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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 6 days

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1968 [Chapter 9: Dionysus, God Of Ecstasy]

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

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

Word Count: 5.9k

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The October surprise is a great American tradition. As the phases of the moon revolve towards Election Day, the candidates and their factions seek to ruin each other. Lies are told, truths are exposed, Tyche smiles and Achlys brews misery, poison, the fog of death that grows over men like ivy. The stars align. The wolves snap their jaws.

In 1844, an abolitionist newspaper falsely accused James K. Polk of branding his slaves like cattle. In 1880, a letter supposedly authored by James Garfield—in actuality, forged by a New York journalist—welcomed Chinese immigrants in an era when they were being lynched by xenophobic mobs in Los Angeles and San Francisco. In 1920, a rumor emerged that Warren Harding had Black ancestry, an allegation his campaign fervently denied to keep the support of the Southern states. In 1940, FDR’s press secretary assaulted a police officer outside of Madison Square Garden. In 1964, one of LBJ’s top aids was arrested for having gay sex at the Washington D.C. YMCA.

Now, in 1968, Senator Aemond Targaryen of New Jersey is realizing that he will not be the beneficiary of the October surprise he’s dreamed of: his wife’s redemptive pregnancy, a blossoming first family. There is a civil rights protest that turns into a riot in Milwaukee; this helps Nixon, the candidate of law and order. For every fire lit and window shattered, he sees a bump in the polls from businessowners and suburbanites who fear anarchy. Breaking news of the My Lai massacre—committed back in March but only now brought to light—airs on NBC, horrifying the American public and bolstering support for Aemond, the man who has vowed to begin ending the war as soon as he’s sworn into office. The two contestants are deadlocked. Election Day could be a photo finish.

Nixon is in Texas. Wallace is in Arkansas. In Florida, Aemond visits the Kennedy Space Center and pledges to fulfill JFK’s promise to put a man on the moon by 1970. He makes a speech at the Mary McLeod Bethune Home commending her work as an educator, philanthropist, and humanitarian. He greets soldiers at the Naval Air Station in Pensacola. He feeds chickens to the alligators at the Saint Augustine Alligator Farm Zoological Park.

But it is not the senator the crowds cheer loudest for. It is his wife, his future first lady, here in her home state where she staunched her husband’s hemorrhaging blood and appeared before his well-wishers still marked with crimson handprints. In Tarpon Springs, she and Aemond attend mass at the Saint Nicholas Greek Orthodox Cathedral and pray at an altar made of white marble from Athens. Then they stand on the docks as flashbulbs strobe all around them, watching sponge divers reappear from the depths, breaking through the bubbling sapphire water like Heracles ascending to Mount Olympus.

~~~~~~~~~~

You kick off your high heels, tear the pins and clips out of your hair, and flop down onto the king-sized bed in your suite at the Breakers Hotel. It’s the same place Aemond was almost assassinated five months ago. He has returned in triumph, in defiance. He cannot be killed. It is God’s will.

You are alone for these precious fleeting moments. Aemond is in Otto’s suite discussing the itinerary for tomorrow: confirmations, cancellations, reshufflings. You pick up the pink phone from the nightstand on Aemond’s side of the bed and dial the number for the main house at Asteria. It’s 9 p.m. here as well as there. Through the window you can see inky darkness and the kaleidoscopic glow of the lights of Palm Beach. The Zenith radio out in the kitchenette is playing Satisfaction by the Rolling Stones. No intercession from Eudoxia is necessary this time; Aegon answers on the second ring.

“Yeah?” he says, slow and lazy like he’s been smoking something other than Lucky Strikes.

“Hey.” And then after a pause, twirling the phone cord around your fingers as you stare up at the ceiling: “It’s me.”

“Oh, I know. Should I take off my pants, or…?” He’s only half-joking.

You smile. “That was stupid. Someone could have bugged the phone.”

“You think Nixon’s guys are wiretapping us? Give me a break. They’re goddamn buffoons. They’re too busy telling cops to beat hippies to death.” You hear him taking a drag off his joint, envision him sprawled across his futon and enshrouded in smoke. “Everything okay down there in the swamp?”

You shrug, even though Aegon can’t see you. “It’s fine.”

“Just fine?”

“My parents were there when we stopped in Tarpon Springs. They kept telling everyone how proud they are of me, and I just felt so…dishonest.”

“Of course they’re proud. If Aemond wins, the war ends and more civil rights bills get passed and this hell we’ve all been living in since 1963 goes away.”

“I miss you,” you confess.

“You’ll be back soon to enjoy me in all my professional loser glory.” He’s right: Aemond’s entourage will spend Halloween at Asteria. You’ll take the children trick-or-treating around Long Beach Island—with journalists in tow, of course—and then host a party with plentiful champagne and Greek hors d’oeuvres, one last reprieve before the momentous slog towards Election Day on November 5th, a reward for the campaign staffers and reporters who have served Aemond so well. “What are you going to dress up as?”

“Someone happy,” you say, and Aegon chuckles, low and sardonic. “Actually, nothing. Aemond and Otto have decided that it would be undignified for the future president and first lady to be photographed in costumes, so I will be wearing something festive yet not at all fun.”

“Aemond has always been somewhat confused by the concept of fun.”

“What are you going to be for Halloween?”

You can hear the grin in his voice as he exhales smoke. “A cowboy.”

“A cowboy,” you repeat, giggling. “You aren’t serious.”

“Extremely serious. I protect the cows, I comfort the cows, I breed the cows…”

“You are mentally ill. You belong in an asylum.”

“I ride the cows…”

“Cowboys do not ride cows.”

“Maybe this one does.”

“I thought you liked being ridden.”

Aegon groans with what sounds like genuine discomfort. “Don’t tease me. You know I’m celibate at the moment.”

“Miraculous. Astonishing. The Greek Orthodox Church should canonize you. What have you been doing with all of your newfound free time?”

“Taking the kids out sailing, hiding from Doxie, trying not to step on the Alopekis…and playing Battleship with Cosmo. He has a very loose understanding of the rules.”

“He does. I remember.”

“He keeps asking when you’ll be back.”

“Really?” you ask hopefully.

“Yeah, it’s cute. And he calls you Io because he heard me do it.”

“Not an appropriate myth for children, I think.”

“Cosmo’s what, seven years old?”

“Five.”

“Close enough. I think I knew about death and torment and Zeus being a slut by then.”

“And you have no resulting defects whatsoever.” You roll over onto your belly and slide open the drawer of the nightstand. Instead of the card Aegon gave you at Mount Sinai—you’ve forgotten that you’re on Aemond’s side of the bed—you find something bizarre, unexpected, just barely able to fit. “Oh my God, there’s a…there’s a Ouija board in the nightstand!”

Aegon laughs incredulously. “There’s a what?!”

“A Ouija board!” You sit upright and shimmy it out, holding the phone to your ear with one shoulder. The small wooden planchette slides off the board and clatters against the bottom of the drawer. “Why the hell would Aemond have this…?”

“He’s trying to summon the ghost of JFK to stab Nixon.”

“Oh wow, it’s heavy.” You skim your fingertips over the black numbers and letters etched into the wooden board. There’s something ominous about the Good Bye written across the bottom. You can’t beckon the dead into the land of the living without reminding them that they aren’t welcome to stay.

“Aemond is such a freak. Is it a Parker Brothers one, like for kids…?”

“No, I think it’s custom made. It feels substantial, expensive. Hold on, there’s something engraved on the back.” You flip over the Ouija board so you can see what your hands have already felt. The inscription reads in onyx cursive letters: No ghosts can harm you. The stars were never better than the day you were born. With love through all the ages, Alys.

“What’s it say?” Aegon asks from his basement at Asteria.

You’re staring down at the Ouija board, mystified. “Who’s Alys?”

Instead of an answer, Aegon gives you a deep sigh. “Oh. Yeah, she would give him something like that. Fucking creepy witch bullshit.”

“Aegon, who’s Alys?” She’s his mistress. She has to be. It fills your skull like flashbulbs, like lightning: Aemond climbing on top of another woman, conquering her, owning her, binding her up in his mythology like a spider building a web. And what you feel when the shock begins to dissolve isn’t envy or pain or betrayal but—strangely, paradoxically—hope. “She’s his girl, right?”

“Please don’t be mad at me for not telling you,” Aegon says. “There wasn’t a good time. When I hated you I didn’t care if he was fucking around, and then after what happened in New York I didn’t want to hurt you, I didn’t know how you’d take it. It’s not your fault, there’s nothing wrong with you. She was here first. He’d have kept Alys around if he married Aphrodite herself.”

“I’m not mad.” You’re distracted, that’s what you are; you’re plotting. “Where is she?”

“She lives in Washington state. I’m not sure exactly where, I think Aemond moves her a lot. He doesn’t want anyone to see him around and start noticing a pattern. Neighbors, shopkeepers, cops, whoever.”

“Washington.” Just like when Ari died. Just like when Aemond didn’t come back. “Who knows about her?”

“Just the family. Fosco and Mimi found out because when they married in, the fights were still happening. Otto and Viserys demanding he give Alys up, Aemond refusing. It’s the only thing he ever did wrong, the only line he drew. He said he needed her. She could never be his first lady, but she could be something else.”

“His mistress.”

“Yeah,” Aegon says reluctantly. “Are you…are you okay?”

“I’m okay. What’s wrong with Alys?”

“What?”

“Why couldn’t Aemond marry her?”

“I mean, she’s the type of psycho who gives people Ouija boards, first of all,” Aegon says. “And she’s…she’s not educated. Her family’s trash. She’s older than Aemond. Hell, she’s older than me. She would be an unmitigated disaster on the campaign trail. She unnerves people. But Aemond, he…”

“He loves her,” you whisper, reading the engraving on the back of the board again. “And she loves him.”

“I guess. Whatever love means to them.”

A thought occurs to you, the first one to bring you pain like a needle piercing flesh. “Does she have children?”

Again, Aegon sounds reticent to disclose this. “A boy. Aemond’s the father.”

“How old?”

“I don’t know, I think he’s around ten now.”

And that’s Aemond’s true heir. Not Ari, not any others he would have with me. That place in his heart is taken. He couldn’t mourn the loss of our son because he already has one with the woman he loves.

Out in the living room of the suite, you hear the front door open. There are footsteps, Aemond’s polished black leather shoes.

Aegon is asking: “Are you sure you’re okay? Hello? Babe? Hello? Are you still there?”

“I’m fine. I gotta go.”

“Wait, no, not yet—!”

“Bye.” You hang up the phone and wait for Aemond to discover you. You’re still clutching the Ouija board. You’re perched on the edge of the bed like something ready to pounce, to kill.

Aemond opens the bedroom door, navy blue suit, blonde hair short and slicked back, his eyepatch covering his empty left socket. He’s begun wearing his eyepatch in public more often—not for every appearance, but for some of them—and whoever finally convinced him to concede this battle wasn’t you. His right eye goes to you and then to the Ouija board in your hands. He doesn’t speak or move to take the board, only studies you warily.

“I know about her,” you tell him.

Still, Aemond says nothing.

“Alys,” you press. “She’s your mistress. You’re in love with her.”

“I did not intend to hurt you.” His words are flat, steely.

“I’m not hurt, Aemond.”

“You shouldn’t have ever known about this. I apologize for not being more discrete. It was a lapse in judgment.” But what he regrets most, you think, is that his secret is less contained, more imperiled.

“What we have is a political arrangement,” you say. The desperation quivers in your voice. “You don’t love me, you never have, and now we can be open about it. You need me to win the White House, but that’s all. Your true companion is elsewhere. I want the same thing.”

He steps closer, eye narrowing, iris glinting coldly, puzzled like he couldn’t have understood you correctly. “What?”

“I want to be permitted to have my own happiness outside of this imitation of a marriage.”

“No,” Aemond says instantly.

Your stomach sinks, dark iron disappointment. “But…but…why?”

“Because I don’t trust you to not get caught. Because I need to be sure that I am the father of the children you’ll give birth to. And because as my wife you are mine, and mine alone.”

Tears brim in your eyes; embers burn in your throat. “You’re asking for my life. My whole life, all of it, everything I’ll ever experience, everything I’ll ever feel. I get one chance on this planet and you’re stealing it away from me.”

“Yes,” Aemond agrees simply.

“So where’s my consolation?” you demand. “You get Alys, so where’s mine?”

“What do you want?”

You don’t reply, but you glare at your husband with eternal rage like Hera’s, with fatal vitriol like Medusa’s.

“You think I don’t know about that little card you keep in your nightstand?” Aemond is furious, betrayed. “You used to hate him.”

“I was wrong.”

“Because he was at Mount Sinai and I wasn’t? Three days undid everything we’ve ever been to each other? Our oaths, our ambitions?!”

“No,” you say, tears slipping down the contours of your cheeks. “Because he’s real. He doesn’t try to manipulate people into loving him, he doesn’t pretend to be someone he’s not, when he’s cruel it’s because he means it and when he’s kind that’s genuine too. And he wants to know me, who I really am. Not the woman I have to act like to get you elected. Not who you’re trying to turn me into—”

Aemond has crossed the room, grabbed the front of your teal Chanel dress, and yanked you to your feet. The Ouija board jolts out of your hands and lands on the carpet unharmed. Your long hair is in disarray, your eyes wide and fearful. You try to push Aemond away, but he ignores you. You can’t sway him. You’ve never been able to. “Aegon has nothing to his name except what this family gives him,” Aemond snarls, hushed, hateful. His venom is not for his brother but for you. You have upended the natural order of things. You have dared to deny Zeus what he has been divinely granted dominion over. “You would jeopardize his wellbeing, his access to his children? You would ruin yourself? You would doom this nation? If you cost me the election, every drop of blood spilled is on your hands, every body bag flown home from Vietnam, every martyr killed by injustice here. What you ask for is worse than being a traitor and a whore. It is sacrilege.”

“Let go of me—”

“And there’s one more thing.” Aemond pulls you closer so he knows you’re paying attention. You’re sobbing now, trembling, choking on his cologne, shrinking away from his furnace-heat wrath. “Aegon isn’t capable of love. Not the kind you’re imagining. He gets infatuated, and he uses people, and then he moves on. You think he never charmed Mimi, never made her feel cherished by him? And look how she ended up. I’m trying to carve your name into legend beside mine. Aegon will take you to your grave.”

Your husband shoves you away, storms out of the bedroom, slams the door so hard the walls quake.

