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starlight-eclipsed · 1 year

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Rockets Pointed Up at the Stars (Pt 1/2)

Inspired by this braindead rejected soulmates au post by @im-totally-not-an-alien-2. More art at the end!

Part II

Tim slumped down on the edge of an apartment building, leaning his weight against the rooftop’s fence. The alleyways below were deserted, criminals retreating to get a couple hours of sleep before sunrise. A perfect setting to catch a breather before ending his patrol for the night.

The Red Robin suit still felt wrong on him. He thought waiting a week to get accustomed to it would help, but he might have made a mistake when he tried to adjust it to be as close to his Robin uniform as possible without it being obvious. He’d have to remember to alter it further the next time he got the chance, to see if wearing something entirely different would finally make him stop checking the shadows for Bruce. Patrolling Gotham alone felt too much like admitting he was really gone.

Just as he was about to move on, the rooftop access door slammed open.

Tim nearly jumped out of his skin as he whirled around, ready to either apologize, attack, or flee, when he met familiar glowing green eyes.

Subconsciously, he let himself breathe easy as he took in the other’s appearance.

Phantom was an anomaly at the best of times. A phantom thief by definition, the criminal had simply appeared one day to cause chaos—lingering only to taunt his pursuers as he made a daring escape with whatever priceless treasure of the month. His motives were unknown, as was virtually anything about him besides his calling card (a green sticky note with nothing but ‘BOO’ written in permanent black marker), appearance, and a meta ability to phase through objects.

Of course, one couldn’t be a phantom thief without a detective rival (or so the thief in question claimed). For some reason, Phantom had outright declared not Batman, but Robin for the role. Tim couldn’t count how many sleepless nights were spent chasing after him, face red from a mixture of exertion and embarrassment. Because it wasn’t enough for the admittedly good-looking criminal roughly his age to run circles around him. No, the jerk had to go out of his way to flirt with him the whole time.

He hadn’t even thought about how Phantom would react to there being a new Robin. But looking at him now, a small part of Tim couldn’t help but feel selfishly glad. From what he could see of the furious expression on his shadowed face and glowing eyes, it wasn’t hard to see that Phantom was taking the change about as well as Tim was.

“I leave for two weeks, and suddenly there’s a new Batman and Robin?! What the fuck, Detective—you’d think to at least have the decency to tell a guy, but nooo, I had to find out through goddamn Victor Fries!”

Tim blinked, “Didn’t Mr. Freeze retire after someone brought his wife back?”

Phantom paused his fury, shrugging a bit. “Nora keeps track of everything happening in Gotham in case something her husband did to save her comes back to bite them.”

“Huh.”

“Anyway! It took me going after Victor to ask why there was a new Robin for me to hear that the actual Batman was dead, Gotham went berserk for a while as every other guy tried to take up the position, and somewhere along the lines you got the grand idea to add ‘red’ to your name! Which makes no sense, since you practically lived for that mantle and I would’ve bet that you’d take it past the grave if given the chance.”

Tim winced. As per usual, Phantom’s words hit home in more ways than intended.

The thief stopped short, the glowing of his eyes intensifying as he looked over Tim’s new identity. Tim didn’t move as soundless footsteps strode forward, not even pausing as Phantom phased through the chain link fence to sit a couple feet away from him.

He could count on one hand the number of times Phantom had done this. One second they’d be exchanging insults, and then suddenly the criminal would stop and stare, feeling like he was gazing into the depths of Tim’s very soul. Each time, he called off their chase, insisting that Tim take a break and talk to someone about whatever was troubling him. It was uncanny how he could somehow tell when Tim’s negative feelings were overwhelming his rational thought—Batman himself would use Phantom encounters to measure Tim’s wellbeing at times.

Looking back, it was odd how Phantom would insert himself into every aspect of Robin’s life, but back off the second he sensed something was wrong. He’d call attention to whenever Tim was particularly anxious, once even physically dragging Bruce over to ‘talk to your son when he’s sad’, but never offer any comfort himself. But here they were, Phantom obviously seeing something Tim could never hope to conceal, with no Bruce nearby to summon and make things better.

Tim’s throat clogged at the reminder of yet another little thing Bruce might never get to do again. He couldn’t be dead, not with how many times Tim checked the body and struggled to recognize the man who’d become like a father to him.

“...I…I know we’re not exactly friends, Detective. But if you need to get something off your chest, I swear to never use it against you.” Phantom fidgeted with his cloak. From this close a distance, Tim could see the faint glimmer of sparkling purple constellations embroidered on the inside. For some reason, the sight of the soft fabric never failed to calm his nerves.

(It reminded him of a time long ago, when he held a gel ink pen and asked a mystery person to quit whatever they were doing that left his arms covered in star charts that didn’t match anything in the Earth’s night sky.)

He didn’t dare force himself to speak, for fear he might break this tentative peace. Thankfully, Phantom seemed to be taking initiative that night.

“...did you know that I used to be a teen hero?”

Tim’s head jerked upright, meeting Phantom’s eyes. It was impossible to tell exactly what expression he was making behind the mask, but he got a sense of bitter nostalgia. “You never talk about your past.”

A scoff, “Yeah, ‘cause it’s depressing as fuck. Not exactly the sort of thing you can talk about causally.”

He chewed his lip, thinking. “Your suit…minus the cloak, it looks reminiscent of a uniform.”

Phantom fiddled with a cylinder hooked on his belt. It was the only piece of tech visible on his person, a modified soup thermos that somehow served as a near infinite item storage. Impressive, if not odd.

“Yeah, the cloak is more of a blanket than anything else. I added it on when I got tired of looking at the same clothes I used to save my hometown in. It…I didn’t become a hero for fame. It was more trouble than it was worth, honestly. You guys nowadays have so much better support systems than when I was in the business. Makes me wonder if…” he trailed off.

“...why’d you stop?” Tim asked gently, more than willing to throw himself into this new mystery now that he knew it was there.

“It was too much. Everyone wanted me gone, even the people I was protecting. I was hated for my powers, for not always being on the scene when I was needed, for not ending fights faster and for the property damage my villains caused. I didn’t live in a place with metahuman protection laws. The few people that knew my secret identity got tired of superhero life and ditched the first chance they got.” He sighed, “I was hurting, and was desperate for a way out.”

Tim frowned, “So you moved to Gotham and started stealing?”

Phantom snorted. “Nah, I was fucked up for a while after I ran away. It’s funny, one of my rogues was the first to track me down and drag me to a hospital to get my injuries checked. Like a dozen of them got together for an intervention, I thought I was finally losing my grip on reality. I spent a couple months recovering, then took one of them up on a suggestion to try causing trouble for a change. Not anything super bad, but…”

“...enough to feel more in control?” Tim suggested. It wasn’t uncommon for people in bad situations to commit minor crimes, both for the adrenaline and the power rush. Tim himself had once poured his whole soul into tracking and photographing Gotham’s nighttime birds. A hobby that was more than a bit cringe-worthy in hindsight, and definitely creepy considering how much effort he put into stalking his idols. Honestly his young age was the only reason he didn’t get put on a watchlist when he revealed himself to Bruce. That, and the whole I-know-your-secret-identity thing.

“Oof. Yeah, that’s a way to put it. Being hated hurt less when that’s what I was aiming for, y’know?”

Tim tilted his head. “I never hated you.”

A derisive laugh, “Uh-huh. And you loved being led on goose chases when there were more important ways to spend your time.”

“I’m serious.” Tim shifted so that he was better facing Phantom. He didn’t know why, but couldn’t stand the thought of Phantom leaving tonight convinced he was universally hated. “You only make a scene on quiet nights, and you always slowed down for me whenever I had to stop and intervene on some other crime. And you only target the private collections of rich people. Not anyone whose life would be ruined by something getting stolen. You even go out of your way to make sure the guards on duty don’t get in trouble, even when it puts you in a strategically worse position. And…”

He hesitated. Bruce wouldn’t approve…but then again, there was that weird relationship he had with Selina.

“And it was fun. To chase you. It was challenging and frustrating, but your appearance meant that there was nothing else to worry about that night. We could just run regular patrols.”

Oracle was the one to make the connection. Tim didn’t know where along the lines it became an accepted fact, only that Bruce was more comfortable about Robin patrolling alone when Phantom was making a move. A miracle considering what happened to the last one.

Phantom blinked, frowning a bit before his eyes went wide, a shaky smile forming on his lips. “Thanks…it was fun for me too. Kinda the whole reason I kept setting up scenes for Robin to find.”

Tim laughed. The sound startled both of them—he didn’t remember the last time he genuinely smiled like this. It had to be sometime before Bruce was gone, at least.

“So…” Phantom hopped down on the railing of a balcony below, balancing precariously in the way that only he could. He looked up at Tim with an easygoing smile that did little to hide the concern underneath. “As your self-proclaimed favorite rogue, wanna tell me what’s up with the sudden change?”

He shifted a bit, grin fading. “Well…Batman died. He was facing Darkseid and got hit. After the chaos died down, Nightwing took up the mantle and made Batman’s son the new Robin, to help him grieve or something.”

“I don’t know where to start with that.” Phantom adjusted his hood, briefly revealing tan skin underneath. “You sound like you didn’t have a say in it. Wasn’t Robin yours?”

Something bitter worked its way up through Tim’s chest. “It was a borrowed title anyway. I only took it up to help Batman, so it makes sense that I was dismissed—”

“No.”

“—after huh?”

Phantom strode up to him, poking a finger at his knee. “You love being Robin. You don’t have to justify losing your identity. It could’ve been taken in the name of world peace for all I care, that doesn’t make it any less shitty. You just lost someone super important to you, and your connection to them was taken because someone thought your grief was less important. I don’t care who the current one is, you are just as much Batman’s son.”

Tim couldn’t help the small sob that escaped. Or when it doubled, and tears started burning at his eyes. He rubbed at them in an attempt to stop them before they could make his mask go hot and sticky, but was startled out of it by a soft weight being thrown over him. He looked up to see Phantom leaning over him, securing the hood of his cloak over Tim’s own head.

“You looked like you needed some comfort. It’s weighted.” Phantom shrugged.

“...thanks.” Tim pulled it closer, more than happy to latch onto yet another new focus. “How do you move so easily in this? It feels like I’m being hugged by gravity.”

Phantom chuckled, and it was at that moment Tim suddenly realized the other was floating in the air over him. Since when has he been able to fly?

“I use intangibility a lot, but it’s not my only power. It felt like overkill to use more than that in my heists. So I didn’t.”

Tim groaned, “You were going easy on me this whole time?”

“Oh, definitely not. I’m sure you’ve noticed, but intangibility is arguably the most pain in the ass thing to counter. I’m being annoying on purpose.”

Phantom grinned, and Tim couldn’t help but analyze the full sight of him. Everything from his teeth to his ears was pointed, a sharp contrast to the wispy white hair that flowed smoothly in a nonexistent breeze. The most attention grabbing was a glowing green mark resembling a gash across his chest, roughly in the place where a hero would wear their logo. The sight of it made Tim’s own chest ache.

“I don’t think Batman is dead.” He said suddenly.

“What makes you say that?” Phantom asked, reclining on empty air.

It wasn’t denial, not calling him insane or lost in grief. For the first time since his fight with Dick, Tim felt as though he could breathe again. “I know it sounds crazy, there’s no proof—”

“Woah woah woah,” Phantom reached forward, gently pulling Tim’s hands away from where he had started pulling at his hair. “Slow down. Walk me through your thought process.”

“It just…it doesn’t feel right. Not that I can’t believe it if he died, but this specifically doesn’t feel right. I’d feel it if Br-Batman was dead…there was a whole cloning facility where Batman’s body was found.”

That seemed to spark interest in Phantom’s eyes. “You think the body was a clone?”

“Why would someone as powerful and precise as Darkseid drop everything and kill someone he was in the process of cloning? Why was he even trying to clone Batman specifically? We’re missing something, and I think Darkseid is using everyone’s grief to cover his plan.”

Phantom propped his chin on his hand, deep in thought. “Darkseid…I’ve heard that name before. Does he have something to do with time or space?”

Tim practically sagged in relief. “He can travel freely through both, and has a host of other abilities that give Superman a run for his money.”

He snapped his fingers, “Ah, that Darkseid! Yeah, if he wanted Bats dead there wouldn’t be a body left. I’d bet my collection he’s lost in time somewhere.”

“Thank you!” Tim gestured wildly, “You’re officially the first person to hear me out. Like, is it really so hard to believe?”

“No probs, Detect-o. It’s not the weirdest thing I’ve heard, by far.”

“Exactly,” Tim huffed, leaning back and sighing. “Now I just have to convince the Justice League so they can go back in time and grab him.”

“Why not just get him yourself?”

Tim glanced over to where Phantom hung in the sky. “Unless you’re also hiding time powers in there, we kinda need the League to get to him. Plus I don’t even know when in time he is.”

“Lucky for you, I know a guy,” Phantom grinned. “The Master of Time messaged me this mornin’, something about stopping Batman from breaking the time space continuum. It’s why I’m back in Gotham so soon.”

“You…know the Master of Time.”

“Yep!” He popped the p.

“And they messaged you.”

Phantom hummed, “You can imagine how it went when I tried to confront Batman a couple hours ago. The new Robin’s a menace, if I was any slower you’d have to deal with a Phantom shish kebab.”

