I was used to but I would give myself at least a decent.

After my song, there was a moment of silence. A phantom echo of my voice filling my ears and brain.

Shinyo whistled and clapped his hands.

"I expected worse."

"Oh fuck you"

"It was pretty good"

He complimented me. Shinyo complimented me, like actually.

"Thank you very much, I appreciate it" I grinned sheepishly. Rubbing my arms before sitting down on the floor with him.

"People tend to not give a single crap about stuff like that"

"What? Skill?"

"Yes actually, they just see well... A pretty woman, a pretty mutant woman that barely has any resemblance to a mutant"

"Doesn't sound like the worst thing that can happen, at least you can get some advantage out if it, sex sells after all"

"I know but nobody wants to be seen as a meat sack to be used however they like. Especially since mutant people as a whole have it difficult enough"

"Aye, you tell me"

"No offense or comparison but people with uteruses who are mutants have it even worse. They wanted to ban abortion and while I agree that it is a difficult topic it is very much needed nowadays"

"But they are killing children" he argued, not actually meaning anything bigger behind his words besides him wanting to challenge me.

"Well technically no, but let's say a guy that has like a cement type of mutation and is in a relationship with a nonmutant. The potential child could kill them because the body isn't made to carry babies that heavy"

"Aye but many would disagree and legal abortions are hard to come by"

"I have a brain that I use. Even if I personally would never get one doesn't mean there aren't times when it is the worst decision to be made"

He clicked his tongue "Aye, sure"

Things have changed a lot between us two. He seemed a lot more comfortable when we talked now.

The same applies to me, talking with him was the highlight of my day. I even stretched the times for as long as possible. Maybe it was getting too cozy inside of here. I should not talk with him so much about my private life and my own beliefs. Even if it was already too late now for changes.

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

"Greetings!" I extend my hand to the man with the black hair. "The name is Howashi Amaya, I wanted to talk to you in private since you barely say anything to anyone"

"Fang Li" he growled, eyes sparkling with anger that changed when I stepped closer and sat down. "You smell"

"Hopefully good, I showered this morning and put on deodorant and perfume," I said almost feeling offended by his comment.

"You smell like him"

"Excuse me? Do you mean-?" I asked, having the feeling he meant Shinyo.

"Takami, yes"

Picking on my nails and pushing my lips together I tried to calm myself.

"Do you know where he is?"

Silence.

"We need to find him, the government is already chewing on our heads"

Silence and staring into my soul.

"Even if you only tell us a small hint that would be more than enough, you have no reason to cover for him and we might get you out of here sooner"

"I don't care"

Sighing as I stand up, climbing on top of the table to move closer to his face. Scrunching my nose and pointing at his face.

"Listen, I don't wanna do this-"

"You are lying, I will not tell you"

"Why? He betrayed you, if it wasn't for him you would still run around freely"

"I-" he stilled. Biting his tongue not to tell anything.

"Believe it or not but I would rather be doing something else as well. He.." I stopped for a moment before adding in a low whisper "He deserves the freedom as long as he would stop causing so much commotion"

"I'll tell you one thing and you tell me why you smell like him"

That would be a tough one. Having only one question is not enough, and asking for everything would not be possible with someone like him, he would probably shut it down as more questions.

"Where is he going?" I asked, hoping this was the best question to ask.

"To one of his clients where he is bringing his latest goods, I don't know the location"

Not helpful but a deal is a deal. I have to tell him regardless.

For some reason, he still eyed me differently, like he saw me somewhere else before but couldn't remember where.

"Is something wrong?" I asked leaning back again.

"Do you work in the Pink cavern?"

"Sometimes"

"Does it not belong to this Harima guy?"

"Since three years, yes" I answered without moving a muscle.

"Shit" he growled.

"Howashi" a voice that I believe to have heard too much recently. "A word"

Following the tall number two pro hero into his office while everyone stared at us surely was not something everyone was able to live through. I even hoped no one needed to.

Yet only one part about this made my heart beat faster. He knew something or at least had a feeling about something I was not too keen on telling even when my life would be on the line.

"What can I help with?"

"Cut the bullshit" he spat "Did you help him?"

"Help who with what?"

My hands felt shaky.

"Did you help Takami escape"

My heart was racing.