~~~~~~~~~~

Parading down streets like the victors of a fallen city, jack-o-lanterns keeping watch with their laceration grins of firelight. Hecate is the goddess of witchcraft, Hades rules the Underworld, Selene is the half-moon peeking through clouds in an overcast sky. The stars elude you.

The children—ghosts, pirates, princesses, witches—dash from doorstep to doorstep like soldiers in Vietnam search tunnels. They smile and pose in their outfits when the journalists prompt them, beaming and waving, showing off their Dots, Tootsie Pops, Sugar Daddies, Smarties, Razzles, and candy cigarettes before depositing them in the plastic orange pumpkins that swing from their wrists. Only Cosmo, dressed as Teddy Roosevelt with lensless glasses and a stuffed lion thrown over one shoulder, stays with the adults. He is the last one to each house, approaching the doorway reticently like it might swallow him up, inspiring fond chuckles and encouragement from the reporters. He clutches your hand and hides behind you when towering monsters lumber by: King Kong, Frankenstein, vampires with fake blood spilling from their mouths.

Aemond wears a black suit with orange accents: tie, pocket square, socks. You glimmer in a black dress dotted with white stars, clicking down the sidewalk in boots that run to your knees, silver eyeshadow, heavy liner. You almost look your own age. There are large star-shaped barrettes in your pinned-up hair, bent glinting metal. As the reporters snap photos of you and Cosmo walking together, they shout: “You’ll be such a great mother one day, Mrs. Targaryen!”

Fosco is Ettore Boiardi—better known as Chef Boyardee—an Italian immigrant who came through Ellis Island in 1914 with a dream of opening a spaghetti business. Helaena, Alicent, and Ludwika are, respectively, Alice, Wendy, and Cinderella; Ludwika clops along resentfully in her puffy sleeves and too-small clear stilettos. Criston is Peter Pan. Aegon wears a white button-up shirt, cow print vest, ripped jeans, brown leather boots, a cowboy hat that’s too big for him, and a green bandana knotted around his throat. He stays close to you and Cosmo because he can, here where the journalists expect to see him being a devoted father and active participant in the family business of mending a tattered America. Teenagers are fleeing their families to join hippie communes and draftees in Vietnam are getting their limbs blown off and junkies are shooting up on the streets of New York and Chicago and Los Angeles, but here we see a happy family, a perfect family, a holy trinity that thanks the devotees who offer them tribute. Otto, who neglected to don a disguise, glares at you murderously. You have failed to give Aemond a living child. You have dared to want things for yourself.

Back at Asteria in the main house, the children empty their plastic pumpkins on the living room floor and sort through their saccharine treasures, making trades and bargains: “I’ll do your math homework if you give me those Swedish Fish,” “I’ll let you ride my bike for a week if I can have your Mallo Cup.” While the other adults ply themselves with champagne and chain smoke away the stress of the campaign trail, Aegon gets his Caribbean blue Gibson guitar and sits on the couch playing I’m A Believer by The Monkees. The kids clap and sing along between intense confectionary negotiations. Cosmo wants to share his candy cigarettes with you; you pretend to smoke together as sugar melts on your tongue.

Now the children have been sent to bed—mollified with the promise of homemade apple pies tomorrow, another occasion to be documented by swarms of clamoring journalists—and the house becomes a haze of smoke and indistinct conversation and music from the record player. Platters of appetizers have appeared on the dining room table: pita, tzatziki, hummus, melitzanosalata, olives, horiatiki, mini spanakopitas, baklava. Women are chattering about the painstaking labor they put into costumes and men are scheming to deliver death blows to Nixon, setbacks in Vietnam, Klan meetings in Mississippi. Aemond is knocking back Old Fashioneds with Otto and Sargent Shriver. Fosco is dancing in the living room with drunk journalists. Eudoxia is muttering in Greek as she aggressively paws crumbs off of couches and tabletops. Thick red candles flicker until wax melts into a pool of blood at the base.

Through the veil of cigarette smoke and the rumbling bass of Season Of The Witch, Aegon finds you when no one is looking, and you know it’s him without having to turn around. His hand is the only one that doesn’t feel heavy when it skims around your waist. He whispers, soft grinning lips to your ear, rum and dire temptation like Orpheus looking back at Eurydice: “Let’s do some witchcraft.”

You know where Aemond keeps the Ouija board. You take it out of the top drawer of his nightstand in your bedroom with blue walls and portraits of myths in captive frames. Then you descend with Aegon into the basement, down like Persephone when summer ends, down like women crumbling under Zeus’s weight. You remember to lock the door behind you. You’re not high—you can’t smoke grass in a house full of guests who could smell it and take it upon themselves to investigate—but you feel like you are, that lightness that makes everything more bearable, the surreal tilt to the universe, awake but dreaming, truth cloaked in mirages.

Aegon has stolen three red candles from upstairs. He hands one to you, keeps a second for himself, and places the third on his end table beside a myriad of dirty cups. You glimpse at his ashtray and a folded corner of the receipt that’s still tucked beneath it, and you think: I have my card, Aegon has his receipt, Aemond has his Ouija board. I wonder what Alys likes to keep close when she sleeps. Then Aegon clicks off the lamp so the only light is from the flickering candles.

He tosses away his cowboy boots, hat, vest and is down on the green shag carpet with you, his hair messy, his white shirt half-unbuttoned. He’s taking sips of Captain Morgan straight from the glass bottle. He’s lighting a Lucky Strike with the wick of his candle and then giving it to you to puff on as he places the planchette on the board. “Wait, how do we start?”

You exhale smoke, setting your candle down on the carpet and then tugging off your own boots with some difficulty. “We have to say hello.”

“Okay.” Aegon places his fingertips on one side of the heart-shaped planchette and you rest yours lightly on the other. He begins doubtfully: “Hello…?”

“Is there anyone who would like to send us a message from the other side this evening?”

“You’ve done this before,” Aegon accuses.

“I have. In college.”

“With a guy?”

You chuckle, taking a drag as the cigarette smolders between your fingers. “No, with my friends. It’s not really a date activity.”

“I think it’s very romantic. Candles, darkness, danger, who’s gonna protect you when the ghosts start throwing things around…”

“You’d fight a ghost for me?”

“Depends on the ghost. FDR? You got it. I can take a guy in a wheelchair. Teddy? No ma’am. You’re on your own.”

“Which ghost should we summon?”

Aegon ponders this for a moment. “John F. Kennedy, are you in this basement with us right now?”

“That is wrong, that is so wrong.”

“Then why are you smiling?” Aegon says. “JFK, how do you feel about Johnson fucking up your legacy?”

“That is not the kind of question you’re supposed to ask. We’re not on 60 Minutes.”

“JFK, do you haunt the White House?” Aegon drags the planchette to the Yes on the board. “Oh no, I’m scared.”

“You are a cheater, this is a fraudulent Ouija board session.” You put your cigarette out in the ashtray and then take a swig from Aegon’s rum bottle. “JFK, are we gonna make it to the moon before 1970?”

Aegon pulls the planchette to the No. “Damn, Io, bad news. Guess the Russians win the Space Race and then eradicate capitalism across the globe. No more beach houses. No more Mr. Mistys.”

“Give me the planchette, you’re abusing your power.”

“No,” Aegon says, snickering as you try to wrestle it away from him. In his other hand he’s clutching his candle; scarlet beads of wax like blooddrops pepper your skin as you struggle, tiny infernos that burn exquisitely. Red like paint splatter appears on Aegon’s shirt. You grab the green bandana around his throat, but instead of holding him back you’re drawing him closer. The Ouija board and all the world’s ghosts are momentarily forgotten.

“You’re dripping wax on me—”

“Good, I want to get it all over you, then I want to peel it off and rip out your leg hair.”

You’re laughing hysterically as you pretend to try to shove him away. “I’m freshly shaved, you idiot.”

“Everywhere?” Aegon asks, intrigued.

You smirk playfully. “Almost.”

“Okay, let’s get you cleaned up.” Aegon sets his candle down on the carpet and strips away tacky dots of red wax: one from your forearm down by your wrist, another from your neck just below one of your silver hoop earrings, wax from your ankles and your calves and right above your knees. His fingertips are calloused from his guitar, from the ropes of his sailboat. They scratch roughly over you, chipping away who you’re supposed to be.

Then Aegon stops. You follow his gaze down. There is a smudge of wax on the inside of your thigh, extending beneath the hem of your dress, glittering black and white fabric that hides what is forbidden to him. Aegon’s eyes are on you, that troubled opaque blue, drunk and desperate and wild and afraid. With your fingers still hooked beneath his bandana, you say to him like a dare: “Now you’re going to stop?”

His palm skates up the smoothness of your thigh, and as he unpeels that last stain of red wax his other hand cradles your jaw and his lips touch yours, gently at first and then with the ravenousness of someone who’s been dying of thirst for centuries, starving since birth. You’re opening your legs wider for him, and his fingers do not stop at your thigh but climb higher until they are whisking your black lace panties away, exploring your folds and your wetness as his tongue darts between your lips, tasting something he’s been craving forever but only now stumbled into after four decades of darkness, trapped in you like Narcissus at his pool.

You are unknotting his green bandana and letting it fall to the shag carpet. You are unbuttoning the rest of his shirt so you can feel his chest, soft and warm and yielding, safe, real. The candlelight is flickering, the thumping bass of a song you can’t decipher pulsing through the floor above. Now beneath your dress Aegon’s fingers are pressing a place that makes your breath catch in your throat, makes you dizzy with need for him. He looks at you and you nod, and he reads in your face what you wanted to say months ago in this same basement: Don’t stop. Come closer.

Aegon lifts your dress over your head, nips at your throat as he unclasps your bra, and you are suddenly aware of how the cool firelit air is touching every part of you, how you are bare for him in a way you’ve never been before. You catch Aegon’s face in your hand before he can see the scar that runs down the length of your belly and say, your voice quiet and fragile: “Don’t look at me.”

Pain flashes in his eyes, furrows across his brow. “Stop,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead as you cling to him. Then he begins moving lower and you fall back onto the carpet, no blood on Aegon’s hands this time, only your sweat and lust for him, only crystalline evidence of a betrayal you’ve long ago already committed in your mind.