Tim winced. It was never fun to be on the wrong end of Damian’s katana. Still, he focused back on the insanity at hand. “So you’re saying you can just go back and rescue Batman right now?”

“Now that I know what’s happening, yeah. Clocky probably already has a portal ready for me. Batman will be back before you can say ‘Gotham’!”

It was inconceivable. To think, the living nightmare of the past weeks would be over, just like that. His brain was screaming at him that this was some sort of cruel setup, that there was no way Phantom was telling the truth. There had to be a catch somewhere, some kind of punchline in the sick comedy that was the life of Tim Drake.

But his heart, the part of him that just wanted his dad back won out.

“What’s stopping you? You’re not usually one to wait for a window of opportunity.”

Phantom rubbed the back of his neck. “No, but I distinctly remember waiting for a certain vigilante. I was wondering if…you’d like to come with?”

Tim’s jaw dropped. “You’re inviting me, a vigilante who has attempted to arrest you dozens of times…to travel back in time to save Batman, another vigilante who has tried to put you under arrest.”

“Emphasis on tried,” Phantom joked, before turning serious. “I mean it—it’s your family. Besides, it could be fun. You come with me on a time heist, instead of sitting back here worrying your pretty head off with all the ways things could go wrong. And you get to tell everyone else ‘I told ya so’ when you save Batman on your own.”

He tried to work his mind through what Phantom was offering. To be able to fix things, maybe not go back to the way they used to be (Damian might actually kill him if he ever wore Robin again) but to have Bruce back. It wasn’t even a question.

No matter how smart Tim was, how he tried to plan things in advance the way Bruce did, he never stopped being the lonely kid who would sneak out at night to shadow his heroes. When Phantom reached out to offer a hand, Tim didn’t hesitate.

“You’re wrong, though.”

Phantom blinked, firmly gripping Tim’s hand without hurting him. “About what?”

“I wouldn’t be saving Batman on my own. We’d be doing it together.”

A fanged grin matched his own, blinding him to the swirling green portal that formed around them. Before Tim could so much as wonder if he maybe should’ve messaged someone about what he was setting off to do, they were already gone.

— - —

This was supposed to be a oneshot, but it got a bit long so I decided to split it up.

I really love this au, but I noticed that everyone has a tendency to hone in on the angst so much that the characters behind it get a bit lost in the process. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but I wanted to try my hand at writing the misunderstandings without making either of them at fault.

(Insert rant about how the whole point of soulmates is that this person is a match for you, so even if you fundamentally are not good for each other you still get where the other person is coming from. There's so much more angst potential in not being able to hate someone no matter what they do to hurt you, but I digress.)

But yeah, let the boys heal and be happy! Also this is the closest I've gotten to actually writing romance and that's not saying much XD

Here's the design I drew for Phantom Thief!Danny. Feel free to drop an ask, I'd love to ramble more about this :D

#dp x dc fanfic #dp x dc art #danny phantom #tim drake #red robin #brain dead #rejected soulmate au #danny x tim #i wrote this instead of studying for my midterm that's tomorrow #remember me fondly #my art #my fic

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takeme-totheworld · 5 months

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Aziraphale and Forgiveness, Pt. 2: The Source of Salvation

This series is now complete! Here's where you can find the other parts.

Part 1 here. Part 3 here. Part 4 here.

(This post ended up being way longer than I intended, oopsie! And no fun GIFs to break it up this time. Hope you like reading lots of words!)

So why would Aziraphale, an angel who has not fallen despite bending/breaking the rules many times, have so much emotional baggage around the topic of forgiveness?

Some disclaimers:

Disclaimer 1: I've seen enough of tumblr already to know that "does Aziraphale really have religious trauma?/how much does it motivate his actions?" is the subject of Discourse around these parts. I don't want to have that argument here. Aziraphale's experience with Heaven has strong parallels to my personal religious history, and those specific parallels are what I'm here to talk about.

Disclaimer 2: I am not a bible scholar or religious historian, if I mention specific church doctrines or bible verses it's only to illustrate the experience of growing up in my church. My actual biblical/theological accuracy may be sloppy.

Disclaimer 3: I haven't read Good Omens the book. I know there are differences, but I'm not addressing them. All my thoughts are about show!Aziraphale and show!Heaven only.

Okay. Here goes.

The next point I want to make is that Aziraphale has spent his life inside a system that has weaponized the concept of forgiveness. Because Heaven, in the Good Omens universe, operates a lot like a particular flavor of toxic Christianity that I happen to be very familiar with.

In the version of Christianity I was raised with:

Your only purpose is to serve God's will. Our own needs, wants, goals, etc, were all understood to be secondary to that purpose.

The specter of eternal punishment is always present. Like any self-respecting Evangelical church, we believed that if you weren't "saved" before you died, you would go to Hell and be punished forever. How do you make sure you're saved? Well...

The rules are not clear or consistent, so you're always left guessing. We were a Protestant denomination, so a foundational doctrine was "sola scriptura." (We weren't fancy enough for the Latin, though, we just called ourselves "bible-based.") The basic idea is that the bible is the word of God, it's infallible, and it's the only authority we need to follow. But the bible is a cobbling-together of texts written thousands of years ago, that have been translated multiple times. It's not self-evident to a modern reader what any given passage means. It contains internal contradictions all over the place. So...the bible is the only authority we need to follow, but it's confusing and needs interpretation. Enter pastors and other church leaders to help us interpret. Only...they each have their own pre-existing biases and preferred scholarly interpretations, so even within the same church, different pastors might have different ideas about things.

So, to summarize: Follow what the bible says! Don't understand what it's telling you? Ask your pastor! Different pastors give different answers? Ugh, you're thinking about this too hard. Go pray about it or something. Just figure it out.

New ideas and experiences are, at best, begrudgingly tolerated. Because doing God's will is your only purpose, remember? And the Bible (and your pastor) are the source of the only wisdom you need to fulfill the only purpose you have. So really, you don't need anything outside what the church has to offer you and it's all a distraction anyway. (...okay, if you really must, here's a watered-down, church-approved version of the thing, now shut up.)

This isn't just the church being a buzzkill. It keeps you dependent on them and ignorant of the outside world to whatever extent they monitor and censor outside influences. My church was not even that extreme about this, relatively speaking, but it was still enough to profoundly impact me and leave me confused and floundering in the larger world after I left.

No matter how hard you try to measure up, you're ultimately at God's mercy. So you spend your life trying to follow a bunch of confusing, opaque rules in the hopes that you can be "saved" and avoid eternal punishment. But here's kicker: none of it truly matters anyway, because we were also taught that everyone falls short in the end and that the only real salvation comes from God forgiving you for your sins. All you really have to do to be saved is accept his free gift of forgiveness...by...believing the right things in the right way and praying the right prayers about it. And then spending the rest of your life still trying to follow all the convoluted rules, because doing so is proof that you were sincere...in your acceptance of God's forgiveness...which you accepted by following even more instructions regarding what to believe and how to pray to ensure that you were accepting it correctly.

How do you know if you've done any of this right? You never can, truly, until you die and find out. Because God's not actually talking to anyone. So in the end, no matter what you do, you end up in the same place: at the mercy of God, who decides whether you're forgiven or not.

If you're thinking that sounds like an incredibly confusing and exhausting way to grow up, you are correct! It also has a lot of parallels in Good Omens.

If you are an angel working for Heaven in the world of Good Omens:

Your only purpose is to serve God's will. This one is obvious. If you're an angel, it's literally the only thing you were created for.

The specter of eternal punishment is always present. The eternal punishment that can happen to an angel is falling. We know it's a punishment, because we know Crowley's fall was painful and because we can see that Hell is a miserable environment for the demons. This isn't The Good Place, where demons gleefully sit around eating snacks in conference rooms and brainstorming new fun ways to torture humans. Hell in Good Omens sucks for everyone there. And we can assume falling is meant to be permanent, because if it wasn't Crowley and Aziraphale wouldn't have been so gobsmacked by the Metatron's offer to restore Crowley to angelic status. Because there's no precedent for that. Crowley himself says that being a demon has automatically rendered him unforgivable. As far as anyone in this universe knows, "fallen" is a permanent state.

So how does an angel avoid eternal punishment? How do angels make sure they don't fall? Well...

The rules are not clear or consistent, so you're always left guessing. Was falling a one-and-done mass exile of everyone who rebelled, right after the war? The way both Heaven and Hell talk about the fall and the "casting out" of the demons would seem to suggest so. But fear of falling is obviously ever-present among the angels, so they clearly don't know for sure one way or the other. And what would cause an angel who wasn't part of the original rebellion to fall? Aziraphale thought he would fall for lying about Job's children. The archangels threatened Aziraphale with falling for "consorting" with Crowley in S1. Gabriel expected to fall for saying no to Armageddon the Sequel in S2. But none of those falls actually happened. Clearly even the angels in the highest positions of authority don't know exactly what the rules are about falling. And who decides who falls? Gabriel says the demons were "cast out" after the war, but who did the casting out? Did God handle that directly? Was it the Metatron? Did the transformation just sort of...happen, leaving everyone unsure about the details? And what about present day? The Metatron said that Gabriel would have his memory wiped instead of falling, but does that mean the Metatron gets to decide if an angel falls, or was he covering for the fact that he doesn't know how it works either?

We, the viewers, don't know the answers to any of these questions. But it's fairly clear that the angels also don't know.

New ideas and experiences are, at best, begrudgingly tolerated. The angels know little to nothing about the world or humanity and are disdainful or outright suspicious of earthly experiences. In the case of the ones who have never been sent to Earth, this makes sense, although it begs the question of why there are so many angels who have never once been sent to Earth, the planet that is supposed to be central to the Great Plan.

It's obviously, at its core, about control and keeping the angels ignorant of anything that would broaden their perspective. But listen to how the angels themselves talk about it. When Gabriel sees Aziraphale eating sushi, he asks, "Why do you consume that? You're an angel." (Subtext: You don't need to eat, so what's the purpose of indulging in this experience?) When Aziraphale suggests he try the food himself, Gabriel starts talking about sullying the temple of his body or whatever. (Subtext: It's not technically forbidden but it would be a deviation from my function as an angel so I'm suspicious of it.) And look at Aziraphale himself. He lives on Earth for many hundreds of years before he can be persuaded to even try human food, and Crowley has to work at convincing him it's okay. He seems to know it's not forbidden but he's deeply distrustful of it anyway. (I have a theory that a holdover of this mindset is why he's so set in his ways, behind the times, and still more ignorant of humans that you'd expect in the present day, but this post is already too long.) The attitude cultivated among the angels is These things are not meant for us, we don't need them, and they are a distraction from our higher purpose, so it's better if we don't.

No matter how hard you try to measure up, you're ultimately at God's mercy. So, if you're an angel, you're meant to be doing God's will, and if you fail badly enough you can be punished forever by falling. But the rules are unclear, the way falling works is unclear, in most cases you're kept ignorant of everything but the bare minimum you need to know to do your job, God isn't talking to anyone, and the (seemingly) officially appointed Voice of God is also pretty remote and mysterious most of the time.

So the only time you'll ever know for certain that you've crossed the line is once you've already crossed it, when it's too late to do anything about it. At that point, the only thing that could save you from falling would be if God just...decided to be merciful, to grant you a pardon (i.e. to forgive you) and not do the casting out thing.

Believe it or not, I had to work really hard to keep this as short as it is. If you've read this far, I salute you. Now, what's the point?

Aziraphale and the other angels are part of a system where they understand very little, they have no real power, the stakes are eternal, and their only hope of escaping endless punishment if they fail is the possibility that God will decide to show mercy and forgive them.

Yes, in the real world this is all just bullshit spread by religious leaders to scare and confuse and manipulate people into compliance and in the world of Good Omens it's actually real. But the emotional impact of feeling that confused and powerless and at the mercy of a higher authority is going to be the same. Of course Aziraphale has some Big Feelings about the subject of forgiveness. Of course it's one of his favorite things. It's not just a nice thing you do for people. It's powerful enough to rescue someone from eternal punishment when nothing else can. Powerful enough to wield as a devastating weapon by withholding it. It's a tool of control in Heaven, but it's also the source of salvation.

I was going to segue from here into what I think the specifics of Aziraphale's mindset are, but it took me so many more words than I expected just to lay out the parallels between GO Heaven and (my experience of) real-world toxic Christianity so I'm gonna stop here. Next time I'm going to dig into what I think is happening in Aziraphale's head when he forgives Crowley, and also when he does things like shelter Jimbriel (a very forgiving action, even if the words "I forgive you" don't accompany it).

#good omens #good omens meta #good omens 2 spoilers #character analysis #aziraphale #religious indoctrination #religious trauma #forgiveness #i forgive you #i'm very normal about this #this post is so long i apologize

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hard-core-super-star · 7 months

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During an interview with Hailee, someone asks reader to marry them, and Hailee isn't too happy about it.

it it cool that i said all that? [H.Steinfeld]

pairing: hailee steinfeld x actress!reader

summary: doing interviews with your girlfriend is all fun and games until someone gets too comfortable with their questions.

warnings: none, just fluff; a speck of possessive hailee; two dashes of (not-so) secret relationship vibes; awkward interview moments that gave me second-hand embarrassment while writing

wordcount: 1.1k

a/n: does anyone else remember when comic-con was a big deal? yeah, me neither. so, instead of a convention-type vibe, i went the talk show route. [specifically stephen colbert because he's the only host i can honestly say i like] slowly but surely getting through all of my requests but the urge to write alpha!kate pt. 2 is starting to take over my life so...don't be surprised if i disappear for a few days and then post it out of the blue.