"Why would you think that?" I asked calmly.

"Who else?"

"Imawashi maybe"

"Don't lie to me"

"I didn't"

"Oh yeah? Then why the fuck was he able to escape then? No one just walks out of there, you and I both know that"

I had to be a better liar for now. No one needed to know I was there that day.

"I know that and I didn't help him. I have no idea how he did it but when you have the answer please call me"

#Spotify #fear of you #mha #mha endeavor #shinyo takami #takami shinyo #thief takami #mha foy #bnha #bnha fear of you #mha fear of you #mha fear of you wolf #ocs #fanfiction for a fanfiction

[inlocusmads]

interborough loops ~ emily x trystan

Emily puts her feelings to words after taking a leap of faith - something she'd not consider doing if it weren't for watching the people around her. However, Trystan isn't a huge fan of words.

wc: 3.4k+ | strong language | teen and up

A/N: This is just pure vibes, no plot. I wanted to write a little something feel-good for Emily (who is @moominofthevalley's MC) on account of @choicesfandomappreciation's Secret Pal event (surprise, surprise, it's-a-me!) and something introspective at the same time. I hope you enjoy it!

The thing about exit ways were that, it took a longer time giving her mere seconds before the train could leave. The platform was sticky to walk through, which made it all the more difficult. She never made such mistakes if it weren't for the Odysseus-esque journey of a commute to the station.

Sounds of the PA announcement, the whirring of the train on its tracks and the amicable chattering of the passengers within made things all the more familiar to Emily. Then again, she did see him in the oddest of places. Not him as in cleanly-combed blonde hair, bright eyes that shone like a lamp - some kind of caricature many New Yorkans shared, rather in abstract blurry congealed messes.

They say you're more susceptible to falling in love with things that are familiar to you. Something like the faint smell of sugar reminding one of an old ube jam recipe. Then again, the 'they' referred to a drunk Emily had to wrestle off from latching onto her arms near her uncle's bar.

Anyway, it was as if her mind was trying to tell her something during commutes everyday. Only on the commutes, where the one or two times she took the T, she’d see other faces.

There were more obvious things, such as waving at the right person from a distance.

Today there was a woman fiddling with a black ring on her index finger. Another one’s phone played The Ink Spots’ We’ll Meet Again, the headphone jack loosely connected, enough for anyone close to hear and sigh. A man flipped through the newspaper, earnestly reading about world politics that had a travel column with picture of the Carpathian Mountains.

Then there were less-than-obvious things, such as mistaking an exiled prince for a ruthless murderer. Anyone could assume anything, which is why people wrote books about this feeling.

The window through which Emily saw the stations pass by, as the hollow tube careened through the twisted tunnels deep in the underground, were huge. As tall as what she recalled a French window would look like. The coughs around her were uncomfortable, but familiar in a way buttered toast was familiar to the tongue. A person loudly opened a pack of thin mints, hungrily eating through, sleep-deprived with a flask of coffee next to them. 

Businesspeople-with-briefcases loudly swore into their phones, tired of placing their tenth international call that day. A faint hint of lemon and piss reminded her of the dark alleyways with just one voice to focus on, apart from her own breathing. 

There were pleasanter things to look at-- say the kind of books people read: pirate fantasy, fantasy fiction, Blades of Light and Shadow-knockoffs, more pirates, self-help books, enemies-to-acquaintances romances, contemporary lit, poetry. Books with knives on the cover, books with eyes on the cover. Girls in black hoodies reading them. Boys in corduroy jackets aimlessly mulling over the same sentence over and over again - stuck in some endless time loop. 

Scratch that. They were all more than obvious things. Clear as day.

Like a hamster wheel, Emily had perfected this routine. It was either the T, the taxi or driving. She kept her options open. For breakfast, it was either plain wheat toast or cereal -some form of carbohydrates that’d help her get around. Hair falling flat in clipped bangs, a dress shirt, jacket and trousers - inside her pocket: phones, keys, wallet. She allowed herself very little room to think, whilst keeping her choices spread out quite neatly.

This felt strange. Fixating on one specific thing. It’s what her therapists have told her: “Just stop thinking! Journal things down if you fixate on a thought over and over again!” as if it were that simple. She’d written some down, before tossing them in the fireplace because letters -scalded or not didn’t bring her father back.