You’re combing your fingers through his hair and gasping as Aegon’s lips ghost down your scar, not something ruinous or shameful but a part of you, the beginning of your story together, the origin of your mythology. Then his mouth is on you—yearning, aching wetness—and you thought you knew what this felt like but it’s more powerful now, more urgent, and Aegon is glancing up to watch your face, to study you, to change what he’s doing as he follows your clues. And then there is a pang you think is too sharp to be pleasure, too close to helplessness, something that leaves you panting and shaking.

You jolt upright. “Wait…”

Aegon props himself up on his elbows. His full lips glisten with you. “What? What’d I do wrong?”

“No, it’s not you, it’s just…it’s like…” You can’t describe it. “It’s too…um…too intense or something. It’s like I couldn’t breathe.”

Aegon stares at you, his eyebrows low. After a long pause he says: “Babe, you’ve come before, right?”

I’ve what? “Yeah, of course, obviously. I mean…I think so?”

He’s stunned. He’s in disbelief. Then a grin splits across his face. “Lie back down.”

You’re nervous, but you trust him. If this costs you your life, you’ll pay it. He pushes your thighs farther apart and his tongue stays in one spot—where you touched yourself in the bathtub in Seattle, where you wanted him when he slipped his fingers into you for the first time—and suddenly the uneasy feeling is something raging and irresistible like a riptide in the Atlantic, something better than anything you knew existed, and you keep thinking it’s happened but it hasn’t yet, as you cover your face with your hands to smother your moans, as your hips roll and Aegon’s arms curl under your thighs to keep you in place so he can make you finish. It’s a release that is otherworldly, celestial, terrifying, divine. It’s something that rips the curtain between mortals and paradise.

It’s always like this for men? That’s what Aemond has been getting from me, that’s what I’ve been denied?

As you lie gasping on the carpet Aegon returns, smiling, kissing you, running his fingers through locks of hair that have escaped from your pins. “Not bad, right little Io?” he purrs, smelling like rum and minerals, earth and poison. Now he’s taking off his jeans, but before he can position himself between your legs you have pushed him onto his back and straddled him, pinning his wrists to the floor, watching the amazement ripple across his flushed face, the desire, the need. You tease Aegon, leaning in to nibble at his ear and bite gingerly at his throat, never harming him, never claiming him, grinding your hips against his and listening as his breathing turns quick and rough. Then you slip him inside you, this man you once hated, this man who was a stranger and then a curse and now a spell.

Aegon wants to be closer to you. He sits up as you ride him, hands on your face, in your hair, kissing you, inhaling you, shuddering, trying not to cry out as footsteps and laughter and thunderous basslines bleed through the ceiling. You know he’s been high on so many things—things that corrupt, things that kill—and you hope you can compare, this brief clean magic.

He can’t last; he finishes with a moan like he’s in agony, and as the motion of your hips slows, you take his jaw in your grasp and gaze down at him. “Good boy,” you say with a grin. Aegon laughs, exhausted, drenched in sweat, his hair sticking to his forehead. He embraces you so tightly you can feel the pounding of his heart, racing muscle beneath bones and skin.

He’s murmuring through your disheveled hair: “I gotta see you again, when can I see you again?”

You don’t know what to say. You don’t have an answer. You unravel yourself from Aegon and dress yourself in the red candlelight: panties, bra, dress, boots, all things that Aemond chose for you, all things he bought with his family’s money, all things he owns. Aegon has nothing to his name and neither do you. You are—like Fosco once said—pieces of the same machine.

“Where are you going?” Aegon asks, like he’s afraid of the answer.

“I have to go back upstairs to the party before someone realizes I’m missing.”

“Are you serious?”

“I am.” You kneel on the carpet to kiss him one last time, your palm on his cheek, his fingers clutching at your dress as he begs you not to leave. “I have to, I have to,” you whisper, and then you do.

You grab the Ouija board and planchette off the green shag carpet, hug them to your chest, and hurry up the steps. The first floor of the Asteria house is a maze of cigarette smoke and clinking glasses, guests who are dancing and cackling and drunk. From the record player strums Johnny Cash’s Ring Of Fire. You slip unnoticed to the staircase.

In the blue-walled bedroom you share with Aemond, you carefully place the Ouija board and planchette in the top drawer of his nightstand exactly as you found them. Then you go to your vanity to try to fix your hair. As you’re rearranging clips and pinning loose strands back into place, the door opens. Aemond is there, feeling beloved and invincible, looking for you. He crosses the room and closes his long fingers around your wrist. He wants you: under him, making children for him, possessed by him.

“Come to bed,” Aemond says.

“Not right now. I’m busy.”

“You aren’t busy anymore.”

“I told you no.”

He wrenches you from your chair. Instead of surrendering, you strike out, hitting him in the chest. You don’t harm him, you’re not strong enough, but genuine shock leaps into his scarred face.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” you hiss. You can’t let Aemond undress you; he will find the evidence of your treason, he will see it, feel it, taste it. But that’s not the only reason you stop him. “Every goddamn night I give you what you want, and exactly how you want it. Tonight I’m saying no. You want to take me? You’ll have to do it properly. I’m not going to give you the illusion of consent. You remember what Zeus did to all those women, right? Go ahead. Act like the god you think you are. But I’m going to fight you. And if those people downstairs hear me screaming, you can explain to them why.”

Aemond stares at you in the silvery light of the half-moon. You glare boldly back. At last he leaves and descends the staircase into an underworld of churning smoke, returning to the party to sip his Old Fashioneds and decide what to do with you.

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

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kiachiako · 10 months

Text

july nct recs

my library of favorites from JULY <3 all creds to authors

[ sorted by word count ]

series

MARK | volleyball for dummies (in love edition) | @ddeonuism — Mark Lee has been called many things. Dedicated was one of them and that dedication lead him into joining NeoTech College's well coveted Women's Volleyball team, the NeoTech Tigers, as their manager in hopes of winning the infamous setter, Y/N's heart. But there was one problem, being academically inclined did not come with the extensive knowledge of anything related to the sport and to put it simply, Mark Lee doesn't know shit about Volleyball.

[m] JOHNNY + JENO | switch | chain | @neopuppy — Johnny x female reader x Jeno, Jeno’s dad has got it going on AU, pwp, dc/nc, some angst, fluff

oneshots

MARK | safety zone | @cherryeoniis 19.1k — Mark Lee. The most perfect roommate and best friend that you could have asked for - except for the fact that he constantly messes up your laundry and can’t cook eggs very well. Even then, that doesn’t quite stop you from falling for him in your final year.

[m] HAECHAN | energizer bunny | @smileysuh 19.1k — hybrid au, brother!mark, bunny!reader

[m] MARK | give me the green light | @fadedncity 19k — street racing au, childhood friends to lovers, non idol au, college au, lil angst, fluff

JAEHYUN | contrariety and confluence | @hannie-dul-set 16.9K — there was not an instance in your life where your judgement was proven to be mistaken— especially with regards to infatuations outside of your own. after an unpredicted introduction with a far too remarkable farm boy, you took it upon yourself to find a suitable match for him, not realizing that perhaps this time; your usual correct judgements might have been incorrect.

JAEMIN | can't handle this | @hannie-dul-set 16k — how are you supposed to explain that you and na jaemin started dating just to prove each other wrong and ended up catching feelings.

JAEMIN | top of the world | @hannie-dul-set 15.6k — things had always been the same in the world of na jaemin— him sitting on a throne above everyone else. that was the natural order. but the world as jaemin knew it began to shake after a few fated encounters with someone at the bottom of the food chain.

JISUNG | the things i know | @byunbaekby 14.8k — jisung has never been keen on growing up, or even understanding what adulting means. at seventeen, all he knows is: he loves soccer (and he’s damn gifted at it), and girls are very pretty but also plenty scary. then he met you, his first love who turned his life upside down and made his stomach roll like the soccer balls he loved to kick around the field. but when your cancer comes back after years in remission, jisung thinks, he doesn’t really want to grow up anymore.

MARK | where do broken hearts go? | @rrxnjun 12k — you know what they say about past lovers that can remain just as friends - either they're still in love with each other, or they never were in the first place.

HAECHAN | home is a feeling | @neonun-au 8.2k — Fresh off a break-up, not willing to stomach spending Christmas single with your family, you book a last minute trip overseas to escape the impending loneliness, not realizing that perhaps running away from your feelings will only serve to intensify them. You arrive at your home-away-from-home only to find you’re not the only one staying there. Through some unfortunate (or not so unfortunate) mistake, the AirBnB you booked has also been booked by a handsome young man looking for a similar escape from his own life. Now you have to choose whether or not to stay and spend your Christmas with a stranger or scramble to find a lonely hotel room last minute over the holidays.

[m] JAEMIN + JENO | the walls are thin | @springseasonie 7.4k — both Jaemin and Jeno have always had a thing for you and were never shy about it either. You always play hard to get, but all of your playing was going to catch up with you sooner or later.

[m] HAECHAN | dirty mouth | @jjsneo 6.9k — Haechan is the best roommate anyone could ever ask for. He’s good company, he cooks, he cleans, and he always pays his rent on time. But just like any roommate, he has some quirks. And your favourite is when quiet Haechan turns into a loud, foul-mouthed dirty gamer.

[m] MARK | the best man | @mrkis 6.5k — meeting the one for you at your best friend's wedding wasn't exactly how you imagined this day turning out, neither was fucking him in the bathroom of the venue.

[m] HAECHAN | pretty in pink, but my head's in the dark | @ddeonuism 6.1k — afab!reader, roommate au

JENO | i (have/had) a crush on you | @hannie-dul-set 5.8k — running into a past crush at your best friend’s birthday party wouldn’t have been so bad if he wasn’t— well— all that.

[m] JISUNG | flowers | @jjsneo 5.8k — jisung is completely fine with a friends with benefits arrangement with you. at least that’s what he thought — until he spots a mystery bouquet of flowers at your place (that he definitely didn’t send) and he can’t quite shake the thought. now his behaviour is starting to shift in unexpected ways.

[m] MARK | drive | @lisired 3.5k — behold mark lee - your hot uber driver who you keep getting. very embarrassing. you also fuck him.

[m] JUNGWOO | citrine | @smileysuh 3.2k — life with your surfer boyfriend only ever sees blue skies, and plump lips glisten with the citrine juices of summer

CHENLE | can't spell sex without an ex | 2.4k — you and chenle are broken up. except the both of you are just not very good at remembering that.

. . .

sry for the delay in recs :(( but! i'll have more coming soon DONT U WORRY

xoxo

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gigabyte-flare · 5 months

Text

🎄 I'll Be Home 🎄

[A Gigabyte Flare One Shot]

Summary: Christmas is just around the corner and your boyfriend, Leon Kennedy is away on a mission. You begin to accept the fact that you'll probably be spending the holiday alone, but Leon has other plans.

Word Count: 1.6k

Pairing: RE4!Leon Kennedy x fem!reader (afab)

Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. You are responsible for your own content consumption. If any of the following warnings trigger you, please read at your own risk. Minors do not interact, this story is 18+ only.

Warnings: unprotected p in v, oral (m receiving), pet names, just really sexy fluff honestly

A/N: Merry Christmas and happy holidays to all those who celebrate! Divider by firefly-graphics

“You have no idea how terrible this makes me feel, sweetheart.”

Your boyfriend’s voice is coming through your landline handset, nestled in your v-neck shirt, supported by your cleavage as you put up ornaments on your Christmas tree you just picked out at the tree farm.

“Leon, I promise you, it’s fine. I know what I signed up for. It was only a matter of time before something like this happened,” you reassure him, putting up a vintage glass Santa ornament onto the tree, “we can celebrate when you get back; no matter how long it takes.”

You hear Leon let out a deep sigh, “It’s Christmas Eve, babe. I should be there with you. It might not be until a few weeks after the new year when I finally get home. Are you sure that’s ok with you?”

“Leon. What did I just say?”

Leon goes silent, yet you can almost hear the gears turning in that mind of his. You then hear him clear his throat after a few minutes.

“You are too good to me, I don’t deserve you.”

You scoff as you struggle to put the star on the tree, “on the contrary, I don’t deserve you.”

You hear Leon clear his throat and chuckle nervously, you can picture him smirking at you, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand.