* * * * * * *

There are only a few things more nerve-wracking than having to sit in front of a room full of people and answer questions you’re definitely not prepared for despite all the time you’ve spent overthinking. The only thing that could possibly make that situation more anxiety-inducing is having to do it next to someone you’re dating…in secret.

It’s not a well-kept secret by any means but the lack of confirmation from both parties is more than enough to have fans from both sides analyzing every single comment that gets exchanged. You don’t really mind it, even though sometimes you feel like there’s a target on your face.

A target in the form of looks you can’t hide and smiles you don’t share with anyone but Hailee.

Okay, so maybe you’re incredibly obvious about your feelings for her but it still took her until after you finished filming Hawkeye to realize the truth hiding beneath all your stupid jokes. It would be easy to make fun of her for being so oblivious if you weren’t exactly the same way.

It took more than a few tries but the two of you eventually gathered enough courage to be honest with each other leading to the start of quite possibly the most chaotic but most rewarding relationship you’ve ever had. Just because most people in your life haven’t caught up yet doesn’t make it any less amazing.

The thing no one prepared you for, though, is having to do talk show interviews while avoiding the topic of said relationship. It’s not like either of you is genuinely trying to hide the truth, it’s just easier to explore your developing feelings when there aren’t a ridiculous amount of eyes trained on the pair of you.

Eyes that sometimes don’t quite know how to read the room.

Which brings you back to your current situation. You and Hailee are sitting slightly too close together while doing another interview where you have to dance around spoilers while trying to get people excited for Hawkeye.

It turns out, you don’t actually have to do much since seeing the two of you together seems to be more than enough to get people talking about the show.

“So, y/n, I know this is your first time doing an interview like this and I don’t want to scare you away so how about we get some questions from the audience?”

The crowd erupts into cheers and you can’t help but let out a nervous laugh even though you already knew this was going to happen. Being notified ahead of time still isn’t enough to stop you from worrying about what this segment will bring.

“What’s the worst that could happen right?” You joke, sharing a look with Hailee who merely shakes her head at you.

Of course, the list of “worst things that could happen” is quite long when it comes to people asking you whatever they want.

And right now, the way the brunette hasn’t let go of your hand since you sat down is definitely at the top of everyone’s list of questions. You’re sure no one is surprised by how affectionate she can be sometimes but it’s unusual to see her happily holding onto someone in a room like this one.

You swallow down your nervousness in order to focus on the questions that get thrown your way. Most of them are, in all honesty, softballs. Things like,”What was your favorite part about shooting Hawkeye?” and “Who’s the strongest Avenger?”

You’re thankful for the easy questions until the humor your responses carry inspires some…bolder comments. Stephen lets everyone know the next question will be the last and the lucky fan who’s chosen takes her chance.

“Marry me?”

The easy atmosphere of the room leaves you completely unprepared for the question and the only real response you can offer at first is a laugh. A laugh that earns you a grin from the bold fan and a glare from your unamused girlfriend.

“Yeah, sure,” you reply with a shrug. “My manager will email you my schedule.”

Your response is just as unexpected as the question which just makes the audience laugh harder.

There’s a slightly smug look on your face that disappears the second you turn to look at Hailee.

She’s an actress, and a fantastic one at that, so she hides her emotions well. Unfortunately, you’re an expert at reading her and the lack of a smile on her face tells you all you need to know.

“Too bad you have a very busy schedule,” she says through a chuckle that sounds more forced than anything you’ve ever heard out of her.

“True, true. I’m a very responsible dogsitter and I don’t think Martini would be fine with me leaving her for so long.”

“Does she get jealous easily?” Stephen clearly picks up on you trying to change the topic but Hailee’s not done voicing her displeasure.

“Her owner does.” The words are a mere mumble but the microphone picks her up loud and clear.

Your eyes widen and her comment renders you utterly speechless. It’s not that the words are a complete surprise, you just can’t believe she actually said that in the middle of an interview.

She realizes what she said a few seconds later and her soft eyes meet yours. There’s a layer of nervousness in them that she can’t quite hide and the sight makes your heart clench. You can’t do much to reassure her though so you merely squeeze her hand three times and let the interview continue.

The minutes feel like hours but you eventually wrap up and are allowed to go back into your shared dressing room. Hailee all but drags you inside and you close the door behind you once you're in the safety and privacy of those four walls.

“I shouldn't have said that,” she blurts out, her hands emphasizing her words and the anxiety they carry. “I just, I don't know what came over me. It was stupid and I’m-”

“Lee.” You quickly cross the small space between you and grab onto her slightly shaky hands. “You don't have to apologize, everything’s fine.”

She blinks a few times but the action doesn't get rid of the genuine surprise that's etched onto her features. “You…You're serious?”

“Incredibly. I thought it was cute that you got jealous like that.”

Her usual playful energy comes back the instant she realizes you're not upset. And it very quickly becomes clear she's not actually upset either.

“Excuse me, I wasn't jealous. I just thought it was a lame question.”

“Mhmm, right.” You let go of her hands in order to wrap your arms around her waist and pull her close. “I'll make sure to remind you of that if I ever propose.”

She leans in to kiss you until her brain catches up to your joke. There's a hint of a pout on her lips that makes you chuckle.

“What do you mean if?”

You don't bother with replying and instead kiss her again, knowing your actions will be more than enough to soothe her worries.

#hailee steinfeld x reader #hailee steinfeld x female reader #hailee steinfeld x you #hailee steinfeld x y/n #hailee steinfeld fic #hailee steinfeld imagine #hailee steinfeld fanfiction #hailee steinfeld fluff #hailee steinfeld #hawkeye #mcu #mcu fanfiction #marvel #wlw #wlw fic #writing

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petermorwood · 2 months

Text

This Reply by @neil-gaiman reminded me of two things:

(1) How much I despised doing, and avoiding, compulsory Games / Sports / Gym / PE / PT / Whatever.

(2) That I never, ever have to do, or avoid, compulsory Whatever again in my life.

*****

I spent my whole school career avoiding them, and forged sick notes which helped that avoidance were the first really successful fiction-writing of my life.

I also learned that when acting the part of someone with a sprained ankle, a tiny stone in the appropriate shoe was a good reminder of which ankle to limp on, while an air of suffering bravely borne was always more convincing if that air was scented with a faint hint of the embrocation rubbed into one sock.

*****

Neil didn't mention the effects of time of year or weather, but both were frequent entries in My List Of Unpleasing Things About Games.

Leaving out PT / Gym / PE or whatever, which was indoors and - thanks to the solidity of the equipment - a weekly source of sprains, strains, bruises, mild concussion and deep loathing, my old school used to observe Ye Olde Academic terms and their associated sporting pleasures.

This says something about which I'm not quite sure, and I see it's replaced them with plain old Autumn-Spring-Summer Term, which says something else about which I'm even less sure.

*****

So there was Michaelmas Term (August to Christmas), and rugby.

A soggy school rugby pitch in Northern Ireland in November, halfway through the game with the pitch well churned up, the daylight fading, the rain turning to sleet and every other member of both teams still (a) Too Large and (b) Too Keen, was a reluctant 12-year-old's equivalent of Flanders Fields on the Western Front ca. 1916.

(No artillery or machine-guns, but (a) and (b) were quite enough.)

I was also a skinny reluctant 12-year-old - those who know me now can believe that or not as you please - and the icy breezes which whistled unimpeded up, across and down the legs of my too-baggy-now-but-he'll-grow-into-them shorts were at least one cause of a lifelong fondness for saunas, hot tubs and steam baths.

*****

Then there was Hilary Term (January to Easter) and field hockey.

That was when the School Armoury issued hockey sticks and sent us forth onto the Artificial Pitch, which wasn't as muddy as the grass-covered rugby one but could produce amazing scabby knees and elbows after a tumble at speed, either after the ball or more often away from the opposition's bloody-minded front row.

Being artificial, rainwater didn't soak in but just sat there in puddles, and sometimes in early term they froze hard enough that field hockey could become ice hockey in the space of a couple of strides, cue another tumble and more scabs. Oh yes, and my shorts were still too baggy, so icy breezes in unwanted places continued to be an ongoing delight.

*****

And then there was Trinity Term (post-Easter to July) and field athletics then cricket, AKA liveliness meets somnolence.

That was when the sky became increasingly blue, the birdies sang tweet-tweet, the sun shone more often, the air became noticeably warmer and anyone with sense enjoyed as much of the soon-to-be-summer days as worries about impending End-Of-Term exams allowed.

It was also a time for field athletics until Half-Term, featuring long-jumps, high-jumps and runs of various speed and duration.

We re-learned every year that it was possible to get a nasty sunburn even in a Northern Ireland May, that unless the groundskeeper raked the sand in the long-jump pit properly there would be at least one souvenir from a local cat, that sweat could break out with the least exertion because sunny and humid were frequently simultaneous, and that horseflies were always ready to sample new blood and the way they got that blood was a painful process.

It still is.

Bastards.

*****

After Half-Term it was cricket, which combined disinterested boredom and pointless intermittent activity at a nearly Zen level with me being very, very bad at it.

I was no good as a bowler, I could throw straight or I could throw hard, but throwing hard and straight at the same time was something I never seemed to master.

Oh dear.

I was no good as a batsman, I tended to step out and slosh so the ball went in all directions, including on a couple of occasions straight up and straight down again, though not high enough or for long enough to get any runs.

What a shame.

I was no good as a wicketkeeper because I was more butterfingered than a clumsy dairymaid, and what I didn't drop I would handle wrongly, like that time I made what would have been a perfect catch except I fumbled it and knocked the stumps down before, not after.

Oops.

My incompetence at everything up close was Really Quite Remarkable, so I was invariably sent out to one of the deep field positions where, unless something Silly happened, I could be safely ignored and - if the grass was long enough - I would be ignored whatever happened.

I read a lot of good books that way.

Not a single one was about sport.

#school sports #the delights of organised games #mud blood and Form II-B #rugby up the wrong way #he's dead gym #cricket done right is mostly chirping

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spiderceo · 1 year

Note

I AM OBSESSED WITH YOUR WALLY HEADCANONS!! Can we hopefully get more obsessive/ Yandere Wally?? Romantic or platonic ^^

WALLY DARLING HCS PT.2

pairing: wally & gn!reader (romantic or platonic — up for interpretation)

warnings: scopophobia (fear of staring), obsessive behaviour, mentions of/implied stalking, attachment issues

a/n: i love writing for this silly demonic puppet so thank you for asking sjhshsh i’m glad you enjoy my headcanons ^^

master post

✿ you’ve started receiving random notes all over the place lately. the topics vary from things you have recently done to talking about how good you looked today.

✿ the notes are usually quite sweet but recently, they’ve been showing up in concerning places. your kitchen cupboards, your wardrobe, and even under your pillow.

✿ the culprit behind these notes has yet to have been caught but you’ve had the faintest of hints. the giveaway towards exactly who’s been doing this? small spots of paint decorating the pages.

✿ even when you’ve spent the whole day together, wally doesn’t want you to leave. it’s almost like he wishes to keep you captive in his hugs and art. it’s sweet that he wishes to spend so much time with you, but it’s beginning to get worrying just how often he begs for your attention.

✿ “you’re so cute when you sleep!”

✿ when have you ever been asleep around him?

✿ recently, wally has taken to painting you in shades of red.

✿ “did you miss me? because i really missed you!” said after he only saw you yesterday.

✿ wally struggles to be away from you for too long — especially if being away means that you can hang out with other people.

✿ wally is just enamoured by your eyes. he loves staring into them whenever you look his way. eye contact is always a prominent thing when it comes to your meetings. wally’s staring, however, feels a lot deeper than simply looking at someone. there’s an odd tingling sensation accompanied by it which you can never quite explain.

as always, my ask box is open for any requests and suggestions. <3

< last part !!

!! next part >

#welcome home #welcome home arg #wally x reader #wally & reader #wally darling #wh #headcannons #reader insert #gender neutral reader #x reader #headcanon

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vale-writes · 7 months

Text

smutty wyll thoughts pt. 2

HORN HANDLEBARS. HITS POST.

tags: gender neutral reader, reader’s genitals are not described, some fluff/hurt-comfort, top!wyll, bottom!reader, soft dom!reader, sub!wyll, light dom/sub dynamics (reader is just spoiling and taking care of him), mentions of act 2/3 spoilers, unprotected sex, creampie

wyll was really insecure about his devil horns. most nights, when he thought you’d fallen asleep, he’d look at himself in the mirror, wondering how you could ever see him as anything other than a monster. he’d spent his teenage years and entire adult life hunting devils, and now he was one of them? the thought was too much to bear.

you stirred in the silk sheets and came up behind him, gently hugging him from behind and kissing the back of his neck.

“you know i love you, right?” you murmured into his soft skin.

“even if i look like.. this? even if i’m a monster?” his voice quivered slightly. his words were barely above a whisper. he feared if he spoke them too loudly, he wouldn’t be able to stop the flood of emotions that’d follow. he sacrificed everything for baldur’s gate, protected the innocent, and this was his repayment? this was how a hero was rewarded?