Her phone rang. A visible ‘T’ popped up on her screen, before she exhaled.

“No, I don’t want whatever you’re selling. Fuck off.” she hung up on the telemarketer. They’d gotten out of hand these days. From dating manuals to ring-up dinner services, it was getting fairly ridiculous. It had been a while since she had something new to divert her attention to. A rush of adrenaline coursed through her as she moved away for a tall man with a black blazer to enter through the doors. She kept her eyes on the ground from then on.

All of them carried shopping for the holiday season. The markets did open earlier in those weeks. Snow was coming. Blizzard warnings were issued through news tickers and psychic warnings. You could have snow, you could enjoy it, but never too much of it. Summed up Emily quite astutely. A coffee she liked today would belittle her with guilt tomorrow. What guilt? She’d have no idea. 

It was just a familiar feeling. If love (personified) were to stalk you stealthily, this must be what it feels like.

The people on the T were just people - ordinary people with ordinary griefs who were trying to be someone- wear a certain brand of shampoo to appease their partners, take off their wedding rings when meeting other people, barbers hiding scissors and telling pretty dates they were billionaires with a dark past of tax fraud, mothers lying to other mothers they never had a child before, priests giving sermons in the morning and drinking at night. Not many people were lucky.

Everywhere they went, they were reminded with this familiar feeling of being there. It called for this necessity to be cautious, be watchful, always on edge. Do a little Superman swap with the glasses and everything, because you didn't know if the feeling was there to stay.

Emily wore an array of faces for all sorts of these fleeting feelings.

A brave one for Mafalda. Only the bravest reserved for her boss.

Something witty for Luke and Ruby so they didn’t get bored at their desks. Another courageous one for Uncle Tommy.

One for Jimmy with clean hands and a presentable face; to tell him she’d been holding up okay and hoped he’d like peonies instead of tulips. Sick sobs later on. Nobody had to know.

A stern one for the T, so people didn’t cross her and something hopeful for her clients. Sometimes she’d let the face fall, just for a second, to take a bite of her marshmallow-filled sandwich or watch the window run through stations like a blur but fortunately only one took notice. 

And maybe something for Trystan. He was always good at seeing past these faces anyway. Which is why it made it even more difficult. How was she supposed to tell him, when she wore them for so long it was difficult to discern if it was real or not?

***

The train doors opened and she got off at her stop. Right in the front was a tabloid poster stuck to the pillars of the walls. It was funny how quick word got around about Trystan’s antics. Even New York had to stick them on walls like a you-must-remember-this because each day was different from the rest.

Slam poetry went on in one corner, as were some saxophone players some morning, breezy tunes - all plagiarised anyway. People paid to have something written for them. Emily watched a man tuck in a picture of his beloved’s in his wallet, before taking out the right wad of cash to have someone compose something on the spot as an early sentimental Christmas present to take home and surprise the partner with. One could also fill it up with gimmicks; like a band of kids sticking ‘kick me’ to a banker man’s shoulder. 

There were always firsts during the end of the year. The banker man had a book from the New York Public Library under his arm - one about Christmas desserts because he didn’t want to have his wife do the cooking, preferably. A first. Kids who never read, read books, just to come up with a kickass end-of-term essay. Likely.

People who never took pictures had armfuls stuffed in their wallets, so much so they’d mistake it for cash at least half a dozen times. Subway jazz players decided to pick up the violin just to play Billboard’s Top 10 in a classic flair; the others biting their tongues because they didn’t think of it first. Very very strange. 

A leap of faith into the new year, a leap of faith into January, February, March, April - twelve months, twelve years, well God knows how long and the tunnels would still somehow exist and people would be walking back and forth, the subway would continue to play all kinds of music until they’d rid it entirely out of existence, people stuffing novelties into their bags until they invented bigger bags - it was suffocating. This familiar feeling that Emily shared with everyone else spiralled into madness. She had to tell him. She had to. 

Bit on the nose to do it over the holidays, no?