“Hey… I gotta get going, just got to the hotel room. I’ll call you later, ok?”

“Alright, love you, Leon.”

“Love you, too.”

You pull the phone out from your cleavage and press the end call button, walking into your small kitchen to put the phone back on the receiver. You walk back into the living room, humming the tune of a classic Christmas song as you finish decorating the tree. Afterwards, you bring out your gifts for Leon, setting them under the tree to await his return.

Later that night…

You slowly wake up in the middle of the night, your bladder painfully full and your mouth drier than the Sahara Desert. You lazily toss your comforter off, swinging your legs over the side of the bed before standing up and going into the bathroom to relieve yourself. After you finish up in the bathroom, you go out to the kitchen to get yourself a glass of water to bring relief to your dry mouth.

Wearing only a thin white tank top and your underwear, you walk out into the kitchen, opening one of the cabinets to grab a glass before turning on the sink, putting the glass under the stream to fill it. Once you’re satisfied, you shut the sink off, bringing the glass to your lips and taking several gulps of the water. You let out a heavy sigh, turning the sink back on to top the glass back off, shutting it back off and bringing the glass back to your lips.

Before you can take another gulp of water, you hear something, a thud sound, come from the living room, causing you to freeze in place. Your heart begins to race and you grab the closest thing you can find to a weapon: a spatula. You grip it tightly in your right hand as you set the glass down onto the counter, turning to walk slowly into the living room. You peek around the corner to the living room, your eyes scanning the dimly lit room, your only source of light being the lights on the Christmas tree, the bottom which is obscured by the couch. You don’t see anything off at first, prompting you to step further into the living room.

Your eyes continue to scan the room, the spatula gripped firmly in your hands as your eyes settle to the bottom of the tree where you are greeted by the sight of a naked man laying on his side, his arm propped up to support his head. You scream, stumbling backwards as your eyes roam up and down the naked man’s body, his nether region covered by a large red bow and donning a Santa hat on his head. You realize quickly that you know this man, and let out a loud sigh of relief, bending forward and resting your hands on your thighs, taking deep breaths.

The naked man is Leon.

“Jesus Christ, Leon!” you breathe out, laughing in between breaths, “how long have you been laying there waiting?”

Leon bursts out laughing, standing up from the floor to approach you. His hands instinctively place themselves onto your waist, pulling you gently to him before he reaches up, tucking a few stray strands of hair behind one of your ears, his azure eyes looking down longingly at you.

“Like 20 minutes I think? I didn’t mean to scare the shit out of you, babe.”

“I almost threw the spatula at you,” you say, unable to contain your laughter as you set the spatula onto the coffee table.

“Oooohh scary!”

You playfully punch his shoulder, still giggling, “shut up!”

Leon smiles down at you, and you feel yourself practically turn into putty in his presence. He leans down, his lips sealing themselves over yours; it doesn’t take long for the kiss to deepen, for the two of you to begin devouring each other’s lips.

“So,” Leon says, breaking off the kiss, “aren’t you going to unwrap your present?”

Your eyes trail down his muscular form, settling on the large red bow that he somehow haphazardly attached to himself.

“Of course, go make yourself comfortable on the couch, love,” you tell him, motioning to the couch.

Smirking at you, Leon makes his way to the couch, sitting gently onto it. You step towards him, promptly getting onto your knees to position yourself between his legs. Gently grasping the end of the bow, you pull on it, watching it unravel. His hardened dick springs up once the bow is removed, the tip an angry red and drooling with pre-cum. You gently grasp his length in one hand, pumping gingerly while you bat your eyelashes at him. Your thumb presses into his slit, gathering his pre-cum and spreading it down the thick hard shaft.

Leon groans, shifting his hips and leaning back to get himself more comfortable. You stick out your tongue, pressing it against the base of his cock and licking upwards, flicking the tip with your tongue before wrapping your lips around it.

“Oh fuck…” Leon whispers, his hand grabbing the hair on the back of your head and gently guiding you to move your mouth up and down on his cock, his hips bucking upwards to fuck your mouth.

Your fingers dig into his powerful thighs for support as he continues to thrust into your mouth, his movements becoming more irregular as his release looms closer and closer. His hand that is buried in your hair on the back of your head abruptly yanks you off his throbbing member; he watches as your drool runs down your chin, a tired smile crossing your lips as you catch your breath.

“Wanna cum in that pretty pussy of yours,” Leon growls, his sapphire gaze full of lust.

You stand up, hooking your thumbs into the hem of your underwear, pulling them off and tossing them aside before climbing onto his lap. As soon as you’re on his lap, he takes hold of your tank top, pulling it off over your head and placing it onto the couch next to him. His large hands grasp both of your breasts, kneading them in his hands. You shift your hips, feeling the tip of his cock press against your entrance, your juices coating the tip. You settle your hips down onto his lap, his dick sinking into you, the feeling of him stretching you out euphoric.

You let out a soft moan upon feeling the tip kiss your throbbing cervix and you waste no time moving your hips in a grinding motion as you place your hands onto his shoulders for support.

“That’s it… you’re doing so good, babe. Taking me so fucking well,” Leon coos in your hear before placing gentle kisses along the side of your jawline; both of his hands resting on your hips to relish the motions of you grinding on him.

The feeling of him pressing against your cervix as you move is almost too much for you, your eyes rolling into the back of your head as you let out a loud moan. In that moment, you feel Leon’s fingers dig into your hips; his hips once again bucking up into you, bouncing you on his lap. Each time, his dick presses into your g-spot, pushing you over the edge. Your juices flow from you, coating him and leaving a white ring at the base of his cock, the sounds of your soaked pussy along with both of your animalistic moans filling the living room.

“I’m… I’m gonna-- oh fuck I’m gonna fill this fucking cunt… shit!”

With a few more ragged thrusts, he pushes his hips upwards, pressing into you as deep as he can go as he paints your insides white with his cum. You relish in the warmth of him, crying out as his name as your nails dig into his shoulders, your pussy walls squeezing around him to milk every last drop of his cum. His softened dick slips out of you and you practically collapse onto him, your hips still straddling his lap. His strong arms wrap around you, his fingers running up and down your spine to comfort you.

He gives you another deep kiss, his tongue slipping into your mouth for a moment. After a few minutes he breaks off the kiss, his blue eyes gazing into yours lovingly as he smiles at you.

“Merry Christmas, babe.”

#leon kennedy #leon s kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy smut #leon s kennedy x reader #leon kennedy fluff #gigabyte writes #christmas smut

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chaifootsteps · 4 months

Note

re: convos about hazbin hotel's rating and kids being in the fandom.

i looked into what Amazon's Hazbin Hotel is rated and the confusing matter of the 16+ to 18+ rating. basically it's not uncommon for the (imo, broken) rating system to tag darker episodes with a higher rating than others, the intent is to let you know what the current episode will get into, but the fault is that it risks initially giving the impression the series is for a younger audience than it is.

& it *seems* the UI for the series page on Amazon defaults to the highest rated episode--bc it *was* 16+ before all episodes released, then bumped up to 18+ once episode 4 was there.

here's the rating on episode 4, which if it's the same as every other Prime episode i've watched, would've been briefly in the upper left corner in small text before fading away, easy to miss and lacks what would be more fitting verbage (i.e. sexual violence.)

and, here is what Hazbin Hotel's *official* certified ratings are, according to IMDb:

in relation to a shocking amount of kids being in the fandom, i tried to look into whether or not the Hazbin Hotel Pilot episode and/or Addict were age-restricted. y'know, bc everyone keeps saying it's an "adult show for adults." (which it is but ykwim.)

and it seems like there weren't/aren't. i checked in a logged-out browser if i'd get any sort of "this video is age restricted" or "sign-in to confirm age" YouTube filters. i didn't. i also tried playing them in Discord (bc usually if a YouTube video is age-restricted it'll stop you and make you view it on YouTube where it can confirm your age) both the pilot and Addict played without a problem.

(if someone else tries and finds they *did* hit an age-restriction block feel free to let us know.)

in addition, it seems a few redditors were discussing this very thing back when it came out, so they were either mistaken or it never had an actual age-restriction on it.

and the pilot's warning isn't even at the top or in caps or anything, it's a very casual "be warned this is aimed at older audiences hehe there are bad words and innuendos" line in the middle. not even "for" older audiences. "aimed" at them.

and as we know Addict has a proper warning at the start of the video that is as follows:

but, again, i was able to access Addict easily in a logged-out YouTube window which seems to indicate it had no age-restrictions on it.

i checked YouTube Kids itself and the good news is neither the pilot nor Addict show up in the search. the bad news is YouTube's content moderating is still lax enough that any dumbass can try and content-farm kids with whatever is recently popular, so a small handful of Hazbin-related videos like piano tutorials and silly crafts of the characters can be uploaded and labeled as "for kids" by those people. bc it's "just an innocent piano tutorial!" "just an innocent craft!"

but of course most of the "kids" we see in the fandom getting yelled at are generally 13-16 and up, just including the above for full context.

all-in-all i'm not trying to say that not age-restricting the pilot or Addict is some predatory action taken by viv, but to me it was/is a very poor ignorant or oblivious decision.

yes kids will always seek out content that isn't for them, but imo that's *why* the bear minimum is age-restricting and making it *clear* it's not for kids. it's for your own protection too.

if you put all the barriers up and kids still jump over them people can easily see it wasn't your fault. same goes for when construction sites or dangerous hills have warnings so they're not at fault if someone ignores the warnings and gets hurt.

but if those construction sites, hills, or videos made "for adults" don't have those warnings loud and clear, you're gonna get faulted, and you're gonna get kids running around even *more* confident that they belong there bc they were barely warned that they don't.

Thank you for laying it all out like this. This illustrates exactly what the problem is.

#rockanroller #hazbin hotel critical #vivziepop critical #actual blog post

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gotham-ruaidh · 3 months

Text

Little Bit Better Than I Used To Be

Catch up: Chapter 1 (Starry Eyes) || Chapter 2 (Save Our Souls) || Chapter 3 (Dancing On Glass)|| Chapter 4 (Merry-Go-Round)|| Backstage (1) || Backstage (2) || Chapter 5 (Danger)|| Backstage (3) || Chapter 6A (Love Walked In) || Chapter 6B (Without You) || Backstage (4) || Chapter 7 (Stick To Your Guns) || Chapter 8 (Time For Change) || Backstage (5) || Chapter 9 (Take Me To The Top) || Backstage (6) || Chapter 10 (Home Sweet Home) || Backstage (7) || Chapter 11a (Nightrain) || Chapter 11b (Nothing Else Matters) || Chapter 12a (Handle With Care) || Chapter 12b (I’m So Tired of Being Lonely) || Chapter 13a (Angel) || Chapter 13b (She’s My Addiction) || Chapter 13c (Patience) || Chapter 14a (Where Do We Go Now?) || Chapter 14b (Where Do We Go Now?) || Chapter 14c (Where Do We Go Now?) || Chapter 15a (Dreams) || Chapter 15b (I Sing A Song of Love) || Chapter 15c (You Can Do This If You Try) || Chapter 16 (Let That Feeling Grab You Deep Inside || Chapter 17A: Never Tear Us Apart ||| Also posted at AO3

Chapter 17B: It's Tough To Be Somebody, And It's Hard Not To Fall Apart

New York City || September 1988

It's tough to be somebody And it's hard not to fall apart Here on Rehab Mountain We gonna learn these things by heart

- “Detox Mansion”, Warren Zevon (1987) [click here to listen]

Raymond crossed the threshold, and Claire closed the door. “We just had breakfast delivered, if you’d like something to eat or drink.”

“Tea or coffee, perhaps, if you have it?”

Claire slid her hands into the pockets of her leather jacket, bare feet soundless on the marble floor of the suite’s hallway. “Of course. You must excuse us, we didn’t get back until very late last night, and it’s so hard to go out for breakfast so we tend to just order room service for everything.”

“No need to apologize. I’m grateful for whatever you may have.”

The hallway turned into a sitting room, complete with a stunning view of Central Park.

“Hello, Dr. Germain.” A tall man stood at a long white couch, wearing black jeans and a black tank top, the tattoos on his arms vivid against the sky through the floor-to-ceiling windows. “I’m Jamie Fraser.”