“wyll, dear,” you said as you placed a hand to his jaw, pushing his face to meet yours. “you’re not a monster. these horns, your eye, they only show me how much you love the people of the sword coast. i don’t see a devil. i see you, wyll ravengard. the man who spared karlach, against everything you’d been told, because you saw the innocence in her eyes. the man who made an impossible deal to save baldur’s gate. the man who walked in step with me the entire way to the netherbrain and fought to save all of faerûn.”

you held his face in both of your hands, gazing into his eyes. “so no, you’re not a monster. you’re love.”

he stared into your eyes for a long moment, not saying anything. “you really think so?” he asked quietly.

“i don’t think so, i’m telling you so.” with that, you put out the candle illuminating the space in front of the mirror.

“well, who am i to argue with you?” a small smile flitted across his face in the dark of your shared bedroom. he pulled you into a deep kiss, sliding one hand behind your head and the other to your hip, pulling you in close. your hands fell down to his chest. he let out a small gasp as they traced over the sensitive ridges on his neck and shoulders.

“good boy,” you whispered and felt him stiffen in surprise. “glad you know not to argue, dearest.” you gently pushed on his chest, making him walk backwards until the back of his legs hit the bed. he immediately sat down, pulling you in to straddle him.

“please, gods, call me that again,” he said breathlessly between kisses.

“dearest? i call you that all the time, darling,” you teased. he could feel your shit eating grin against his lips.

“you know what i’m talking about, love,” he groaned.

“i don’t think i do. can you remind me?” you pulled off your night shirt with a quiet hum.

he buried his face in your neck and whined, “please, love, call me your- your.. good boy again.”

“ah, there you go, my love,” you cooed as you traced his horns, earning a shudder from him. “you’re such a good boy for me.”

the moan he let out sent vibrations through your entire neck. you started to massage the base of his horns with one hand while you ran your thumb of the other over the ridges on his neck. you could feel his warm breath speeding up on your throat, his cock starting to harden under you.

and then you started grinding on him.

his hands instantly flew to your hips, trying to regain some semblance of control. he let out a moan that almost sounded more like a wail. he’d never thought to touch his new.. sensitive areas. in fact, he’d actively avoided going anywhere near them, too afraid to accept the fact that a devil’s curse could ever make him feel good.

“shhh, baby. it’s okay. you can be a good boy for me and take it, right?” you said as you ground harder onto him. he nodded frantically.

“y-yes, of course i can do that-“ he was cut off by his own moans as you licked a stripe along his neck ridges. you helped him pull off his shirt, inhaling deeply and letting out a groan of pleasure at seeing his alluring body. you ran your hands up and down his torso, your fingers catching on the old scars and the new ridges. wyll leaned back onto his elbows to better drink in the sight of you on top of him. he let his head fall back with a moan when you started kissing and marking his chest.

“please, don’t tease me any more. i can’t- i can’t take it,” he said, his voice straining with desperation. “i need you. now.”

“well, who am i to deny my prince any longer?” you purred, standing up to pull yours and his pants off. you untied his underwear and slid them off his legs after he obediently raised his hips for you. you left a few kisses and nibbles on the inside of his thighs, earning whines and a hand in your hair from him.

“please, please my love. i’ve been a good boy for you, haven’t i? please just let me inside of you,” he begged through heavy breaths. you let out a content hum and pulled off your own (now soaked and sticky) underwear before returning to your previous position in his lap. he reached a hand out into the darkness and let out a small gasp when he felt how.. excited you were. just the idea of you getting this turned on from touching him got wyll even harder. his elbows dug deeper into the mattress when you dragged the tip of his cock over your hole a few times before starting to push it in. the so-called “ridges in unmentionable places” rubbed along your own unmentionable place wonderfully, ripping a few whimpers from your chest as you continued to guide him into you.

once wyll had bottomed out inside of you, you both sat quietly for a moment, just trying to adjust. he’d pushed himself back up off his elbows to wrap his arms around you and rest his forehead on yours. you inhaled his scent, one that always smelled like the forest, no matter what perfumes or oils he put on. your heat was so tight around him he felt like he could never- or rather should never- pull out of you. and his cock stretched you so nicely that you thought he might as well have molded you to fit him perfectly.

“can i move?” he whispered breathlessly into your ear.

“oh, darling, don’t lift a finger. just be a good boy and take it,” you moaned as you started to move, rising up and slamming yourself down onto him. both of your moans filled the room. the air got hotter from your bodies and breaths. as you ran your thumb along wyll’s wet lips, you thought, “is he.. drooling?” you giggled a little and kept going faster and faster, wanting to hear those broken moans fall from his lips forever.

“i can’t-“ he gasped. “it’s too much- you feel too good, i’m going to-“ wyll fell back onto the bed, grabbing your hips and bucking into you wildly, desperately chasing his release. his dick hit a new spot inside you that made you see stars, but you had to snap out of it and get a hold of yourself.

“now, prince, did i say you could cum?” you asked with fake sympathy. “don’t you want to be a good boy and cum with me?”

“i can’t-“

“you can, and you will.”

he swallowed down his moan as his dick twitched inside of you. he was too embarrassed to admit it, but he got ridiculously turned on when you took control of him like this.

so, you can imagine the amount of self-control it took for him to not cum right then and there when you grabbed him by the horns to face you again. he let out one of the loudest moans you’d ever heard from him when your gripped his horns and started using them as leverage to get him deeper inside you.

“there we go,” you moaned, panting. you were close and he knew it.

“yes- yes please use me however you want. please let me make you cum, my love.”

it was one, two, three more thrusts before you came all over him. he suddenly had a death grip on your hips as he pulled you down onto his cock so he could finish inside of you, letting out a wail of pleasure before burying his face in your neck again. you felt his warm cum fill you up and then some. it dripped out of you and onto the shaft of his cock while he softened inside of you.

you pulled him into a passionate but gentle kiss, holding his face in your hands while you both caught your breaths.

“i think- i think i’m starting to like the horns and bumps,” he chuckled.

“i’m glad we’re on the same page, then.”

#vale writes #HOOOOOO BOY #i did not mean for this to get so long #my bad guys i got possessed by the wyll love #bg3 smut #wyll ravengard smut #bg3 #wyll ravengard #dom!reader #sub!wyll #bg3 hurt comfort

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scorpionrising · 5 months

Text

there's an ache in you, put there by the ache in me (pt. 1: the road not taken looks real good now)

pairing: aemond targaryen x velaryon!oc word count: 8971 content warnings: explicit sexual content, major character death, cheating/infidelity (not really, but also kind of – it'll make sense when you read it), will add to this list as needed read part 2 here

notes: this is also cross-posted to ao3, as that is my primary place for posting, if you would prefer to read there. this author is fully team black, so proceed with caution. background relationships include cregan/jace/baela and luke/rhaena. feel free to read heavily into daena and rhaenyra's interactions too if you so choose

before reading, please be aware that this is an AU of a completed fanfiction i have written called fireplace ashes. you really don't need to have read it though to read this, as it's pretty self contained. all you need to know at the start:

daena velaryon is the youngest daughter of rhaenys targaryen and corlys velaryon; the same age as aegon. she claimed vermithor when she was eight and laenor was her favorite person in the world growing up, so she loves her nephews very much. she is betrothed to jace and neither of them are happy about it. when rhaenyra sent luke to storm's end, daena went with him. when he chased after luke, she stopped him, and this is where we leave off...

edit, 12/18/2023: because i forgot to mention this before posting — re: any references made to sarya. sarya is an oc from the fic i wrote that this is based on. she is daena’s handmaiden with whom daena has had a clandestine relationship that is so doomed by the narrative that they are both entirely aware of it

Daena and Aemond spoke more and more with each passing day. Mariyah was still sick, confined to her bed and face growing paler as the storms raged outside. Aemond had grown surprisingly competent in dealing with the barn animals, so she spent a majority of her days attending to Mariyah.

“Perhaps it was a miracle,” Mariyah said in a croaking voice as Daena wrung out a cloth to lay atop her forehead.

“What was?” Daena asked.

“Stumbling upon you,” Mariyah said, closing her eyes as Daena laid the cloth down. “The gods knew.”

“What did they know?”

“That I would die, and they ensured I would not die alone.”

There was a faint smile on her deeply lined face, as though she were at peace.

“Oh, don’t say that,” Daena said, taking care to smooth down Mariyah’s gray hair.

“Ever since my Royce passed three years ago, I’ve been waiting for the gods to take me. We never had children, you know.” Mariyah’s muddy green eyes sprung open and she reached out a wrinkled hand to touch Daena’s face. Tears began brimming as she spoke once more. “I’ve been alone for so long. It’s been wonderful, having you and your husband here.”

Daena partly hated herself for lying to Mariyah, but if it gave the old woman comfort in her last days to think she was providing aid to a happy couple in love, she would continue the charade until the moment the storms broke.

“I’d like you and Jack to keep the house,” Mariyah whispered. “Let it be your shelter. Go to Essos if you wish, but let the house remain standing, I beg. Let it still be filled with love even once I’m gone.”

Feeling tears in her own eyes begin to well, Daena nodded. If this was a way to settle her debt with Mariyah, she would declare this house as royal property. It would be a hunting getaway for her ancestors for years to come. It would never crumble as a way to pay thanks to the woman who saved her.

“Of course,” Daena said finally. “We’ll take care of your home.”

“Make it your home,” Mariyah begged. “Make it yours.”

“We will,” Daena promised. “We will.”

Mariyah nodded, contended by Daena’s words, and her eyes fluttered close once more. Her chest stuttered, but then began to rise and fall in time. Pursing her lips, Daena pulled the covers up the Mariyah’s chin and removed the damp cloth from her forehead. She let the water pitcher rest on the bedside table and filled a glass with water in case Mariyah woke up thirsty.

When she went down the stairs, Aemond was sitting by the fire in the main room of the house reading. The candles were dim, burnt down to the wicks around him. They would have to replace them on the morrow with the new ones.

“What are you reading?” she asked him.

He glanced up from his book and pressed his lips together. “A book of Lysene poetry. The old woman is more learned than I thought.”

“Her name is Mariyah,” Daena said, scowling and taking a seat in the chair across from him. She pointed her feet out and let the flames warm her bare ankles. “You ought to have some respect, you know.”

He scoffed at her but did not look back down at his book. Instead, he met her eyes brazenly. Despite herself, she delighted in the way the flames licked at the sapphire embedded in his eye socket. The question was on the tip of her tongue, begging to be asked, but she could not find the words in actuality.

“Our families think us dead,” Daena whispered instead, staring into the flames.

“And whose fault is that?” he retorted.

She flexed her fingers and clenched her jaw, wondering what it might be like to fling her fist into his jaw.

“What if we stay dead?” she asked him.

“If you’d like me to kill you, just give the word,” he said through his teeth.

“Not like that,” she snapped. “I just— Mariyah told me when she dies she wants us— or Alyse and Jack, rather— to keep the house… and I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to stay here and live a simple life.”

“You wouldn’t like that,” Aemond said. He closed his book and set it aside on the floor by his feet. “It would bore you senseless.”

“You said the same thing about my marriage to Jace,” Daena pointed out. She flexed her feet and tilted her head back to stare at the dark ceiling. “It would seem I am destined for a life of dreadful boredom.”

She sighed loudly and pushed her braids off her shoulder to fall over the back of the chair. Aemond’s eye was trained directly on her face, seeming to see through her to her very soul.

“Would it not be better to be bored on my own terms, living my own life rather than forced into a loveless marriage?”

“That would mean abandoning your family,” he pointed out, “which you would never do.”

She huffed and dropped her hands onto her lap. “You’re right. But it’s nice to pretend, I suppose.”

“What’s the point in pretending?” he asked her. “We are not children.”

“You’re infuriating,” she snapped. “We’ve been stuck here for days on end with nothing to do, knowing our families are preparing for war! What’s the point of any of it? Why shouldn’t I imagine an easier life?”

“Because it makes you a coward,” he told her as though it were the simplest thing in the world, voice too placid for her liking. “You cannot run from your destiny, Daena, no matter how hard you might try.”

“I’ve never run from my destiny,” she said defensively, remembering the way Helaena looked at her and whispered ‘Dragonslayer’ all those years ago.

He hummed and turned to the flames, barring the sapphire in his eye from view. All she could see was the unmarred half of his face, and she could see the strange little boy in his bones. She had quite liked that boy, but she thought he might be long dead by now.

“I hope they betrothed Jace to Baela in my absence,” she confessed in a small voice. “She could love him in a manner I could never bear to, I think.”

He slid his feet forward. The house shoes Mariyah had provided for him were neatly placed at one of the chair legs, but he wore thick woolen socks all the same. The heal of one of the socks was fraying and the other was drooping so low that she could see his bony ankle poking out from beneath the pants that were too short for him. It made him look disgustingly human.

“Which Baratheon girl were you going to marry?”

“I do not know,” he said. “Whichever one I found the most tolerable, I suppose.”

“How romantic.” She smirked a bit to herself and adjusted her weight in the seat for a more comfortable position. “I envy the smallfolk in this. They are allowed to fall in love before they marry. We must make an attempt at love only after the wedding, if at all.”

“I’d take a castle and not having to cook my own meals and slaughter my own animals over love any day,” Aemond said.

She frowned, pitying him not for the first time and likely not for the last.

“That’s terribly sad, Aemond.”