Yeah, well, people were lucky. Some people, in the movies, happened to get the perfect time, with the perfect bit of snow. Others had messier stories that made good pub discussions or over-the-phone conversations on the train. God, the amount of love stories were palpable. Friends meeting friends. Family hugging family. Relationships broken and forged. Everything was familiar because Emily had been there - keenly listening to every conversation ever. She’d stopped listening to her daily discography of Fiona Apple a long time ago. Not exactly a gossip person, her, no. Never. Then again, it was familiar. Wasn’t exactly a new thing. 

The station was immortalised in this constant state of being, that only the obvious things changed.

For starters, the entirety of the subway station worked synchronously, like the parts of a Rube Goldberg machine: the marble rolling down an inclined plane, setting off a car to lodge into a wedge before tossing a spatula at a wheel-and-axle mechanism that began rotating spontaneously, tugging at a pulley entwined around its circumference. The pulley, mounted on a screw, does the job of sending a bucket of more marbles rolling down the plane. Today, there was chaos. Disorderliness. An apparent lack of a taser and a serving tray. The less-than-obvious disarray was her bread and butter as a private eye. While things looked that way, people clamouring in and out instead of the neat files they were used to. 

A hint of the nicer cologne would cause her to turn in the other direction. The PA announcer switched people every now and then, so anyone with a jaunty voice would make Emily tilt her head upwards. Packets of stale bagels were sold in pop-up shops, one with avocado shmears, cream cheese and chilli flakes. Any signs of black jackets or shoes that were a little too polished garnered her attention.

Talks about breakfast food gripped her ears as if someone were twisting them. Very strange. Wasn’t exactly a sign to do “anything” per se. People saw loads of signs in her line of work. You’d classify most of them under a crime involving a sudden strong impulse rather than driven by thought.

It wasn’t exactly required for her to tell him anything. No obligation. No requirement to wear a face, but also no requirement against wearing one. Each set off a different Rube Goldberg machine in progress, until it repeated itself in a loop.

Santa Claus (1989) was technically the ‘first’ Christmas movie. Then sparked the invention of the Hallmark confessions. Even more movies were made with a jaunty holiday theme. You don’t save just one picture of someone on your phone when they mean a lot to you. No. One family photo doubles into seven by the time the phone turns a month old.

A couplet gets stitched together to form poems and poems set to music make pop anthems. Then back from pop anthems to Christmas movies to the crowds clamouring into the subway - being a private detective was a curse because your job involved figuring out connections like some grandeur Tetris championship even with the absence of any apparent signs.

Emily was going to need a big one with neon lighting to convince herself. Until then she knew she was going to be eating her breakfast, waiting and reading the train schedule over again after getting bored from listening to the saxophone player play the same two songs. 

Once again, why should it be over the holidays?

March, April and May were out. Her memory told her that was probably when her dad could have been murdered. Could have. Trauma did this weird thing to your head where it made you relate with strangers aboard a train, but made you a peeping tom character in your own life. She’d never taken laminated pictures or had really familiarised herself with pirate books or discerned between two different accents, but "Hey-- uh, when did her father die?" Somewhere, somewhere. September was out.

Emily dusted off the crumbs of breakfast from her jacket, wondering when the next train to Astoria would show up. Now wasn’t the time to really revisit anything or she’d be faster than light in letting go of her control on the wheel. 

The train to Astoria was packed but Emily didn’t have options. She squeezed into a comfortable spot, a hand on the railing, another on a pole. People with familiar shopping bags and familiar looking faces occupied the seats. Tired, sullen, babies to feed, partners to take care of. Some grief-stricken. Emily could see that.

She saw it in Diana, a kindred spirit who had lost her wife. She’d maintained a positive attitude, something Emily considered would be in the cards for her. Others bereaved the loss of another year; too tired to cling onto anymore but too cautious to let go. Body language said very little about the person, but how they interacted spoke miles. Emily used this little trick on her clients a lot - to separate fact from fiction. Now everything tasted like strawberries and dark chocolate.

She had to tell him.

The man on her left was loudly speaking to his divorce attorney. 

What’s the worst thing that can happen?

The woman on the right was fussing with her baby, almost as if the baby was so unwanted she had to stomach having her shopping bags on the sticky floor.