“Raymond. And it’s a pleasure, Mr. Fraser. Dougal speaks very highly of you.”

Raymond shook Jamie’s hand, and watched Claire busy herself at a large rolling table covered in food.

“Jamie, please. Just Jamie. Make yourself at home.” Jamie gestured to another couch, and Raymond settled against the cushions.

“It’s quite something, isn’t it? This room, I mean.” Jamie grabbed a coffee mug, wedding ring clinking softly against the china. “I grew up on a farm in upstate New York. So this is the kind of thing you can’t get used to. Or should never get used to, anyway.”

“It is incredible,” Raymond agreed. “Definitely a lot better than the view from my apartment. I’d find it hard to leave here.”

“I do,” Jamie sighed. “But playing shows at the Garden…well. That’s pretty awesome, too.”

“Here you go.” Both men looked up to see Claire, holding out a steaming mug and plate of cut fruit. “Black coffee, but there’s cream and sugar if you like.”

Raymond gratefully took the plate and mug. “Thank you, Claire. You don’t need to be so generous.”

She smiled kindly, and settled on the couch next to Jamie with a bowl of cereal. Raymond sipped his coffee, watching Jamie rest a gentle hand on her thigh.

“Tell me about yourself,” Jamie said softly. “How do you know Dougal?”

Raymond spoke at length, in between bites of banana. “We met at a conference about ten years ago. I’ve been in private practice for many years, and I’m always eager to learn new techniques, to keep on top of the latest research and thinking. Conferences are good for that kind of thing. It was one of those three day affairs in a big hotel ballroom, and there was a rather boring dinner the first night. I ended up sitting next to Dougal and Gillian. We got to talking, and that was it.”

“If you’ve known each other for so long, I’m surprised you’ve never worked at The Ridge.” Claire crunched the last of her cereal, and Jamie smiled slightly.

Raymond shrugged. “You know this better than anyone – there is one requirement to work at The Ridge, and that is that you must be an addict in recovery. I’m not that.”

Jamie’s brows rose in surprise. “And yet, you’re one of the top therapists in the country for addicts in recovery. Or so Dougal led us to understand.”

Raymond set down his plate. “I started my career focusing on patients who had experienced extreme trauma. I’m a bit older than the two of you – this would have been in the ‘50s. I had volunteered at a VA hospital during medical school, and I got to know a lot of veterans who…well, let’s just say that they had seen and done things in Germany and the Pacific that no man ever should. I resolved then and there to dedicate my life to help people like that.”

He paused, and closed his eyes.

“Many of the men I worked with turned to drink and drugs to numb their pain. To escape their reality. I learned a lot about addiction that way. Why it starts, why it persists, how much damage it inflicts on the addict and the people who love them. I’ve never had a drink or taken a drug in my life, and I hope to stay that way until the day I die.” He took a breath. “But that doesn’t mean that I don’t understand why someone would reach that point.”

It wasn’t often that Raymond opened up – even in this muted way – about his own life. But with Jamie and Claire – who would be some of the most unique clients he’d ever work with – he knew they would give him space, and respect. And more importantly, that they would understand.

He finished his coffee, gently setting the mug on the table. Eyes open but focused downward on his hands.

“Put simply, I did not have the happiest of childhoods. I have no memory of my parents, and was in an orphanage run by nuns from the age of two. Things were not easy in Montreal during the Depression.”

“So that’s where your accent comes from,” Claire smiled.

Raymond glanced up at her, and smiled back. Tightly. “Indeed. Well, as a child I was bullied quite relentlessly. I’ve always been quite small, and you know how boys can be. So my friends were my books. Had it not been for my high school English teacher, I never would have found the courage to apply to university, or to come to New York. To fulfil my dream of helping people, and giving them the kindness and support that I never had. And somehow, by the grace of God, here I am, sitting with you today in this beautiful room. I will never be ungrateful for my improbable life.”

He glanced up at Jamie and Claire. Saw their hands entwined, gripping tightly, Claire’s face buried in Jamie’s shoulder.

Raymond flushed. “Oh my. I do apologize. I didn’t – ”

Jamie smiled sadly. “It’s fine. Claire’s fine, she’s just…did Dougal tell you anything about us?”

“Only the broad strokes.” Raymond uncomfortably scratched the back of his neck. “How you met, that you were both at The Ridge for treatment. He had to tell me about your career, regretfully I had never heard of you or your music. But I did buy your most recent CD earlier this week to prepare.”

Jamie nodded. “Interesting. I’m asking because we all seem to have something quite important in common. Claire was five when she lost her parents in a car crash. And I was eight when I lost my mother, though thankfully I had my father until just a few years ago.”

Now it was Raymond’s turn to smile sadly. “It colors your life, does it not?”

Claire straightened, and Jamie wiped away her tears with his free hand. Raymond noticed the flash of a tattoo at the base of Jamie’s thumb.

“It does.” She smiled sadly at Raymond. “It’s a hole that is never filled. Jamie and I have talked about it many times – whether we would have ended up as addicts, had we not lost our parents.” She sighed. “Thankfully I was raised by my mother’s brother – and I’m so grateful he is still in our lives. He married us. But it’s not the same.”

Raymond’s smile brightened considerably. “My heartiest congratulations on your recent wedding. It’s quite evident how deeply you love each other.”

Claire flushed happily, and Jamie kissed her cheek. “Thank you. We still can’t believe it ourselves. It’s been quite the year.”

“I can imagine. This tour must be something, if you’re selling out the Garden.”

“Well – the tour of course has been big,” Jamie remarked. “But it’s been a lot more than that, for us. A year ago now, we were at The Ridge, in treatment. I ended up being there for 17 weeks. Claire was there for, eight weeks?”

“Nine.”

“And when did the two of you get together?”

Claire glanced at her husband. “Officially, right before Jamie left. Then after that, we had some time together in January and February, but soon after that the decision was made to go on tour. Jamie had written a lot of new material at The Ridge, and he – we – thought that touring would be a good way to get back into real life. Buy us some time as I figured out what was happening with my medical license. And then…we decided to get married.”

“A three week tour,” Jamie snorted. “That was the original plan. We’re now on our fourth month, and we’ve sold out Madison Square fucking Garden for three nights.”

“How much longer will you be on the road?”

Jamie glanced briefly at Claire. “Just a few more shows and then we’ll wrap up. But then we’ll be back at it next year – the label has booked over one hundred dates, all across North America and then legs in Europe and Australia as well.”

“It’s going to be intense,” Claire added quietly. “I’ll be there with him, of course. My medical license has been reinstated, but I’m taking an informal break.” She darted a quick glance at her husband, squeezing his hand. “You should know this, Raymond – we quite desperately want to start a family. We’ve given ourselves this year to just…be. But that means there’s a good chance that while we’re touring next year I’ll be pregnant.”

Raymond folded his arms across his chest. “Which would be yet another source of stress in the situation. And another strain on your sobriety. Not to mention, your relationship. For both of you.”

Jamie gripped Claire’s hand. “And that’s where you come in, Raymond. I’ve been stone cold sober since I arrived at The Ridge. Claire, too. We’ve had each other this tour to keep each other honest, and I know I can say categorically that I wouldn’t be sober without her.”

He kissed her temple.

“But it’s not been without tremendous difficulty and so much strain,” Claire said softly. “He’s been having panic attacks.”

Raymond nodded. “Dougal did tell me that. And naturally, you’re worried that they will continue as the touring continues.”

Claire glanced at Jamie. “He – we – have learned enough about them now for him to recognize when one is coming. We can’t stop it from happening, but we can step away and ride through it together. Every time that happens, I’m grateful for the psych rotation I did in medical school.” She sighed. “But I’m not an expert, Raymond. I can’t help him the way he needs.”

“Said differently,” Jamie interjected, “it’s not fair for me to expect her to provide that kind of support. I don’t want to add to her stress. And I don’t want something to happen that could threaten her own sobriety.”

“Is that a realistic fear for Jamie to have, Claire?”

to be continued…

#outlander #outlander fanfic #little bit better than i used to be #jamie and claire

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astroboots · 1 year

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RSVP

Summary: A prequel to Homecoming set 10 years before. The moment Santiago realizes he's missed his chance with you.

Homesick masterlist | Homecoming Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist

We invite you to share with us a celebration of love for the wedding reception of William Miller and Abigail Jackson.

Santiago stares down at the invitation. It's a showy calligraphy font with lots of rounded gold-gilded curves offset with the pink blossoms, roses and carnation in the background of the card.

A bit tacky for his tastes, and personally he'd probably would've opted for something much simpler, but luckily he's not the one on the hook and three hours from getting married.

He leans back against the car seat, trying to make himself more comfortable, eyes drifting to the side mirror that gives him a decent angle of your front door.

Thirty minutes.

He's been sat in this car for thirty. Whole. Minutes.

You never take this long to get ready for anything. The normal routine is: throw on the cleanest shirt and jeans combo you have on hand. Or if you're feeling really fancy, a dress you have abandoned and forgotten in the corner of your closet before you jump into the car, applying makeup as best as you can, while he drives you to where you two need to go.

He's never had to sit in a car waiting for you for half an hour while you get ready.

Not for your graduation.

Not for your first job interview.

Heck, not even when you were a bridesmaid to your best friend's wedding (because you'd both overslept and you ended up clumsily pulling on the bridesmaid's gown in the backseat while he was racing down the highway to the hotel where the bride was staying with minutes to spare).

So why on earth you would need this long to prepare for Ironhead's wedding reception is beyond him. There's hardly going to be any royalty there.

Santiago sighs, reaching over the dashboard to change the radio station when from the corner of his eyes, you've finally decided to grace him with your presence. In the side mirror, he sees you locking up the front door and approach the car.

The pale blue of your dress sways in the mirror.

Santiago is confused. You're wearing a new dress. One he knows he's never seen before on you.

It's a pretty little thing. Sheer blue lace, and a flowing line that hugs your hips flatteringly. The fabric of the summer dress flutters in the wind when you walk, the edges of the skirt flirting with your thighs as it rides up slightly and he can feel his brows arch in question as you approach the passenger side of the car.

"That's new," he says, as you open the door and scoot into the passenger seat.

You look up at him as if you don't know what he's talking about, and when he gestures at the dress, you just shrug, like there's nothing unusual here to see.

"It's a wedding reception Santiago, what else am I going to wear?"

He catches you inspecting your makeup in the mirror, your chin tilted upwards as your lips part to make sure the red lipstick and gloss on top hasn't smeared.

It feels surreal somehow, like he's wandered into a house of mirrors at a funfair. It's you, but you're behaving like something alien to him.

As he starts the car and pull out the driveway, the thought vaguely occurs to him that he needs to rewatch Body Snatchers, because he's pretty sure this is how it starts.

Still, you do look very pretty.

"The dress looks good on you," he tells you when the car's at a standstill at a red light.

The corners of your lips curve into a soft smile, and you look so happy that Santiago tells himself that if you have gotten body-snatched, he's just going to have to learn to co-exist with aliens now.

It's a big gathering held in a beautiful garden space. There are all the usual trappings of a Pinterest wedding fare. Fairy lights hung up in trees. Pink balloons and mason jars scattered on rustic looking wooden farm tables that he knows must've cost a leg and an arm on Will's paltry salary check.

His body is tensing. Leg itchy and Santiago feels like he can't stand still in one spot. The lingering pain in his right knee acting up again. The last surgery should have fixed it, and the surgeon had warned him it's probably psychosomatic at this point, but whether it's real or make-believe doesn't help Santiago when the pain is there.

There's a lot of familiar faces from the army here, which Santiago doesn't love.

It's not something he does, bring you around where that world can sink its contaminated claws into you. He doesn't want you near it.

Doesn't want you to hear the confusing military jargon, and have to explain what "Dependa means", or to have one of his "buddies" refer to you as a "civilian".

He never likes it when you're reminded that out of the eight to ten months he's gone for the year, there's a dividing line separating your life from his that you are not part of.

Doesn't want you to be faced with the fact that when he's not here next to you, he's not your Santiago. He's not the guy you grew up, the one you always beat at Street Fighter and used to run a racketeering at the local pool hall for pocket money.

Doesn't want you to think of the fact that when he's out there, he's committing war crimes under a legal technicality courtesy of Uncle Sam, the way some dumb misguided 18-year-olds were shipped to both your motherlands once upon a time and burnt it down with napalm and bullets some decades ago.