When he did not respond, she sighed and stood up.

“I will be going to bed now, I think…” She made her way across the room and faltered, turning back to look at him. He was staring into the empty seat. “Goodnight, Aemond.”

He turned. “Goodnight, Daena.”

With a strange, heavy feeling in her chest, she settled into the bed she made for herself on the floor and laid her head down. Tonight, sleep would not come, no matter how strongly she yearned for it. She tossed and turned, trying to find an acceptable position. Sometime later, Aemond entered and blew out the candles. She listened to him shuffle around and settle down. Once he laid down, he was still. She heard his breaths turn deep as sleep took him over. Irritated by that, she groaned into her pillow and flipped to attempt to sleep on her back.

“Just come up here.”

Her eyes sprung open despite the total darkness. She had thought him fast asleep by now.

“What?” she asked. “Don’t be absurd, Aemond. That would be—”

“I do believe we are far past what is and is not proper at this point,” he told her. “The bed is plenty large enough for two.”

She thought of what her mother and father might say, of what Sarya would believe, of what Jace and Luke might think of her. To share a bed with the enemy was bordering on treason, but was Aemond truly an enemy? Not to her, she thought a bit shamefully.

“You are just saying that to lure me in with false pretenses so that you might sully my name and reputation later on,” she accused, though she knew it was rather halfhearted.

“Gods be good,” he grunted. “Daena, just come up here and sleep.”

“Fine,” she muttered, hating herself for being so weak.

It was merely because her back was beginning to ache all through the day from sleeping on the floor for the last two weeks. That was all. Nothing more.

Pillows in hand, she climbed up and made herself comfortable on the bed. She was deeply conscious of Aemond laying stock still beside her, pale skin exposed. Heat from his body radiated towards her and she was mindful not to curl into it, instead turning her back to him and squeezing her eyes shut. She prayed for the storms to end early and for Vermithor to finish healing soon to take her away from this place.

Forgetting she had not gone to sleep on the floor, she was confused when she woke up to warmth and soft cushions and a weight thrown across her middle. She opened her eyes to find Aemond’s head tucked into her shoulder, hand splayed over her stomach. Instantly, she stiffened. This was an intimacy she had only known with Sarya. A traitorous part of herself was glad for it, having missed the feeling of falling asleep wrapped up in another. She quickly murdered that thought and turned onto her side to attempt to slip out of Aemond’s grip. Thankfully, he was a deep sleeper and did not awaken from her efforts. If it were up to her, he would never learn of this.

Mariyah passed four days later in her sleep, and Daena found that her heart was broken. Mariyah, who had been so deeply kind and had taken in two strangers without a thought, was dead and the world was worse off for it.

“We have to bury her,” she insisted.

“Look outside,” Aemond said, gesturing to the raging rain and wind. “You want to dig a grave?”

“It’s either that or we let her rot in here,” Daena argued. “Don’t be so cold hearted, Aemond.”

“Fine,” Aemond hissed. “You can dig the grave yourself. I want no part in it.”

And so she did. Wrapped in the cloak Mariyah wore the night she took them in, Daena marched outside with a shovel and began digging. The grave was shallow, but it would have to do. With all the rain, wind, and mud splattering up onto her face, it was nearly impossible to see what she was doing. Lightning cracked through the sky and a branch snapped off the tree just to her left.

When she turned to go back to the house, Aemond was already walking out with Mariyah’s body wrapped neatly in one of the blankets from her bed. Clearly, he had changed his mind. She was sure she was crying, but she was thankful to the rain for obscuring it from Aemond. Her throat closed as he gently laid Mariyah into the grave she dug. She had never seen him capable of such gentleness before.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

If he heard her, he offered no response. Instead, he took the shovel from her hands and began to cover Mariyah’s body. He moved quickly and methodically and did not even spare her a glance. With every day they spent together, she realized that she understood very little about the prince. He kept his motivations so close to his chest that she was constantly, utterly befuddled by him. Once he was done covering the grave, he stood at Daena’s side—as though waiting for her to move.

“I wrote to you,” she heard herself say, voice hushed in confession. “After that day on the rocky island, I wrote to you.”

“Yes,” he said.

Something within her shattered. She had hoped ceaselessly that the raven had been lost, or that someone else had gotten the letter and kept it from him. That day on the rocky island with him had been one of the best she ever had since Laena’s death, and now they would never ride dragons together again. Her eyes burned.

“Why did you never write back?”

“It seemed pointless,” he said, very pointedly not looking at her.

“I must confess,” she said, “I do not understand your reasoning.”

He flexed his hand, splaying his fingers out. He rounded on her, shoulders set back. The cloak’s hood was low on his forehead, but she could see the deep indigo of his eye clear as day. There was confliction written in his iris, and then determination as a muscle in his jaw ticked.

“Three years ago,” he said, voice hard and cold as sharp steel, “I had intended to ask for your hand.”

It should not have surprised her, with everyone around her back then telling her that he was attempting to court her, and yet it did. The dragon brooch he had gifted her was proof enough of that, but she still had been so blind to it. She had thought it a friendship, and him no more than a boy with a crush. She had no idea that his feelings had ran so deep.

“After that day on the island, I went to my mother and told her my plans. She forbade it and told me I was not to see you again, on account of your allegiances.”

“Oh,” she whispered. “Aemond, I—”

“It matters not,” he said.

“Of course it matters,” she said.

A great gust of wind hit her directly in the face and blew the hood of her cloak off, but she made no move to fix it or run for shelter. This seemed too important.

“No,” he snapped, “it does not. Why bother fixating on the past and things that will never be?”

“Tell me something, then,” she said, pushing her shoulders back. “That stone in your eye. Is it not the sapphire I gave you?”

“It serves as a reminder.”

“What could it possibly remind you of?”

He stepped closer to her. “The things I will never have.”

“Why would you want constant reminders of that?” she asked him.

“Because so long as I am reminded of what I cannot have, I will not be so foolish as to think of what could have been.”

Again, she found him terribly sad. Hesitantly, she reached out and touched his arm.

“You must allow yourself to want things,” she insisted. “Constant restraint is no way to live. Take what you want, Aemond, and let yourself feel.”

Unable to bear it any longer, she backed away from him and reentered the house. She ripped the cloak off and left it to rot on the floor. She was covered in mud and soaked to the bone. It was terrible, disgusting, infuriating. She was not entirely sure what it was, but it was just as likely to be the muddy clothes as it was Aemond’s attitude. She could not fathom how he could possibly be so cold about matters that deserved only warmth. He was sharp, cutting and slicing with his words, as he spoke about wanting to marry her. In this moment, she would have liked nothing more than to skewer him.

Pulling at the strings on her dress, she began the process of disrobing for a bath. She wanted to be rid of him. She wanted to be clean.

She relaxed in the tub until her fingers shriveled and the water turned cold. She dunked her head one last time and stood to leave, but then realized the flaw in her plan. In her haste to take a bath, she had neglected to collect a towel to dry off with or fresh clothes.

“Shit,” she muttered, knowing she would have no choice but to call for Aemond’s aid.

Surely, he would never let her forget this. Especially not after what he just admitted to her. Would he think she was trying to seduce him? Grimacing to herself, she drew her knees to her chest and called his name until she heard his footsteps approach the door.

“What is it?” he asked, sounding just as irritated as she had expected.

“I—” It was already humiliating. “Could you please bring me a towel and chemise? I forgot.”

He made a noise that could have been mistaken for a snort behind the door. Without voicing his assent or denial, he walked away. Gnawing on the inside of her cheek and absentmindedly scratching at her clavicle, Daena debated her options. She glanced a bit disparagingly at her discarded gown from before. She could put that back on, but the thought of it was entirely unappealing.

Then, without warning, the door flew open. Jolting in surprise, Daena quickly drew her knees even closer to her chest to attempt to save her from even more indignity.

“Here.” He held out a bundle of fabrics. “Where do you want them?”

“Um, just… The floor is fine. Thank you.”

He nodded and she watched as his eye flickered from her face to the harsh scar on her shoulder, visible no doubt from the manner in which she was hunched over to prevent him from seeing her more intimate areas. Having let him see the scar, now, she perhaps would have rathered him see the other parts of her. Somehow, the scar felt leagues more intimate than her breasts.

“It happened in the Stepstones,” she said, unsure why she kept him in here.

She really ought to have sent him away, and perhaps in every other life she did. But, in this one, she did not.

Aemond’s cheeks darkened in a flush.

“How?” he asked.

His eye was trained so singularly on her face that she knew he was making a concerted effort not to look elsewhere.

“I was fighting on the ground,” Daena explained. “Turned my back on an opponent I thought was dead.”

Could he hear the undercutting questions in her words? Can I turn my back to you, Aemond? Can I trust you? Once, she might have said yes easily.

“I hope you gave the craven the death he deserved,” Aemond said, nodding sharply. “There is no honor in that.”

She looked at him, and he her. Slowly, she felt the barest of smiles tug at her lips. Each and every day, he surprised her. Whether it was good or bad, she did not know, and she suspected she would not know until it was far too late.

Without another word, he left the room. Left alone, she dressed herself slowly.

Three years ago, I intended to ask for your hand. If he had done it, she would not have wanted it—and yet, she could not help but think about how different things would be if he had. Would things be better? Perhaps so; she could have bridged the gap between Luke and Aemond. That alone would have certainly changed a great many things.

Perhaps the time on the island had driven her mad, but she felt her bare feet pad along the floor until she found Aemond in the bedroom. Again, he looked achingly human. His bony ankles were visible beneath of cuff of his breeches, and his soft tunic was bunched up at the elbows. She stood in the doorway, merely watching. If he was aware of her presence, he gave no indication, and even if he was; he was surely unaware of how entranced she was by the way his hair fell in silken sheets around his shoulders. He was as severe as he was beautiful.

“Answer me this,” she said, breaking the silence.

His shoulders drew taut as he slowly turned to face her.

“What makes you believe you could never have me?”

He scoffed. “Our families are at war. Even before, it would have never been possible.”

She would have agreed to it, had the matter been raised. Seeing him in such mundanity, tending to animals and reading under the low light of the candles, made it impossible to hate him. He was no enemy. He was merely a man led astray, but his heart was good and his soul nowhere near as black as he would like her to believe.

“Do not think of our families,” Daena said. “Think only of yourself and how you feel. That is how you take care of yourself. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to go to bed.”

Fingers curling into the material of the chemise at her thighs, Daena pushed past him and began to pull at the bed covers. Whatever she had been thinking before, it was a spark of delusion and madness. Clearly he could not see past his inflated sense of self, and he never would. And she was merely entertaining it because she was bored. Grimacing, she fluffed violently at her pillow.

His long and slender fingers wrapped around the crook of her elbow, and he pulled her towards him without any sense of warning. She was not proud of the gasp she let out in response; sharp and high-pitched. The sapphire embedded in his eye socket—the sapphire she had given him—glinted in the candlelight. He was so close.

“Could I have had you?” he asked, voice low and rushed.

“I would not have minded if you asked,” she answered.

Aemond’s grip on her tightened, and if he clenched any harder she was sure bruises would begin to take form. She considered, briefly, smacking him away, but she did not mind the weight of his grip in all truth. She and Sarya often gripped one another in far greater passions. Besides, she liked seeing Aemond unfurled.

“I have always known what you are, Aemond,” Daena whispered.

“And what am I, my lady?”

“A strange boy with a crush,” she said, tilting her head back. “But I have always been more than fond of strange things.”

She really ought to have expected it after goading him, but his kiss shocked her all the same. His lips landed on the corner of her mouth, sideways down her chin, as though he were unused to the act. Adjusting, she tilted her head to the side to turn the kiss into a proper one. His hands, clutching her hips in a vice, burned at her skin through her chemise. Enthralled by the feeling, she curled her fingers around the sides of his neck, bringing one hand up into the roots of his hair.

However inexperienced he was, he made up for it in enthusiasm. Aemond grasped at her, trailing all across her body as though he were attempting to create a map of her bones. She pushed up onto her toes, tightening her grip on his hair, and gnashed her teeth into his mouth. She took his bottom lip between her teeth and bit down just beyond gently. When his mouth fell open, she slipped her tongue against the roof of his mouth. His hips jolted against hers as a sharp gasp tumbled from his lips.

“Are you going to take me or not?” she mumbled against his neck.

“Please,” he gasped out as she scraped her teeth against his skin.

“Do you want me, Aemond?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me,” she whispered, tugging on his hair. “How do you want me?”

He groaned, low and guttural; rigid against her. His grip only tightened.

“I want—” His head fell forward, atop hers. “I want to taste you.”

Daena pulled away from Aemond, a wicked grin spreading across her full and swollen lips. Holding eye contact, she stepped backwards until she was sat upon the edge of the bed. Then, with Aemond’s attention captured entirely, she spread her legs and pulled the hem of her chemise up slowly, tantalizingly.

“Get on your knees, then,” she said.

Aemond fell without a blink. His fingertips traced along her ankles and then slowly crept up her leg, flexing his entire palm against her skin once he reached her thighs. She could feel his breath against her, his mouth open but still so terribly far from latching onto her as she wanted him to.

“My prince,” she groaned, reaching for the top of his head. “Please.”

He complied, pressing his tongue flat to her. There was no hesitation in his actions; he licked with confidence and precision, shocking her because she struggled to imagine him experienced. He groaned against her, hooking his arms beneath her thighs and pulling her as close to his face as possible. She was unable to keep the shrill moan from escaping her throat.