Well, a lot could go wrong. Emily knew the persistence of memory was like cheese on grilled bread. Spread evenly and made no fucking sense as a metaphor here. However, the memory was rather persistent to say the least. Anyway, what about memories anyway, if she couldn't differentiate between the kinds of love that existed, mostly because she'd much rather not deal with them at all? What about those faces anyway - when she had one for each of those familial, platonic, romantic ec ceteras; what's the point of wearing it and anticipating this massive attack which never comes? Does she owe Trystan the words back? Was this the perfect time? And why must it always revolve around the fucking holiday season, when she was perfectly content two hours ago?

Emily felt like a commander anticipating an attack over the hill, when there was not even an enemy to wage war against.

 It was getting a little wacky now; the fact that the signs weren’t signs but more of her mind wanting to occupy everything else. Very strange. Snow did not make things better. The Drakovian Palace looked majestic in all the rain and hail they had, but even water couldn’t dissolve Vasili’s blood from her fingernails. 

A leap of faith. There was nothing much to it besides that. You just did it. People had other ideas. Step one, take them to a fancy dinner date. Second, let them order whatever they want. Third, begin a comprehensive powerpoint of your relationship history. Fourth, rehearse your speech a thousand times. Five, confess. Six, home. People also advocated for the spontaneity of it. Both seemed tempting options. 

But did it have to be now?

Emily was stalling for time. It felt good to do that. She reasoned it with the fact that 'snow made things even more depressing' and she should think of another time to owe Trystan his words back.

Her phone rang again, lighting up with another ‘T’.

“For the last time, I don’t need-”

“Emily, Emily, Emily, it's me!"

“Oh- hi.”

"Just called to check erm-- where are you, though?"

“I’m on my way, Trystan. Give me --” Emily flicked her wrist to check her watch. “Fifteen minutes?” - It was a lucky guess. The ride would take her thirteen minutes, with a quick brisk two-minute walk to Astoria Forensics.

“Right-o.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I am kind of tackling a heavy object. You’re on speaker phone by the way.”

“Anyone else with you?”

“That is your concern? I am literally dying out here.”

“I’m only assuming Ruby gave you the task of taking the Christmas tree out."

“Why does a forensics facility need a Christmas tree? And why me? Everyone else’s got the more fun duties!”

“Well, you could start with being not dramatic. I've been on tree duty and it isn't all that bad."

“Very astute advice, Rose. Ten-out-of-ten. Much advice, such-- argh! The twigs! One of them poked my eye! In the name of everything holy, this tree deserves to be burnt!”

Emily laughed. “Stop dicking around! The sooner you get it done, the sooner you can swipe some cookies off of Michael Dodd's tray."

“I hope there isn't some underlying subtext in there-"

“Why--" Emily inhaled sharply, "-Why would there be hidden subtex-- they're warm cookies!"

"Oh my god, cookies! I can't wait to get my hands on those delicious little treats as a reward for all this grunt-work!"

"Your sarcasm is duly noted."

"Mind getting here a little faster?"

"I think I'll take a detour and get some coffee."

“Your helping tendencies are atrocious!”

"Did you call me just to tell me to get there?"

"Is it not the purpose of a phone call?"

"The purpose of this phone call is--" Emily trailed off for a second, watching the stations zip past from the window.

The harsh lighting outside softened to a sun’s glow. The train moved at such a speed that made the tunnel look snow-white. The train was quiet and you could hear a pin drop, like all those lonely streets Emily had to walk through to go home. 

Only now, she had a hand to hold. She met the man-with-photographs-of-his-wife who nodded at something that wasn’t there. The other man with the cookbook was going through each page with such care and thought, scanning every word to ensure he had the recipe memorised to do it over and over again - regardless of whether tis or tis wasn’t the season.

Bags of shopping promptly disappeared from her view, replaced with more people filing in, latched onto each other’s arms. An elderly woman was peeling oranges for her grandchildren. Kids pointed and took pictures of the subway to be printed and stuffed in deep pockets.

Emily hated the idea of a perfect time. She loathed the idea of signs, even though they had some objective weight to them. She'd rather wear a hundred faces if it meant she didn't have to take any leaps of any faiths and would only reluctantly offer up something if there was a deed to check off from a list.