Fuck, he doesn't want you to be here. Should never have invited you.

But Frankie had accidentally blabbed about Will's wedding last week, asking, in front of you, who Santiago was bringing as his plus one. You had looked up at him with such big excited eyes, because you fucking love weddings, and you are always his plus one. What was he supposed to say? No?

It's so uncharacteristically clumsy of the man and Santiago swears, if Frankie wasn't his best friend, he could've killed him for that.

Santiago scans the space, spotting more pink flower arrangements, carnations and pink tulips and hydrangeas, it looks like a pink confetti bomb went off in this space.

Under a large tree of heavy branches carrying pink cherry blossoms, Santiago spots the very culprit he was thinking of. Frankie is leaning against the thick trunk. He's looking as uncomfortable as ever in the big crowd, obviously hiding away so he doesn't have to make mindless conversation with the other wedding guests. Shoulders slump so low, the man looks like he's trying to shrink into the tree.

Santiago shakes his head. It's hard to ever stay mad at Frankie. He couldn't even if he tried.

Jutting out his arm, Santiago looks to you as your arm curl around his. The unbending tension in his neck seems to melt away when you are pressed to his side. He can feel your sun-warmed skin brushing up against him, as the two of you make your way over to Frankie.

"Hi Frank," Santiago greets.

Frankie looks up, those big brown eyes fill with absolute relief at seeing a friendly face. The man is all soft smiles as he lets out a long exhale, the tension fizzling out of his frame.

"What you don't like weddings?" Santiago teases.

From Santiago's side, you slip out your hand where it's looped against him arm, and wave at Frankie despite that you're not even two feet away from each other. You're acting a bit awkward, your greeting a bit stiff. There's a warm and almost nervous smile on your face that makes Santiago raise a questioning eyebrow.

"Hi Frankie," you say and your voice is all soft and buttery and breathless.

Frankie's eyes darts towards you and when the man sees you, he looks like he damn near swallowed his whole damn tongue.

It's bizarre.

Both of you are acting strange.

From the outside looking in, it probably looks innocuous, just two good friends having a conversation, catching up after not having seen each other for several months.

Except it's not. Something is different. He can tell because he knows you both so well. Something is just slightly off.

Santiago sips his beer as Frankie's telling you about how much he liked the book you lent him before he got shipped off. He's recanting how he'd read them in his mosquito filled tent, while sitting in the back of a truck waiting to be transported to another town. He's telling you the bits and pieces of his everyday life on the other side that Santiago never shares with you, and Santiago doesn't know how to feel.

The fact that Frankie can so easily share that part of his life with you, without batting an eye, like it's the easiest thing. The fact that you're nodding and smiling, responding with details of your daily life at school and work, like it's no big deal.

There's no dividing line between you and the two of you act like all of this is completely normal.

Except it's not normal.

Because Frankie's taken off his cap and he's no longer hiding under it. As at ease with you he might seem, he's also nervously running his fingers through his hair over and over again while he talks to you. He can't take his eyes off your face, tongue darting over his bottom lip while he's staring at your mouth while you laugh.

And you? You're smiling and laughing with your whole face as you listen to Frankie's story. It's a smile so big and bright and unrestrained in a way that Santiago's always thought was reserved just for him.

And he doesn't know how he feels about that either.

Santiago is watching Frankie's eyes trail over your collarbone down to your legs. Eyes rounding into big saucer and the effect is almost cartoonish. It makes Santiago want to roll his eyes, this man never could rein back his appreciation for a good sundress.

And oh.

Oh.

This is why you're wearing a new dress.

Santiago blinks, feet rooted to the ground, stupefied as the realization hits him.

You wore this for Frankie.

You took half an hour to get ready for Frankie.

You were excited to come here... For Frankie.

Santiago is the third wheel.

And he finally figures out how he feels about that.

Like shit.

That’s how he feels about it.

Not that Santiago lets it show. He smiles, he nods, he cracks jokes with the two of you. Makes jabs at Frankie and teases you, like there’s nothing wrong.

Still he smiles, he smiles so wide and so fake his fucking cheeks hurt with the muscle ache of it. Smiles like there's nothing wrong. Like his whole fucking world isn’t imploding before his eyes and he’s watching it burn down to a crisp to the background ambiance of the warm afternoon sun and the live music of a string quartet.

Dramatic? yes, doesn't make it any less true for him.

Fuck, his knees hurt.

Santiago’s eyes roam over the space filled faces that are all smiling and laughing. Everyone’s happy. Drinking and eating and laughing. In this intimate space, surrounded by a crowd of people celebrating life and love, he’s never felt more lonely in his life.

He feels like he’s drowning, head held under the surface. There’s a claustrophobic pressure hugging his ribs and his lungs squeeze painfully tight. He can’t fucking breathe, and he wonders if he could die here without anyone noticing that anything is wrong and--

“Santiago.”

His eyes blink, focusing in on your worried face as you’re peering up at him. “Are you ok? You look a bit pale.”

“Uhm, yeah sorry. I…”

Your eyes are staring back at him, piercingly sharp. They feel like a scalpel held against his raw tender skin poised to make an incision.

He looks away, unable to hold your gaze, eyes flittering over the crowd. “Sorry, I think I see someone I know that I have to say hi to… and catch up with.”

“Oh yeah?” Frankie throws a look over his shoulder, “who did you spot?”

Santiago scans the space for a familiar face, any familiar face that will serve as an exit route.

There’s Jones, his former captain back in the early days. The asshole who used to call Santiago ‘pretty boy’ derisively, and make him do pull ups until he felt so sick that the contents of his breakfast would end up outside of his body again.

To his left, Will is making the rounds from table to table, greeting and thanking the guests for coming. Will is too busy, which isn’t an option.

“Jones,” Santiago murmurs, and the moment he says it, Santiago already knows he made a mistake.

Frankie’s face scrunches up in distaste. “What are you talking about? That guy is an asshole. You hated him back in the army, why do you wanna catch up with him?"

Santiago laughs it off, because he can’t very well tell Frankie the truth. That Santiago feels the walls closing in and needs to get away from the two of you. So he makes up a cheeky lie.

“Guy owes me money.” He pats Frankie on the shoulder, and juts his chin in your direction. “Keep her company for me will ya?”

He turns to leave, and for a brief moment his eyes catch yours.

Maybe it’s just wishful thinking on Santiago's part, but he swears that for the first since you arrived, your smile falters. There’s something in your expression, the way your brows scrunches up, hands hovering mid-air as if you’re about to reach for his sleeve, that tells him you don’t want him to go.

A snide critical voice in his head thinks he’s delusional. He’s just reading into something that isn’t there. Because why would you care? You’re perfectly happy in Frankie’s company.

In this moment as Santiago stands here before his former captain, he is regretting every single decision in his life that has led him here.

That he was a dumb naive teenager at the age of 17 that was tempted by a shopping mall recruiter to go "see the world" by joining the army. That he ended up in this man's regiment. That he didn't RSVP Will's invitation with: 'thank you but no thank you'. That in all his years of being in close range fire he somehow hasn't ended up with hearing damage that would have spared him from listening to this man talk.

Santiago glances over to where he had left you and Frankie half an hour ago, because he can't even be bothered with the pretense of acting even vaguely interested in what Captain Asshole has to say.

Santiago's been observing the two of you throughout. At first, it was awkward between the two of you. Because even though the two of you are no strangers to one another, usually Santiago is always around to play intermediary when there's a lull in the conversation.

You were hugging yourself, eyes darting to the ground, feet shifting. Frankie wouldn't stop running his fingers through his goddamned hair even as it started to look like a bird's nest that's fallen off a tree. The two of you were standing some distance apart, and Santiago cringed inwardly at the scene...

But if Santiago is being completely above board and honest... there's a small tiny sliver of a piece of him that was happy about that. That there's still a space for him between you and Frankie.

It doesn't stay that way of course. As the evening goes on and the harsh bright Florida sun starts to dim, the fairy lights flicker to life. It bathes everything in that romantic soft amber light against darkening canvas of the sky.

Frankie lends you his old worn jacket as you start to shiver. Then gradually, you two are inching closer and closer until you're standing shoulder to shoulder.

Santiago gets to witness it in real time, how the space between the two of you is closing (as is his place between you). He doubt he could physically squeeze himself between you even if he tried.

It's never gonna be a pleasant feeling to know that his best friends have just made him redundant. He knows that, and running away the way he did was probably not the most mature thing he's ever done. But now that he's seeing it from a distance, he can see how happy you two look. He has two seeing eyes after all.

For the first time in a long time, Frankie looks completely at ease. There's a soft glow to his cheeks as he's looking at you, utterly besotted, and you're smiling so wide your eyes are crinkling at the corners.

Santiago takes another sip from his beer, and despite the sickly sweetness, the beverage still warms his stomach. There are worse things in the world than seeing the two people he loves the most in the world happy, even if he's not the reason for it... right?

He peers out over the setting sun, squinting against the amber brightness and even among the buzzing crowd he can pick up the sound of your laughter distinctly from everything else. It's all he can hear.

It's funny how he never saw it before. But the two of you would be perfect for each other.

Frankie’s a bit quiet, and maybe he’s a little bit shy sometimes and takes a while to open up. But he doesn’t run away from his problems. Not like Santiago does. He’d never leave you if things started to get too serious or too hard; Santiago’s not sure he could make that same promise. But he knows Frankie can. Santiago knows how good Frankie would be to you.

And you? Just looking at the two of you now, he can see how Frankie's comfortable around you. Practically lighting up like the Rockerfeller center. Frankie looks like someone took an electrical socket and plugged it into him and he's buzzing and alight as he talks to you, Santiago can't remember the last time he's seen Frankie so animated... so at ease. Except maybe when he and Frankie are left to their own devices, during downtime, just the two of them, without having to hold a weapon in their hands.

"Captain! Mind if I borrow Pope here for a second?"

Santiago blinks out of his reverie to see the man of the hour, the groom himself in front of him.

Like a guardian angel descending from the heavens, Will stands with the sun glowing behind him, the golden boy.

The Captain nods, patting Will on the back, making some crude and off-handed and inappropriate joke about how "it's all downhill from here" not even a handful of hours after the man's nuptials.

Will doesn't smile, just juts his head with a nod, as they both watch the man depart. Then when he's out of hearing range, Will turns to Santiago.

"What the fuck were you doing with that guy?"

Santiago sips his bottle, and tips his head in the direction where the two of you are sitting. "Just wanted to give the two of them some space."

Will turns around and observes the two of you.

"Right," Will says, but his tone is gruff and serious, grinding his teeth as he observes. Will has never been the type to make any comments about anyone's personal lives, it's not his style.

"It's not my place to say something," he starts, then he stops, mulls it over as if deciding whether he's really going to say something.

The man shakes his head, then takes a deep breath. "Look, just... are you sure about this?" Will says.

It's all he says, he doesn't flesh out what he means. Just looks Santiago dead in the eye, with that sober Ironhead expression that he's so famous for.

Santiago doesn't pretend he doesn't know what Will is talking about. The man is smart. Santiago's not going to condescend him and play the game of the dumb best friend who doesn't realize he's in love with his best friend. It'd be like spitting in the man's face.

Instead Santiago takes a deep breath, and down the rest of his beer.

In front of him, Frankie's waving his hand so animatedly he nearly knocks over a canape tray from a waiter that was walking by behind him, and you're having a laughing fit over it.

Santiago doesn't know the answer to Will's question. He doesn't know what there is to be sure or unsure about. But he does know one thing... The two of you look good together.

Who is he to be in the way of that?

After all, Santiago has always had hang ups about how no one is good enough for you. Because you are his best friend and you deserve the best, and if Santiago is not gonna pull his head out of his own ass, at least Frankie will always take care of you and be there for you.

Frankie is a good man. A patient man, a kind man. The type of man he wishes he could be sometimes. He'd be better for you than Santiago thinks he ever could be.

Who's to say this isn't going to be the best thing that's ever happened to the three of you?

"Yeah man," Santiago says as he tears his eyes away from the two of you. "I'm sure."

Credits and Dedication: To @thirstworldproblemss who already had to see this angst-fest a year or so ago and have to deal with my constant angsting over these three for funsies.