“Aemond,” she gasped. It was a breathy sort of thing, pulled in a wisp from her lungs. “Use… fingers!”

Ever the apt listener, he dipped a single finger into her. The moan she let out then was a pitched and trilling squeal. His single finger was the size of two of Sarya’s and reached to far deeper places than Sarya’s petite hands had been able to reach. He pumped the finger in and out, slowly and surely, and grinned against her. Two more fingers then, shoved inside her at once. She collapsed backwards onto the bed with a loud moan. He was relentless in his ministrations, going at a rapid pace until she was writhing and squirming and gasping for air. Swiping her arm over her forehead, she pushed herself up to look down at him.

His face was covered in her, glistening in the flickering, dying light. She swiped her tongue across her bottom lip. She grabbed a fistful of his tunic and yanked at it to get it off him. Catching on, he moved to help her. There was a heavy silence between them, but he moved onto the bed—hovering over her—without her even needing to tell him what she wanted.

She stared up at him, lips parted ever so slightly. His hair hung down in a silky curtain, framing his face. Palms shaking, she reached up and pressed her hand to his face. She arched her neck up and brushed her lips softly, gently, tenderly over his scarred forehead. The sapphire buried within his eye socket seemed to glow, keeping her attention rapt. Her thumb trailed along the underside of his eye, brushing against his long lower lashes. He was silent in her arms, stoic above her.

Afraid to speak, lest she say something too intimate, too weak, too revealing, she pulled his face down and licked herself from his lips. His teeth gnashed against her lip as though he wanted to swallow her whole. Briefly, as she fumbled with the buttons on his breeches, she thought she might let him. They did not speak, not even as she pushed him up against the headboard and sat herself on his lap. He was hard against her inner thigh, but she ignored it for the time being. Instead, she tugged his mouth down to her neck. He licked, bit, and sucked at the flesh, drawing heavy gasps for air from her lungs.

Chemise sticking to her with sweat, Daena pushed him back to begin ripping at the strings to get it off her. Aemond picked up on it and yanked the shift roughly over her head. His eye flickered down to her heaving breasts and a spike of confidence shot through her when she noticed how his cheeks flushed a darker shade at the sight.

“Daena,” he gasped out, voice heady and broken. “I… want—”

“I’ll give you whatever you want,” she promised, moving her hands to cradle his face.

Pulling him in for another angry kiss, she shifted her hips so that she could sink herself down onto him. It was a sensation she had never felt before, reaching places she had never known existed. Tears she did not quite understand burned in her eyes, but she continued to sink down until there was nowhere else for her to go. A groan that sounded more animal than human burst from her as she collapsed against his chest. His hands were hot as coals against her thighs, fingers sure to leave burnt impressions.

Delirious, she dropped her forehead against his and began to move her hips in slow, rocking circles. He swore quietly, tightening his grip on her legs.

“Seven… hells,” he grunted.

She continued until she found a pace that cut her breath off at the base of her throat, where the tip of him hit a place deep within her that caused her vision to go black and her jaw to go slack.

“Aemond.” She exhaled his name, unable to think of anything else but the man beneath her. She wanted to burrow herself within him and find a home within his bones, tucked into his ribs. Every bit of him had invaded her, and she was loath to let it end. This bubble they had created; she wanted it to exist for as long as she could sustain it. Here, they were leagues away from the people they had been and the circumstances that brought them to this island. Here, they were just Alyse and Jack. Here, they were free.

She let him spill within her after she reached her peak, and then collapsed once more against him. It was easy to fall asleep, exhausted and spent, within his arms.

Daena awoke with the first light of morning, as she always did. Naked and sticky with the dried sweat of the night before, she and Aemond were still tangled together; his face pressed into the crook of her neck. She was flooded with a wretched sort of feeling, unable to bear being within his grasp. As gently as she could, she removed herself from his arms and reached down to the floor for her chemise. She dressed quickly and sprinted away from the room.

Unsure if it was more shame or guilt that was flooding through her, she tucked herself into one of the armchairs by the unlit fire and stared into the blackened hearth. If she ever got away from here—if they ever got away from here—how could she possibly hope to look her family in the eye? How could she face Luke, knowing she had sworn to give the uncle who tormented him anything he wanted whilst in the thralls of passion.

A mistake, she decided. That is all it was. A mistake driven from flaring tempers and boredom. That was all it could be; nothing more.

Even so, she could not help but wish in the deepest and darkest depths of her soul for the opportunity to make the mistake again.

A noise from the bedroom informed her that Aemond had woken up. When he came into the main room of the house, their eyes met. After perhaps a moment too long, he tore his gaze away from hers and grabbed an apple from the bowl on the table and stalked back into the bedroom with that infuriating slow strut of his.

They did not speak that day, nor the next. Daena resigned herself to sleeping curled up in the armchair, drawing idly on loose slips of parchment she found around the house until she fell asleep. She mourned the tenuous friendship they had begun to restore in the days past as she did her best to ignore the growing knot in her neck from sleeping in the chair. It truly felt as though they were destined to be on opposing sides, never to truly know each other. She wished he never told her he wanted to marry her. Now, her mind was consumed by thoughts of what could have been and what could still be. It was also how she knew him a liar; if he did not dwell on the past, then he would have forgotten the matter entirely. But he had not, and so she knew he did care.

She would have agreed, she thought to herself as she drew Vermithor’s scales. If he had asked her, she would have married him. It was a terrifying, fleeting thought— and perhaps it was a betrayal of Luke, of Sarya, and, now, of Jace. Still, she could not deny that she liked Aemond well enough. She had been fond of him even when they were children and he smashed her head with a rock. She enjoyed his presence, despite his generally unpleasant demeanor. He was a friend, and she would have liked to marry a friend. She could have been happy in a marriage of friendship. If he had been allowed, she would have accepted.

But perhaps he was correct, and there was no use on dwelling on these things. What did it lead to but unhappiness?

She was curled up in a chair by the fire while Aemond tended to the barn animals, proving once more that he cared far more deeply for things than he liked to pretend. She flipped the page of the parchment back to the portrait she had drawn of Aemond while he slept. In the sketched plains of his face, she could see the strange and innocent boy beneath the cruel man. Pursing her lips, she tore the page and crumpled it. Just as he said, no use in dwelling on things she could not change.

He entered in with a wet gust of wind behind him. He made a grumbling noise as he kicked off his boots and undid the cloak, which really only served to make her laugh. He glared in her direction and stalked off, likely to wash up from being in the barn. Heaving a great sigh, Daena got out of the chair to scrounge together a meal for them. They ate like the smallfolk in Flea Bottom, and Daena was miserable for it. Their lack of communication made the bland food all the worse.

She brought the pot of stew to the hearth and let it come to a boil. Mariyah, in all her elderly wisdom, had planned on a long hurricane season and had gathered enough produce to last them the entirety of it. Aemond emerged from the washroom just as she was removing the pot from the fire. She offered him a tight smile and averted her eyes to began spooning stew into bowls for them to eat.

They sat silently on opposite sides of the table, pointedly not looking at each other. It made her want to scream and cry and rip her hair from its roots and throw the bowl at him. It was suffocating, and she just wanted to be done with it.

It was he, who broke their days-long silence, pushing his bowl away from him and leaning back against the chair. “I apologize,” he said stiffly, “for taking advantage the other night. It was… unworthy of me.”

Daena stared at him blankly, astounded. Then, a laugh that could be classified as nothing other than a cackle burst from her lips. His lips pursed at the sound, clearly displeased by her reaction.

“That is what you apologize for?” she asked, gasping for breath between words. “Oh, Aemond… I am hardly a blushing maiden.”

At that, a flush crept up his cheeks.

“The other night might have been a moment of weakness that can and will never happen again, but you did not take advantage.”

“Well, I apologize nonetheless.” His cheeks were flushed with blood. “And, yes. Never again.”

She bit the inside of her cheeks as her mind cycled through all the motions of their mistake. As far as mistakes go, it had been her most enjoyable one.

“You ought to sleep in the bed again,” Aemond said after another long silence as they cleaned up the kitchen. “I can tell your neck is bothering you.”

Her hand flew to the crook of her neck on instinct. She ripped it away just as quickly.

“I’m quite fine.”

“Then allow me to take the chair or floor.”

“No, that is not necessary,” she insisted, turning away from him to stare out the window. The rain beat mercilessly on the glass. Like it was trying to bring not just the home, but the entire island down. “You sustained more injuries than I did in the fall, and the fault for that lies in my hands.”

She chose to leave out the fact that it was his actions that forced her hand, because at this point that was neither here nor there.

“Then perhaps I sleep in the other room—”

“Mariyah just died on that bed!” Daena exclaimed, half scandalized. She was tired of this conversation. “We will continue as we have.”

“Daena, you cannot—”

“And yet, I will!” she shrieked. Instantly embarrassed, she sucked in a long, slow breath and turned back around to face him. “It is different for me.”

He said nothing, merely staring at her. Gods, how he infuriated her, how he wiggled beneath her skin and stuck there, how he could see right through her.

“If anyone were to discover we were here alone, you would be perfectly fine. I would be…” She thought back to what he hissed at her when he woke. “Ruined.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but she pushed on.

“Our mistake, for you, is a story to tell someday. For me, it is nothing less than betrayal.”

“Betrayal.” He scoffed, a sudden glint of venom in his iris. “And what do you call my part, then? Do I not betray my family every moment you remain breathing?”

“Kill me, then, and be done with it!” Daena threw her hands up. “Please, I beg you. Do it, because I will never be able to kill you as I know I ought to.”

He blinked at her, stunned into silence by her manic plea. Frustrated tears brimming in her eyes, Daena stomped away from him and into the washroom. She sank to her knees and remained there until she heard no sounds of movement. Praying that it meant Aemond was asleep, Daena crept out and back into the main room.

She was stopped in her tracks, however, by the sight of Aemond fast asleep on the very armchair she had made her bed the last few nights. One leg was propped up on the cushioned footrest while the other was sprawled onto the floor. Even in her hatred of him— if she could call it that— she was touched by the display. There was hope for him yet, goodness that bubbled beneath the surface. In an effort to repay the kindness, she grabbed a quilt from the chest by the fireplace and laid it over his lap.

They had perhaps left things worse than they ever were before between them, but Daena would deal with those consequences once morning came. Now, she was bone weary and just wanted to sleep. She slept like the dead once her head hit the pillows, though in her dreams Aemond’s face taunted her. In the morning, she woke with a deep, aching need between her legs. Disgusted with herself, Daena kept herself confined within the walls of the bedchamber until she thought she might collapse from hunger. When she pulled the door open, however, she found herself face-to-face with Aemond—a plate of food and mug of mead in hand. His mouth fell open just a bit as she tripped herself to avoid walking right into him.

“You have not eaten,” he said in a hoarse voice. “It is getting late… I thought you might like some food.”

“Thank you,” she said, unable to do much anything else than focus on his lavender iris boring into her. “How very thoughtful, my prince.”

“Aemond,” he said suddenly. “Just— Call me Aemond.”

Oh.

“Very well,” she said. “Aemond.”

“I wanted to thank you… for the blanket last night.” He shuffled closer infinitesimally. The mug was shaking ever so slightly in his clenched fist. “And, I was thinking… here, we can just be…”

She pulled the plate and mug from his hands and dropped them onto the small table in the room, discarded to be forgotten. Sighing, she pushed her braids over her shoulder and turned back to him. Did she haunt his dreams as he did hers?

“We can just be… what, Aemond?”

“I—” He opened his mouth and closed it thrice. “You said to take what I want.”

A whirling thrill spiked in her blood, the ache inside of her leading her straight to him.

“A mistake it might be, but what does it matter?” he asked. “We are alone.”

“I suppose it doesn’t,” she admitted.

Taking him to her bed once, twice, or however many times mattered not so long as it ceased once they returned to where they belonged. She just liked to see him finally breaking free of that hardened shell he encased himself in. He kissed her, then, and she forgot all about her hunger for food. All she hungered for was him. His fingers yanked at the curls at the base of her skull, forcing her head back so that he could kiss down her jaw and neck.

There were no words shared between them. Perhaps that would be too personal, too indicative of their wrongdoing. Neither took the time to undress, merely hiking up her chemise and shoving down his breeches. They fell backwards onto the bed just as he pushed himself inside her. She gasped into his mouth, digging her nails into his cheekbones and looping her legs around his waist to pull him close.

They continued at that pace until they were fully spent; collapsed upon one another. Daena yawned loudly, reaching her hand out to grab hold of the apple Aemond put on the plate for her. The generosity of it did not escape her; those apples seemed to be the only thing that made him even a shade of content. She took several bites of it before offering it out to Aemond. As though it were a natural sort of thing to do. And he took a bite from her hand, half convincing her this were a dream. When the apple was nothing but a discarded core and the bread nothing but crumbs, it was Daena who pounced on Aemond. Now that she had been given a taste, she was insatiable. And it seemed, so was he.

But, it was more languid this time. He did not hurry himself as he mouthed at her neck and began to pull at the strings on her chemise. She wanted to touch him, but quickly lost all means to do so when he pulled her chemise off and began to kiss down her torso. Her breath hitched at the base of her throat and delirium flooded her veins as she became enthralled in the pleasure she wrought from him.