But when it was so easy for a grandmother to hug the two little girls she'd taken out for the morning, to tell them she loved her so much and she was scared that they'd get an awful cold from the unpredictable weather. When it was easy for the man with the pictures to kiss his wife's photograph, smiling at his selection of flowers for her grave and not let her be alone for a second; even though it was the bravest, biggest leap of faith he'd taken and everything seemed so large and intimidating. When it was easy for those hooligan teens, appearing cold and uninterested, to drape an arm around each other, give them a little punch in the shoulder and tell them 'Hey it'll be okay' when nobody else at home did.

There was no perfect time, no perfect sign and well, faces were bullshit anyway. Emily wanted to be able to take a step forth.

“--I love you.”

There was a long pause. Then Trystan’s voice crackled over the phone-

“Yeah well, this does not exempt you from helping me out with -- goddamn this tree! To hell with you and your manufacturer, tree!”

“No, I mean it.”

“Of course I know that. I love you too."

“I -- erm -- yes, yes, of course-- you did tell me."

"You know, you don't have to say it just because it is an obligation."

“I know that. I know. It’s just --” Emily took a deep breath. "The words matter, don't they?"

She saw two strangers on her train mouth something at each other. Emily figured it out to be something-something 'happy holidays'. It boggled her mind sometimes. How while people wore faces, some of them let it fall.

“No it does not.”

“Wonderful. I prepared and -- looked at the signs and everything and-- I have about thirty strangers looking at me like I’ve gone fucking crazy.”

“What do you mean you had to prepare and 'look for the signs'-- this tree!"

"Maybe you can deal with the tree and call me back?"

"Emily, you don't have to transcribe it into words. You make me feel loved everyday. And I don't have to tell you that either, because you already know, somewhere. Semantics matter very less to me."

"I don't know -- it is the season and everything."

"The only thing that matters to me is that you aren't afraid."

"Afraid of what?"

"Of losing me to something that you have to punctuate your actions with words."

"No that isn't it. I'm -- nervous if I don't say it now, I won't ever say it."

"Keep waiting for the perfect time, darling. By that time, you would be knee-deep into dissecting for the right sign, you'd fail to notice you were loving with all your heart all along. I love you."

Trystan hung up the phone, giving Emily a lot of things to think about. The Obvious Thing wasn't around her; rather within her. She didn't owe him the words, she said so because she felt like it.

Something about the power of kissing your friends and hugging your lovers. Weren’t the songs singing something about it?

Regardless of any common ground, you could find warmth in a bullied banker man with a briefcase of letters he was taking to his husband’s graveyard, a team of single moms carrying wreaths with a flurry of “excuse me!” and “sorry about that, pal!”.

Kids hunched over on benches, playing a game on their phone while their fathers scoured through maps to make sure they were in the right station - those limited edition scooters were in a shop in Queens, but where in Queens? Relatives greeted each other by fussing over how skinny and hollow the others had gotten. The smell of a morning bagel and coffee filled the air as Emily walked down the platform, amidst the 10 o’clock crowd.

A troop of amateur singers were belting out to I’m Beginning To See The Light, a Yamaha keyboard keeping the band afloat. Emily stood by to listen for a few seconds, before walking down the same chaotic line of crowd to the subway’s entrance.

***

A/N : Happy holidays and a happier new year @moominofthevalley! Honestly I was super into how you incorporate a lot of contemporary elements into your story and I want this to be all about them vibes, y'know? I'm also taking a gamble here with writing a New York setting because it's quite chaotic from what I've heard, but I hope it is an accurate enough of a depiction to have people from all kinds of backgrounds and life stories in one place.

It was also a bit of an uphill climb getting to know Emily as a person too. She's very perceptive as a character from what I've gathered, no-nonsense and does this thing where she's able to connect a bunch of discrete things together. I also wanted to shed some light on her Filipino heritage, fondness for poetry, music and her inner battles with dealing with intense emotions like grief and love. It was so great getting to know her! I really really hope I was able to get her view of the world right or at least, resembling something right. I also hope I was able to sneak in a bit of Trystan lore in as well.

I know it's a bit late for Christmas (it's already the 26th here), but I hope it still has some of that festive-cheer esque vibes. (Also I'm not sure if this is a canon-breaking fic-- I'm so sorry if it is!)

Thank you so much for reading!

***

#choices secret pal event #moominofthevalley #trystan thorne x emily rose #crimes of passion fic #gifts for friends