A/N: Sloppy written angst before I go on a two week hiatus as we're on a long holiday to get away from the rain and enjoy some sunshine on the Amalfi coast! I love you guuuuuys!

Follow me on astroboots-writes and turn on notifications to be notified when I post something new!

#oscar isaac #pedro pascal #triple frontier fic #triple frontier fanfic #triple frontier fanfiction #triple frontier #santiago garcia #santiago garcia x reader #santiago garcia x you #frankie morales #frankie morales x reader #frnakie morales x you

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bullet-prooflove · 1 year

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Back of a Buick - Angel Reyes x Reader

Tagging: @witches-unruly-heart @annetje @infinity-mars @danzer8705 @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @the-wandering-lunatic @vannabanana1995 @multifandomloversworld @camelia35 @harperdoodle @queeniesdiary @laylasbunbunny @est1887 @justazzie

Angel finds your Zippo a few hours later in the back seat of the Buick. He’s standing in an abandoned lot with a petrol can in his hand and the lighter. His thumb trails over your initials engraved into the silver and he wonders if it’s fate. He knows this thing is precious to you, he remembers the way you clasped it to your chest in the aftermath of the fire. It matches the cigarette case you keep your blunts in. Someone cared about you enough to give you the set, he can’t help but wonder who.

He has to wait a couple of days to return it. Bishop has him on a run up to Stockton with a couple of the other guys. He spends his nights in a shitty hotel room, thinking about the time you spent in the back of the Buick, how tight and wet you felt around his cock, your hands pinning his wrists above his head. He jacks off in the shower imagining how good your mouth would feel on him, how you’d taste on his lips when you ride his face.

Before he goes to bed, he puts on the game and lights a cigarette with the Zippo, flicking the top of it closed with a satisfising click. He goes to sleep dreaming of your thighs locked around his hips, your lips ghosting over his as your fingertips trail over his tattoos. He remembers your hand on his throat squeezing just a little before you thrust his head back into the seat at the point of climax. Fuck that did something to him, something he hadn’t even realised he needed.

He doesn’t submit easily, but with you he’s complaint. He thinks you saw something in him, he’s not sure what but he wants to explore it. In that fleeting time he spent with you, he’d felt at peace, like all the chaotic thoughts that bounced around his head were finally silent. There was an intimacy in what you did, a level of trust he would never give to anyone else. He thinks about that on the journey to Stockton and back.

He tries to get the location of the illegal pot farm off Riz, but the other man refuses. The two of you have a good thing going and he tells Angel he’s not willing to sacrifice that relationship just so he can scratch you off his to do list. Angel doesn’t push, he knows he fucking deserves it, he has a history and Riz is simply looking out for his business.

He drops by the legal one instead, he doesn’t expect you to be there. He remembers you telling him that the crop had flowered early up on the second farm so it’s all hands-on deck. To his surprise you’re pulling up at the same time he is.

You don’t expect to see him, the surprise is evident on your face. You stand in front of him with your hands on your hips, the kush crop waving in the breeze behind you. You look radiant and fierce. Your hair is tied back into a messy bun, you’re wearing a flannel shirt that stained with smears of green and worn Levi’s. There’s a set of gardening gloves sticking out of your back pocket.

“What are you doing here?” You ask him, your eyebrows furrowing into a frown.

He withdraws the silver Zippo from his back pocket before holding it up for you to see.

“I found this in the backseat.” He explains before handing it over to you. “I thought you’d want it back.”

Your expression softens as your thumb runs over the initials etched into the silver plating, the edges of your mouth tips up into a smile as you clasp it to your chest.

“Thank you.” You tell him earnestly. “You don’t know how much this means.”

He shrugs.

“I had an idea.”

There’s a silence between the two of you, he kicks at the dusty road with the toe of his boot. He’s trying to get up the courage to say something else, but he finds himself tongue tied. He’s a man of action, not words. He isn’t sure how to vocalise what he wants, he isn’t even sure what it is he actually wants, he just knows it’s you.

“My grandmother gave it to me.” You say breaking the gulf between the two of you. “Along with the cigarette case. The kush we grow here, it helped her a lot when she had cancer.”

“I’m sorry.” He says quietly and he means it. His mother’s death was sudden, there one day and gone the next. His grief at the time had crippled him, cracked a part of his soul. It had broken EZ and wrecked his father. He couldn’t imagine what it must be like to watch someone you loved waste away like that. He didn’t know if he’d be able to handle it.

“Thank you.” You said quietly before removing the cigarette from your back pocket and flicking it open. “That’s why the work we do here is so important. You probably think I’m no better than Miguel Galindo with his poppies but Rose Kush makes a difference in people’s lives.”

“I don’t think that.” Angel tells you with conviction, taking one of the joints you offer him. “Heroin breeds misery, kush provides relief.” He pauses for a second, waiting for you to light it before he takes a drag. “When my friend Coco came back from Iraq, he was a mess. His head was all screwed up, he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t relax, he’d jump at noises, he was all over the place. I didn’t know what PTSD was back then…”

He fucking knew now.

Some of the shit he did for the club, for the rebels, for his family…

It weighted on him. It haunted him in his dreams. It was the reason he suffered insomnia because some of those events he relived over and over again until the only thing that relieved it, was booze or women, usually a combination of both.

“It’s insidious.” You tell him as he passes you the joint. “My therapist once described it to me like a file getting jammed in a filing cabinet, you keep trying to close the drawer but it keeps getting stuck so you keep having to deal with it.”

You inhale the sweet floral smoke before blowing a smoke ring out of your mouth. You’re all or nothing and he likes that, likes the fact you’re so open, that you own your shit, you do something about it.

“Did it help?” he ventured, plucking the blunt from between your fingertips. “The therapy?”

“Hm.” You consider your answer. “It’s a process, I sleep better now, feel more like myself. If there’s something I want to do, I do it without worrying about what other people will think. I do the things that make me happy.”

“Was that what it was the other night?” he asks you, tapping the ash onto the floor. “Is that what I was?”

You tilt your head to look at him, and he’s ensnared by your gaze. He’s never seen such beautiful eyes before, so rich with colour and so fucking deep. He feels like he could spend forever getting lost in that gaze, he wants to.

“I enjoyed what we did.” You tell him honestly. “And I would like to do it again, just not in the back of a Buick.”

The two of you share a smile and he thinks this could be it, the moment that one night turns into more.

“I’ve got a bed, clean sheets and everything.” he informs you, taking another drag of the spliff before handing it back to you. “We can take our time, get to know each other a little. I’d like to see more, do more.”

It was too quick last time, too fleeting. He hadn’t got to touch you the way he wanted, he hadn’t got to explore your body, to learn what made you moan. It had simply been a rush of adrenaline in the aftermath of a crime you had both committed.

“Yea.” You tell him, dropping the blunt onto the floor and crushing it underneath the heel of your boot. “I’d like that too.”

Love Angel? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

#angel reyes x reader #angel reyes x you #angel mayans #angel reyes #mayans fx #mayans mc #mayans

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semperama · 1 year

Note

if you wanna write sorta angst— maybe forced outing maxiel or ex husbands with benefits maxiel

Ex husbands with benefits is SO my thing. I LOVE a good exes fic! I might write a longer one someday, but here's a little taste.

In the few minutes afterward, when they're laying side by side, Daniel's leg draped over his, Daniel's come dripping out of him--it's hard to remember why this ended.

Max doesn't mind LA. It's not his favorite place in the world, but he could live here, for Daniel. He would have preferred Australia. Before the end, he dropped hints all the time that he'd be happy in Perth, on the farm, if that's what Daniel wanted, but Daniel always brushed him off for reasons Max still doesn't understand.

And he doesn't mind Daniel's life now, his friends. He's never been a fan of celebrity culture, but he won't say no to the exclusive parties and exclusive clubs. He doesn't even mind weighing in on Daniel's near-constant new merch designs, though he doesn't care about fashion even a fraction as much as Daniel does. He doesn't care about it at all, in fact, but he can suck it up. He knows how to do that much.

"How long are you in town?" Daniel asks, still a little out of breath. They didn't do the small talk beforehand. Daniel pounced as soon as he opened the door, tossing Max's bag against the wall in the foyer with a thud before dragging him to the bedroom.

"Couple weeks, maybe," Max says. "The next race is in a month, but I wanted to spend some time with my mom too."

He can feel Daniel tense up, and--yeah, Max remembers now. All their fights. I thought you were retiring at the end of this year, Daniel would say. What would I do then? Max would answer. Max is 35 now, older than Daniel was when he stopped racing, older than a lot of people, but...he still doesn't know the answer to that question. Doesn't know what he would do if he stopped.

Kids? Daniel had suggested once, but Max recoiled from the idea like it had burned him. He loves kids. He's even good with kids. But there's a difference between playing with his sister's kids and raising ones of his own.

"You're staying here?" Daniel asks, and his voice is flat, like he doesn't care one way or another. Or maybe like he'd prefer if Max didn't.

"I can get a hotel if you want."

"No, no." Daniel sighs, rolls toward Max and drifts his fingers idly over one of Max's nipples, making it pebble up and making Max shiver. "That doesn't make sense. You know you're always welcome here."

Max shuts his eyes, swallows hard. "Always?" he asks. He doesn't want to see the expression on Daniel's face. Daniel might lie to him.

Daniel doesn't answer at all, though. Instead, he rolls on top of Max and wraps his fingers around Max's wrists, pins them above his head. Max opens his eyes and looks up at Daniel, and he has to bite down on the urge to tell him he loves him. Because he does. Always has. Since the moment he met him.

It'll hurt Daniel to hear it, though, so he holds the words back. He never wants to hurt Daniel, but he always seems to be doing it anyway.

"I want you here," Daniel says, and then leans down to take Max's bottom lip between his teeth, like he doesn't want Max to say anything back. It helps, to have Daniel's mouth on his. He bucks up against him, kisses him back, and hopes Daniel can't feel what he's feeling, hopes they can both be happy with just this.

#maxiel #f1 #my writing #thank you guys for these awesome prompts #these are the only words i've been able to write in weeks

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deandoesthingstome · 1 year

Text

Walk with Me - Ch 1

Pairing: FBI Agent!Syverson x OFC, Drug Czar!August Walker x OFC

Chapter Summary: The stakeout, some revelations, a takedown of sorts. We're just meeting everyone here, folks.

Chapter Warnings: Drug use, mention of drug trafficking, mention of blow jobs, light dom/sub behavior, past relationship pining, cheating (-ish?)

Word Count: 3.1K

Masterlist: For full series Summary and Warnings

Spotify Playlist: Usually a song per POV section

Syverson

"He's on the move."

Agent Syverson watched all nine monitors with an intensity felt throughout the surveillance trailer. He had two agents inside the posh Miami nightclub wearing cameras and his tech had hacked into the security feed for views of the bar, near the DJ, and over the entrance to VIP. Through an earpiece, he advised Agent Ramos to shift right while he motioned for Agent Baylen to swap camera views on the top three monitors. Something had caught Syverson's attention and he wanted confirmation before deciding the next moves for his team.

When Ramos had panned far enough onto the dance floor, Syverson called for her to stop and had Baylen zoom in on the screen. Coupled with the cameras from the DJ booth, Syverson had what he needed.

He watched her body move with what seemed like reckless abandon, but if this was who he thought it was, those moves were anything but careless. There was a point and purpose to every swing and wave, every roll of her hips, every toss of her head.

"Sugar?" Syverson wasn't sure how the word slipped out because he was positive he only whispered it to himself in his head. But suddenly, eyes were on him and he felt his ire growing. He did not need this attention or the distraction.

"What was that, sir?" Agent Moore asked.

Did he ignore it? Wave it off? Pretend it never happened? If only one other person had heard it, maybe he could get away with it. But as it stood, all three agents in the trailer were looking at him expectantly.

"Could I get some damn sugar for my damn coffee?" he barked, a little harsher than even he meant it to come out.

"I thought you took your coffee black, sir," Moore spoke.

"Well not tonight, I guess." His stare shut them the rest of the way up and everyone put their focus back on the task at hand, which was all he wanted in the first place.

Now he could watch her in peace.

Her moves told him she was hunting and the poor sap desperate enough to stand next to her was going down. He knew exactly how it would feel, too, because he remembered those nights with her like it was yesterday.