“Seven Hells,” she groaned out, tossing her head back against the pillows.

She could feel Aemond’s lips curl upwards into a smile as he traced his tongue along her hip bone in response.

Much later, when they had tired themselves out entirely, he laid himself down beside her, resting his head on her bare chest. It was strange, how easy it was to simply be with him— and it terrified her as much as it befuddled her. But, then, it had always been easy with Aemond. They fell asleep like that, tangled together, pressed closer than close. Daena had never slept better in her life.

“I would never ruin you,” he spoke quietly against her collarbone one night some weeks later. She had long since stopped keeping track of the days as they passed, dreary and thunderous as they were.

Daena stilled beneath him. “What?”

“Your reputation,” he said, “I would never allow it to fall to ruin.”

For some reason, she believed him and kissed him hard on the mouth for the first time outside the thralls of passion. He returned the kiss with vigor and they fell asleep in the middle of it, which she had also never done before.

When morning came, she awoke to a thunderous roar outside her window. Gasping, she shot up and looked around, scrambling to pull her chemise over her head. She knew that roar. Barefoot and without any protection from the weather, she sprinted outside, past Aemond who was slowly blinking his eyes and sitting up from the commotion she caused. Toes digging into the mud, Daena ran from the house to Vermithor.

His bronze scales were like the rays of the sun amidst all the rain. Grinning, she flung herself forward.

“My brave boy,” she wept, pressing her forehead to his snout.

He snuffed and knocked his snout against her head. Laughing, she kissed one of his horns and stepped back to examine him.

“How is your wing, hm?” she asked, walking around to take in his form.

He flared his wings out as though to prove he was in perfect condition. She reached her hand out to stroke the wing that had been injured when they took down Vhagar. She could see the scar tissue, but the tendons were healed and strong. She could go home. As though sensing her realization, he tilted his head back, opened his jaws wide, and screeched so loud that the trees shook. His hind legs stomped the ground, as though he were preparing for takeoff. It was everything she wanted to hear.

“What are you doing?” Aemond shouted, standing in the threshold of the doorway.

Vermithor’s neck snaked around and he positioned himself firmly between Daena and Aemond. He remembered Aemond from the attack, and he did not trust the prince. Laughing at her dragon’s protection, she stepped forward and placed her hand on the underside of Vermithor’s jaw. He grumbled quietly and settled.

“Umbagon,” she ordered before walking back to the house.

Aemond was staring at her like he found her mad. At least that had not changed. She pushed her wet braids from her face.

“Vermithor is healed,” she said.

“I can see that,” he said. He held out a large blanket for her. “Come inside.”

Feeling the chill suddenly, she stepped in and allowed him to pull the blanket over her shoulders. His hands stayed on her shoulders, rubbing over her upper arms to help warm her. She furrowed her eyebrows and stared up at him. His face was pulled taut and there was concern evident, his lips pursed as he took care to help her dry off.

“What?” he asked, seeing that she was staring.

She cleared her throat and averted her gaze. “It’s nothing.” She smiled to herself and tilted her head to the side. “Well, it is nice to see you care.”

He frowned. “When have I ever given you the impression I do not care for you?”

That response took her by surprise. It was shockingly earnest, coming from him— but that had been a running theme with him in the last few days.

“Aemond,” she whispered, lifting a hand to his scarred cheek.

It was absurd and utterly mad of her, but a sudden shot struck her like lightning. It would be so very easy to love him. Her love for Sarya had not lessened in her time on the island, but there was merely more space in her heart than she once thought. She would never be able to pursue it, of course. She was betrothed and he… Aemond was a traitor and an attempted kinslayer. And all that to say, she still wanted him. Something sinister had overtaken her in the last three moons, sunken its claws into her skin and dripped its poison onto her tongue.

She was fond of him, desired him, enjoyed him, but she had a duty now that Vermithor was in flying condition. Aemond was a traitor and an attempted kinslayer, and she needed to bring him to justice.

“I will come quietly,” he said softly, reaching out and gingerly curling the loose end of one of her braids around his finger. She had a keen memory of her own fingers wrapped in his hair. “I will surrender and bend the knee if that is what you wish.”

“What I wish?” she echoed. “And what of your wishes?”

It was as though the island emboldened him, pulled apart his strong defenses and left him bare but more confident than she had ever seen him.

“I wish for whatever will keep me in your life, my lady.”

“You can’t mean that,” she whispered, hardly daring to believe it.

She was not immune to the effects of dashing confessions made, easily swept up in the romance of it all. It was her most foolish trait, but being aware of it did not subdue it. It only made her aware of the breadth of stupidity she was capable of.

“You took my eye. You took my dragon. Take my heart as well; it is yours.”

Her cheeks burned under the weight of his gaze and words. Mouth dry, she crafted the most intelligent response she could muster.

“I did not take your eye.”

He shrugged, as though his reasoning were the only sort that made sense. Perhaps he would have preferred it to have been her. Their injuries were settled like scores, canceling the other out— even if he had gotten off far worse than she had. In his mind, it should have been her, and so it was it seemed. Or that he held her in just as much blame as he did Luke.

“And as for Vhagar—” Her own voice betrayed her, choking off in an unbecoming squeal. “I wish I could have stopped you without killing her.”

Aemond looked away from her then, finally pulling his face from her palm. She tucked her hand back under the blanket he provided her as quickly as she could so as though it were never there in the first place. Then, he surprised her yet again.

“I know.” It was a simple thing. “I forgave you a long time ago.”

She furrowed her brow, a million and one questions racing about her mind, but she kept them to herself.

“You will come without fight or argument?” she asked slowly.

“I will,” he confirmed.

Bewildered and pleased alike, Daena observed him for a moment before ultimately deciding he seemed honest.

“Then we must dress. It is at least a half day’s flight from here to Dragonstone.”

They did not speak again as they readied themselves for departure. What was there to say, really? They had, for better or worse, betrayed their families and themselves by falling into bed with one another, and now fate had come knocking. They both knew that on Dragonstone he would likely face imprisonment at best. There was always the threat of execution, but Daena was not sure Rhaenyra, even at her most bloodthirsty and vicious, had it in her to be a kinslayer. No, Rhaenyra would not take her brother’s head, but she might strip him of all titles and inheritance and send him to the Wall where he could never be a threat to her again. And rather stupidly, Daena did not wish for that. Perhaps this was what Aemond wanted all along; for her to trust him, to vouch for him, to be more than fond of him.

That decided it for her. Upon arriving to Dragonstone, what happened here on the island would fade into the past. She would dedicate herself to whatever war effort there was and accept her fate as Queen after Rhaenyra. “Whatever claim to the throne I have left, you are it’s heir now. Both of you.” Daena would never be able to forget the sheen of sweat covering the older woman’s body, the way her face was scrunched up in pain and her voice quivered as she laid out commands for her oldest son and Daena.

There was a truth about Daena Velaryon that Sarya had always seen: For her family, Daena would sacrifice anyone and anything, including herself, and let the entire world burn to ashes. And as Aemond perched himself behind her on Vermithor’s saddle without complaint, she wondered if he saw it too. An unstoppable force meets and immovable object, and whatever happens in the aftermath is only nature. And yet, Daena did not think she would go so quietly if the roles were reversed.

“Sōves, Vermithor!” Daena yelled as loud as she could over the violent winds and rain, already soaked through to the bone.

Without complaint or hesitance, Vermithor roared and took to the skies.

Aemond and her did not speak for entire flight, and Daena was glad for the silence as the black sand beaches of Dragonstone grew ever nearer. It had been a year’s quarter since she left Dragonstone for Storm’s End, and war had been brewing when she did. There was no telling what they would find when they landed.

#aemond targaryen fic #aemond targaryen x ofc #aemond targaryen x reader #team black #hotd au #house of the dragon #hotd fanfic #aemond targaryen #rhaenyra targaryen #jacaerys velaryon #cregan stark #jace x cregan #jacegan #jacaela #fic: fireplace ashes

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hearts4hughes · 1 year

Text

hurt - jack hughes

jack hughes x fem! reader

warnings: swearing, mention of alcohol, let me know if i missed anything :)

a/n: pt 1 is here. i’m sorry this is so rushed, i’ve been kinda in a writers block, but i felt bad for not posting a part 2. hope you enjoy reading lovies!

gif is not mine

it’s been two weeks since my fight with jack and needless to say, i’m doing awful. i’ve spent most of my time alone in my apartment eating ice cream and mopping.

as of today thought, it’s my ‘turning point’ according to olivia and julianna. they are both currently over my house, pulling me out of my depression hole, or trying to at least.

“no excuses, y/n! we are going out tonight,” olivia urges, shuffling through my closet, grabbing a sparkly minidress, and throwing it on my bed. i pick up the flimsy material, raising a brow.

“i just don’t know,” i lay back down, covering myself with my blanket, “what if we accidentally run into him?”

“don’t be a party pooper,” i hear julianna’s muffled laugh from my bathroom, guessing she’s going through my makeup, “do you know how many clubs there are in jersey, bae? there’s a very little chance that we are going to run into him.”

she wasn’t wrong, but i had a feeling i was just going to be that unlucky. “fine,” i rub my eyes, throwing the blankets off of me, “let’s go get drunk.” both olivia and julianna cheer in response as we begin getting ready.

right as we walk into the night club, i’m led straight to the bar. after 5 shots and three vodka martinis, it’s good to say i’m plastered. currently, i’m grinding on some hot guy on the dance floor, when i hear a familiar voice.

“y/n?” i turn around to see a very surprised niko, “i haven’t seen you in a few of weeks,” he brings me into a big hug.

“hey what’s up,” i break out into a smile, always happy to see niko, “what are you doing here?”

niko doesn’t say anything and i catch julianna making her way over here, with a worried look on her face.

suddenly, i turn around, being met with jack’s face.

shit, shit.

“y/n,” jack starts to talk, but before he can finish i push him away and go full speed to the exit.

“wait, y/n!” i feel a heavy hand grab onto my wrist, pulling me back, “just give me a few minutes to explain.” i try to pull away from jack, but his grip on my wrist was strong, “please.”

“i’m not even joking when i say you have 5 minutes,” my words are stern, but i meant them to be.

jack fixes his hat and begins, “i’m in love with you.”

“that’s your apology?” i scoff, “that’s great, jack, really that’s fucking fabulous. i’m in love with you too, but that doesn’t make anything better.”

his face drops as he stares at the floor, “no, no, i have an apology too.”

“go on then, spit it out!”

“i’m sorry! i’m sorry for everything,” he blurts out, “i came over your apartment that night because i wanted to tell you how i felt. i wanted to tell you that i loved you,” he closes his eyes in frustration, “but when i saw you getting ready for that date, i got jealous. i was jealous that someone else was taking you out. so i acted recklessly and yelled at you.”

i don’t say anything, allowing him to continue, “i’m sorry for everything, y/n. and you don’t have to accept my apology, just know that i really mean it because i love you and i never want to see you upset.” without a doubt, i hug him,

“i’m sorry too, jack.”

he begins to hug me back and we both stand there, bathing in each others embrace.

“you don’t have anything to be sorry for-” i cut him off before he can finish his sentence, smashing my lips onto his. it doesn’t take long before he’s kissing me back.

“i love you so much, jack.”

“i love you more.”

#hearts4hughes #jack hughes #jack hughes imagines #new jersey devils #jack hughes x reader #hockey blurb #nhl imagine #nora's writings 💐

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humanbug · 1 year

Text

Inky Hearts pt.2

Modern!Ellie is a tattoo artist and you just became her lovely little muse.

a/n: whoaaa part 2!!! this one gets exciting!! i am not sure if ill make a part 3. i was gonna put abby in this but it just didn't feel like the right storyline. this is proofread but also written at like 4am soooo there might be mistakes. comments, and reblogs are appreciated!! my asks are open for requests or just to chat!! i hope you enjoy!!

| NSFW 18+ MDNI |

Songs mentioned: Down the Line by Beach Fossils, Spooky by Dusty Springfield, Left Hand Free by alt-J

warning(s): smoking/weed, y/n is used (only once), SMUT!!!, oral (r!receiving), sex while high (both parties consenting)

“God! C’mon don’t be such a baby and just ask her!”

“Would you let it go! I’m not gonna do anything. We’re just friends.”, you say for what feels like the millionth time. “For now!”, she retorts. You lean back in your seat laughing as Bailey’s face twists at your stubbornness. Knowing she’s right but being way too stubborn to give her that satisfaction.

You and her had decided to grab coffee, realizing it had been too long since you had spent time together. She had seen your most recent instagram post and texted you a string of texts including the words, ‘bitch’ ‘cutie’ ‘skank’ and ‘hottie’, which was pretty typical given that you had been friends since high school.

It had been about three weeks since you got your tattoo and you and Ellie had been texting almost every single day. You had made up the ‘smooth’ excuse of "My ig dm notifs don’t come through :( can we text instead?”, hoping that the small fib worked. Luck was on your side because just like that you had her number and before you knew it you two were choosing to facetime instead of text. Neither of you had realized it, but you were both building up the courage to ask the other out. Although neither of you were successful, typing out the message and deleting them right after.

You had told Bailey about the hottest tattoo artist you had ever had. How you had definitely been flirting during your appointment and how much Ellie undercharged you, still angry about that part. She immediately began trying to convince you to ask her out but you had said over and over again that you are just friends…for now.