Even so young he had fallen fast and hard. Maybe he was mistaken, but she acted like she couldn’t be without him, too. So he spent any free time he could find between farm chores, football practice, and family responsibilities to hold her close and kiss her as deep as he knew how at the time.

She seduced him right away, but prom was something special and he thought for sure she was the one forever. He never got the chance to tell her how he felt, however, because it had taken him the rest of senior year to figure it out and by then, she was gone, moved away with her family to take care of an ailing relative far enough away that long distance felt like never again.

He called, she wrote, they managed one clandestine meet up on borrowed funds, and then it was his turn to disappear when he enlisted, not knowing what else he wanted to do with his life when sports didn't pan out and farm life lost its appeal.

But he never stopped thinking about her and the way she moved. On the dance floor and later that night in the cool sheets of the bed at the hotel room he sprang for. And now here she was, all these years later, like a cold splash of water to his face.

"Sir?" he heard like a faraway dream in his ear. "Do you want us to take him?"

Suddenly, she wasn't alone. Sure the dance floor was crowded, but until that moment she hadn't been dancing with anyone in particular. When his real mark for the night stepped into view, Agent Syverson almost broke the back of the chair he was leaning on.

August Walker, one of Miami's most notorious drug kingpins, was standing in front of his high school sweetheart and watching her with as much intensity as Syverson was. Only, August Walker could reach out and touch her if he wanted to.

Syverson watched as she danced around Walker, who simply stood stock still on the floor, not giving one single fuck if he was interrupting anyone's flow. And when Walker grasped her arm the next time she moved in front of him, Syverson almost broke.

"Anyone know who this is?"

"It's in the file, sir. This is Francesca Beaumont. We think she's his newest mule."

His throat went dry as Agent Moore finished her statement and he couldn't scramble for the file folder on the table in front of him fast enough. Sure enough, there in the report were the name and the details in black and white. Her photo was stuck behind those of a few other known mules and he cursed himself for missing it. That's not the way he liked to start off when taking the lead on a long running case.

And no wonder the name didn't stick out for him. In school, she went by Frankie. And her last name was Malloy. Had she married somewhere over the years, he wondered to himself.

Fuck.

"Stand down. I know we want this guy, but have any of you actually seen him do anything illegal tonight? Some rule out there about not dancing on a dance floor?"

He watched as cameras panned to follow August Walker who was now leading his Frankie away from the flashing lights of the DJ booth and up the stairs to his secured VIP lounge.

"Someone get me everything we have on her."

August

Francesca wasn’t supposed to be in the club tonight, August knew that for sure. He’d been very clear with her.

In the weeks since he’d activated her, she’d usually taken his direction so well. If she stepped out of line unknowingly, she was always willing to take a note and do whatever he asked of her to change her behavior. She was so pliant. Just like he liked them.

Her first test trip was to Amsterdam. She didn’t question it when he told her had to fly out early, but he’d meet her there. The morning of her flight, he had called to let her know his assistant was dropping off an extra suitcase he needed her to bring. And when she arrived, she didn’t even bat an eye when she discovered he had already left.

At least he assumed she didn’t mind because he didn’t get a scathing voicemail or fuck-off text message and she had apparently followed the directions on the letter left in her suite to a tee. The bag was delivered without a hitch exactly where he’d asked her to drop it and as far as he knew, she’d enjoyed the rest of her weekend, albeit alone. She’d just been so excited to experience a new city, she told him when she got back and he visited her apartment in the very late evening hours, slinking in by the alley entrance and slipping his key in the lock.

That had actually been his first request of her. A key to her apartment, so he could come and go as he pleased. After the few dates he’d taken her on, treating her to lavish meals and luxury car rides, she hadn’t resisted at all. What would he possibly care to take from her place, not the lowliest of studio apartments, but certainly nothing he would normally let himself be caught dead in.

She was something else, though. She had a presence that did not fit her surroundings. She didn’t have the kind of money he did, hell she didn’t even have the kind of money some of his lower employees did, hence her meager living situation. But she glowed with the grace of a celebrity. Someone who deserved so much more than the hand he thought she’d been dealt. If she kept up the good work, he’d reward her. Bring her along in a more official capacity. Give her a larger stipend, move her into a place he wouldn’t mind being seen in. Maybe even replace one of his current regulars with her.

Yeah, he really wanted to replace one of his current regulars with her. If he let himself think too long about it, maybe all of them.

As it stood now, she was on probation with him, whether she knew it or not. The Tokyo trip had also been a success, but she almost blew it for him when she started asking Hideo too many questions over cocktails. Later in the hotel room, he made sure to remind her who was in charge and when she was allowed to speak. She had liked that, too, he could tell.

So her showing up like this just before their trip to Spain in a few days was a surprise. When he caught sight of her, he had Mateo drive Candace home. Candace wouldn’t have known Francesca from a hole in the wall, but since he was going to put his newest carrier in her place once again, he couldn’t have Candace watching.

Once he was sure they were gone, he rose from the plush velvet couch of the roped off VIP lounge area, taking note that the new guy, Will, had stepped into Mateo’s spot without hesitation. It pleased August to know that his employees knew exactly what he wanted and needed, and when.

Usually.

August headed down the steps leading to the dance floor. The music was loud, bordering on obnoxious for him but this is what the club scene called for and here is where he did most of his original business which had led fortuitously to his new business. So he ignored the cacophony and stalked across the floor, not so much pushing the revelers out of his way as willing them to step aside.

When he reached Francesca, he stood still in front of her and let her keep moving in that way that left him no choice but to stiffen. She smirked like she’d won some unspoken competition and twirled again, bouncing to the beat and stepping around him. He didn’t look back, just waited for her to return, because he knew she wasn’t dancing away from him. Not after breaking rank and showing up uninvited like this.

When she finally did appear in front of him again, he grabbed her arm and pulled her quickly into his chest so he could speak directly into her ear. There was no way he was going to shout over the music at her.

“What exactly are you doing here, pet? Get a little lonely?” He pulled back to stare down into her face, pleased to find a small hint of terror. If he couldn’t will his women into submission, what good were they?

He bent again, “Do you want to walk with me somewhere private where you can tell me what this is all about?”

She nodded and he turned to leave the throng, still gripping her arm tightly.

Francesca

I wanted to make sure he hadn't forgotten about me. I knew it was risky, showing up when I'd been specifically warned to stay away until our upcoming trip. But on top of my worry about that trip, I missed him. As much as I hated to admit it.

He awoke such a fire in me. Feelings that had been missing for so long. Lovers had come and gone. But no one ever measured up to my first young lustful love. Not until August.

He made me crazy. Made me second guess everything I knew about myself.

The first night we were together, I was on my hands and knees in front of him faster than I ever thought possible. Most men were careful with me. Handled me with kid gloves, like I would break if the wind blew wrong.

But not August. He'd approached me at this very club, in much the same way he did tonight. Walked straight up to me and waited for an opportunity to speak to me when he was ready, whether I was or not.

I probably would have come right there on the dance floor if he had touched me that night, but he didn't. Not immediately. He just watched me. I could feel his lustful gaze as I circled him on the floor, and I made sure to turn back to him over and over again. Every time I turned away, I'd remember the look I saw in his eyes, and I'd spin right back to him.

He knew, too. Knew the way the hunger in his eyes was affecting me, no matter how hard I tried to resist. I didn't want him thinking he had the kind of control over me I imagined giving him, even from that very first night.

When I finally let myself dance for him and him alone, I saw the self-assured smirk of a man who knew who his conquest was for the night and I closed my eyes like that would keep him from knowing every thought that crept in.

I wanted him, and he was going to have me.

He didn't even touch me as he led me off the dance floor that first night. I followed him gladly, excitement buzzing through me, electrifying my core. He only turned back once to make sure I was following him to his personal lounge on the upper level of the club.

I didn't care if every person in that club knew I was about to get fucked by August Walker.

I was proud of it. There were plenty of girls vying for his attention that night, and I needed to make sure I was who he wanted. But no matter how much I wanted him to take me then and there, he kept me on a hook.

Oh, I tasted him that night for sure. Felt his lips against mine and his tongue as it slipped inside my mouth after he showed me the tip. He was gentleman enough to get permission before he put the ecstasy tab in, so I can't even claim coercion of any sort. I can't claim disappointment either, though I thought he'd let me feel his cock in my pussy that night.

Instead, he kissed me until my head spun, and then he watched me drop to my knees before him. I could see from the bulge in his pants, he was hard, and because I still had yet to figure out the game he was playing that night, I thought pulling his zipper down and releasing his engorged cock was just a preamble to the main event.

But for that night, August only wanted to fuck my mouth and I let him.

The filthy words he called down to me while I slathered my saliva all over his dick only made me wetter, and my mouth watered for him, too. He knew the effect he was having on me, coupled with the drug that coursed through my veins, and I loved every second of it. How could I not?

I worshiped his cock for what felt like hours. Licking up and down his shaft, circling my mouth around his head, stroking his base with my hand and jerking him off into my mouth.

Every time he wove his fingers into my hair, I willed him to pull, begged him through the tears in my eyes to hold me fast and move my head however he wanted to. I almost cried when he let go, but as soon as he was done spooning the coke into each of his nostrils from the tiny vial on the chain around his neck, he put both of his hands right back on my head and pumped his cock deep down my throat, coming with a roar that told me I'd satisfied something he'd been missing for a while. I smiled internally with that knowledge.

The next few weeks had been a whirlwind of seduction, and I was having a hard time differentiating just who was doing the seducing. When he invited me to Amsterdam, I was so excited. I imagined what fucking him in a foreign country would feel like.

But it was like he knew just how to keep me hanging on, giving me just enough of a taste of him before the trip to keep me wanting more. He completely avoided me for the entire trip. Sent word the day before our scheduled departure that he had to leave early and then put me in charge of that extra suitcase. When I arrived, our hotel suite was empty, with not one piece of his belongings left behind for me to hold on to. I never even saw him there. To say I was disappointed would be an understatement.

I kept my wits about me, though. Kept my disappointment to myself. I wasn't about to let him know how much I had ached for him for those days I was alone. And I'd been away from him often enough here in the States. But there was something about missing the opportunity to have his cock deep inside me while watching the light of a sunset in a different sky that had me questioning just how deep I was with this man.

I made sure to keep him close in Tokyo. And there was no way I was giving up an opportunity to fuck August in Japan. I may have offended his business partner, but I really didn't care. I wanted that dinner meeting over and done so I could pour myself over him and take his mind off the women who were serving us.

I knew Hideo had chosen those girls for particular reasons, and I wasn't about to sit idly by and let them whisper and giggle and tease and taunt his attention away from me. They weren't the kind of woman August truly desired anyway; they were mousy and timid, even with their advances.

I knew he was angry with the way I comported myself in front of his associates, but it didn't stop him from letting us both work out our frustrations on one another for the rest of the trip.

So when he told me to stay away for a few days this time, I knew something was up and I was right. I knew her name was Candace, but I still didn't know much about her other than I was worried he was about to hand my seat to Spain over to her, and I couldn't let that happen.

Taglists

And so here I was, being led by a firm grip on a walk to his private office. Exactly where I wanted to be.

Chapter 2

Everything Henry: @sillyrabbit81 @kittenofdoomage @mayloma @kebabgirl67 @fvckinghenrycavill @geralts-yenn @raccoon-eyed-rebel @beck07990 @itsrubberbisquit @feelmyroarrrr @sweetdreamsofgelato @liveoncoffeeandflowersss @dedicated-to-a-brit-and-a-scot @alexakeyloveloki @marantha @aireraume @angelmather1 @enchantedbytomandhenry @omgkatinka @littlefreya @avengersfan25 @lizzystuffsthings

Walk with Me only (I added you if you reblogged or asked and Tumblr would let me): @kingliam2019 @valacircareads @sofiebstar @cardierreh15 @cavilllover @firstcashheroathlete @ylva-syverson

Missing Tags: If you asked and you aren't here, believe me when I say I tried. I still don't know how to fix it when Dumblr won't let me tag someone. You can always turn on notifications or follow #walk with me.

#henry cavill #fbi agent!syverson x ofc #drug czar!august walker x ofc #syverson #syverson au #august walker #august walker au #syverson fanfiction #august walker fanfiction #captain syverson #walk with me #mine #deandoesthingstome

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