Putting her elbows on the table, “So anyway stubborn bitch! Did you hear who Sophia started dating!?”. You and her gossip and talk absolute filth about all the people you know, laughing and cringing at your bullying.

–

“Oh my god! She is so lying! You have to call her out-”, Bailey starts, face quickly morphing into confusion as your cheeks flush and you mumble ‘oh my god!’. Looking down at your drink, trying to become invisible you whisper, “Bailey that’s her!”.

Being the ever so subtle person she is, she whips her head over her left shoulder, looking back at you with her mouth in a big ‘O’ shape. “She’s SO hot! Oh my god! You absolutely have to ask her out. I’m definitely not taking no for an answer after seeing her in person.”, she exclaims, peering over her shoulder a few more times.

Given that it’s a rather loud coffee shop and you and Bailey are tucked into the corner, you try not to be disappointed that she hadn't seen you as she grabs a tray of four drinks and walks out.

Twiddling with your rings you chew on your bottom lip, “You know what? Fuck it. I’m gonna ask her to hang out.”, you state, the authority in your voice is not the most convincing but fuckin’ fake it till’ you make it, right?

–

Your thumbs hover over your keyboard. Taking a deep breath you hit send. Tossing your phone to the foot of your bed as if it’s a bomb and falling back against your pillows, arms covering your face. Closing your eyes, your mind wanders back to your tattoo appointment. The way her hands felt over your plush thighs, the way you had to pull your panties higher so she could access your skin and how, unknowingly to you, she had eyed the way it created a perfect outline of your cunt causing her mouth to water, the way her brows furrowed when she was in deep focus. Starting to imagine the way her strong hands would feel lowering down and-

Shooting up at the feeling of your phone vibrating your hands dig through the sheets to find it. Sliding it open you pull the notification screen down, not wanting to open the text just yet.

✯Ellie✯ : hey! ya i would like that, this week is super packed for…

‘Damn it! Okay, I have to open it.’

✯Ellie✯ : hey! ya i would like that, this week is super packed for me. i am booked up almost everyday butttt maybe you could come by the shop? if you don’t want too that’s totally cool

Biting back a smile at her rambling, excitement bubbles inside you as you respond. Typing out a message and deleting it several times, anxiety making your palms sweaty and heart race.

✿Y/N✿ : Yes! That would be perfect! Just let me know when you have a break! :)

–

Bopping your head to Down the Line as you drive through the intersection just before the tattoo shop. Parking your car in the lot across the street you pull the mirror down checking over yourself. Grabbing your two bags and water bottle you head across the street to the shop.

Opening the door and stepping inside you walk over the front desk. The girl with dark hair is there talking with another girl with black hair in a short choppy haircut and bangs. The girl you have never seen before sports several piercings. Walking up hesitantly, not wanting to interrupt their conversation, the girl with longer dark hair turns to you with a warm smile.

“Hi! How can we help you?”, she asks in a kind voice.

“I’m here for Ellie! I don’t uh- have an appointment but she should be expecting me!”, you say quietly not wanting to sound like a walk-in demanding to see Ellie. Feeling the girl with black eyeing you intensely, your cheeks flush.

“For sure! She should be at her station, her client just left. You can just head back.”, giving her an appreciative smile, you walk through the curtained work stations, hearing the buzz of guns and low chatter.

Peaking your head into her station you see her sitting on the rolling chair, sketching something on her iPad. She hasn’t noticed you just yet so you observe her in her element. Her hair is tied half up half down, the short choppy strands falling around her face. You wonder how someone can make black jeans and a loose t-shirt look so good. Clearing your throat and smiling as your eyes meet.

“Hey! Perfect timing! I’ve got like an hour and a half before my next client.”, swiveling around as she speaks.

Holding up one of the two bags in your arms you take a step forward, “Um- I brought you lunch. I- I figured pasta was a safe option so I brought pesto pasta with sun-dried tomatoes!”

Ellie can feel the appreciation practically running through her veins, not remembering the last time someone made lunch for her. Her lips curve as she runs a hand over the back of her neck.

“That- You are too sweet. I really wasn’t expecting you to bring me lunch. There’s a table out back, let’s eat out there?”, she says as she gets up, closing her iPad and pocketing her phone.

Giving her a bright smile you nod your head. Following her out of the shop you admire her physique from behind.

‘Does this girl look good from every angle? Yes. Yes, she does.’

–

“Holy fuck! Did you make this!?”, she exclaims, savoring the pasta.

“Well- uh- not exactly! It’s from Trader Joe's! But it’s my favorite pasta kind of ever. I’m really glad you like it!”, you giggle as you explain the pasta is unfortunately not homemade.

“Well Joe knows how to make some good fucking pasta.”, she says with a mouthful of noodles. Laughing at the green-eyed goofy girl in front of you as you take a bite of your pasta.

‘Just ask! Don’t be a baby!’, your belly flips as you work up the courage.

Fiddling with your rings and glancing up, just to see her already looking at you, “So…what are you doing Saturday? My friend Bailey is having a small party at her place and I was uh- I was wondering if you wanted to come? With me, of course- or not of course. Just with me.”, you ramble out.

Giving a cocky smile at your nervousness, she tries her damndest to conceal her own racing heart and sweaty palms, “That sounds perfect. I’d love to go. With you, of course.”, her response taking a teasing tone.

Giggling at your own embarrassing rambling you bite back a smile, “I will pick you up at five. It’s nothing fancy, just a casual thing. I am planning on bringing weed.”

“Just a casual thing, perfect.”, she hums with a smile.

–

Tying the laces of your docs you rush out of your apartment. Checking your phone and cursing at the time, it was four fifty and Ellie’s place was about fifteen minutes away. Rushing through the halls, your purse clutched in one hand, phone under your chin, and yanking your jacket on.

–

Pulling up the address that Ellie had sent you, you send a voice memo that you are parked out front. You have Spooky playing low as you drum your fingers on the steering wheel. Glancing around you see Ellie rushing down the steps on the porch. Shamelessly running your hungry eyes over her. She wears a pair of light-wash black jeans, sitting perfectly on her legs, not too loose and not too baggy, a black hoodie, and black converse.

You can’t help but grin as you realize you match. You had chosen an all black outfit too. Finding your favorite black skirt to show off all of the art on your legs, black tights to compensate for the chilly night air, a snug black cropped shirt that showed off a perfect amount of cleavage and your leather jacket.

“Well don’t you clean up well!”, you tease as she slides into the car, sharing a smile as she chuckles. As she buckles up you hand her your phone, “Put whatever you want on! Bailey’s is like twenty minutes away.”

Ellie finally takes the chance to glance at you. Feeling desire pool in her belly as she sees what you’re wearing. How your hands maneuver the steering wheel, rings and manicured nails tapping along to Left Hand Free. How your skirt has ridden up your plush thighs sitting dangerously high. How the skirt hugs your soft belly and your top shows enough skin to see the glimpse of a tattoo and how it hugs your tits perfectly. Fucking hell, she know’s she ogeling but can’t find it in her to give a shit. She is torn from her trance when she realizes you're leaning dangerously close. Her freckled cheeks flush and she clears her throat when you reach in the back seat and lean back with your purse in hand. Oh. You arrived at the party, Ellie hadn’t even realized you parked.

You step out of the car and shimmy your skirt back down and smooth your hair out. Ellie steps out and looks over at you, admiring you even more. Thank god it’s getting dark and you can’t see her beet red face.

“You ready? We’re a tiny bit late so Bailey is probably gonna chew me out but she’s a sweetheart I promise.”, you assure her as you both walk up to the house. Stepping through the door the house is warm with bodies, liquor, and weed. It is not painfully packed but nonetheless you grasp Ellie’s hand in yours and make your way to the kitchen, saying ‘hi’ to most of the people you pass.

“You’re late bitch! And because you’re late you owe me a shot!”Bailey's voice fills the kitchen, she clearly started partying a long time ago. Stepping over to her you give her a hug, her bright pink outfit a stark contrast against your black one.

“Anything you want babe! But first, Bailey, this is Ellie. Ellie, this is Bailey, my best friend!”, you exclaim loud enough to be heard through the voices filling the space.

–

“You’ve been quiet.”, you say as you and Ellie finally escape the kitchen. Finding your way to the room you knew would be a lot more chilled out.

“Have I?”, she hums, walking behind you practically being your shadow.

Finding exactly what you were looking for, you plop down onto the couch, toeing your heavy boots off, shifting to face where Ellie sits and draping your legs over hers.

‘Oh boy, that shot worked quick!’

“Yeah, you have! Is everything okay?”, you ask, tilting your head.

“Yeah, I’m good! I think I just get a little anxious at parties.”, she says quietly, almost seeming embarrassed. Your bottom lip pokes out and you grab her hand that was resting on your legs, thumb circling her knuckles.

“It’s okay! I get it. If you wanna head out just let me know! No shame, I swear. Or we can get some fresh air! Or just chill here!”, you get lost in your ramble a little, wanting to make sure she knows there’s no pressure for anything.

Looking at you she chuckles, “You’re cute when you ramble, you know that?”, grinning when you blush and look down to fiddle with her fingers.

You have the sudden realization you brought weed!

“You wanna smoke?”, you ask, looking up at her with wide-eyes.

“Now we’re talking. Yes. Yes, I do.”, she grins.

–

“And- and so- and then- she-”, you are laughing too hard to finish your own story, stomach cramping from how hard you’re laughing.

Ellie’s head is thrown back in laughter finding your lack of composure funnier than the story you were telling.

It seemed after every puff of the joint you two shared you would somehow end up closer. Now as the roach has been tossed onto the coffee table in front of you two, you are practically tangled together.

Finally gaining some composure, you look at her, hands tangled together as you lean against her.

“Okay! Okay! I’ve got a good one, what was your first time getting high like?”, you ask, face inching closer as the questions go by.

She lets out a breathy laugh, remembering the painfully embarrassing memory.

“Fuck…okay so me and my friend Dina decided to get high together for the first time-”

“Is that the girl who works the front desk at the shop!”, you interrupt cluelessly high.

She chuckles and gently grasps your chin, tilting your head to look at her with red rimmed eyes, “Yes it is but are you gonna let me finish my story, hm?”, she teases you in a gentle tone but nonetheless it makes you rub your thighs together. Ellie’s eyes flicker down at the motion, quickly darting back up.

Nodding your head with a quiet hum you zip your lips and give her your full attention. She chuckles and releases your chin, her hand going back into your tangle of fingers.

“So we decided to get high together for the first time and we were idiots who thought’ Let's do an edible for our first time getting high!’, but we ate…the whole fucking thing”, she chuckles at the ‘uh oh’ face you make at her.

“Yeah, so it went about as bad as you can imagine. We had no clue just how fucking strong edibles are especially when you eat the whole god damn brownie! Dina ended up sitting in the tub the whole time because she insisted it was the only place she was safe. On the other hand I thought I was fucking dying but was too nervous to tell my Dad what we had done…so we just waited it out and to this day it felt like I was high for seventy-two hours straight.”, she finishes laughing and shaking her head at how stupid they were.

A laugh spills out of you and you fall into Ellie’s chest in laughter, “That is terrible! You poor poor stupid kids!”. As your laughter fades you find yourself melting into her chest and laying your head against her.

Loving the feeling of your body pressed flush against hers she brings her left arm up and around your body keeping you close to her. Feeling a calm confidence from the weed floating through your body you tilt your head up, faces so close you can feel her breath. Leaning forward you place your lips on hers, sighing when her hand that was around you wraps in your hair and pulls in. Your tongues meet each other is a match for desperation, her hands wandering and resting at the edge of your skirt. Your hips unconsciously shift toward her hand and your lips begin to travel to her jaw and her neck, switching between kisses and love bites that make Ellie shudder and grip your body.

Kissing up to her ear you gently nip at it, whisper, “Take me to the bathroom.”. Smirking when your whispering causes her to shiver.

–

As soon as the door is shut you are back on each other. Kissing in a frenzy. You nip at her bottom lip with a smile. Her lips meet your neck with kisses and bites, pulling moans and whines from you. She grabs your waist and you jump onto the counter behind you. You shiver as her kisses and bites move toward your chest as she leaves even more marks on you.

“You’re so fucking beautiful.”, she mumbles against your skin, singing praises into your body. Lust floods your lower belly and you can feel the embarrassing puddle forming in your panties. A gasp escapes you at the feeling of her ripping your tights, fingers finding your weeping cunt.

“Fuck baby. All this for me? Fuck you’re makin’ such a mess already.”, she speaks against your skin. The feeling of her lips on your skin, her words making you shiver, and her fingers teasing you over your panties is too much but not enough.

“Ellie please.”, you whine out, feeling desperate. She chuckles at your state, feeling proud at how fucked out you look and she hadn’t even taken off your panties.

“What baby? Tell me what you want.”, she mumbles against your lips, holding eye contact.

“Please touch me!”, you whimper, feeling shameless at the admission.

“Such a good fucking girl.”, she praises as she pulls your panties aside and teases your sensitive clit with her thumb. Pulling at your tights she mumbles, “Take these off.”

You wiggle your tights off kicking them away and lift your butt as Ellie pulls your panties off, tossing them with your tights. A loud whine comes from you as Ellie drops to her knees and lets her tongue find your swollen clit. Hands needing to hold something you let one find her hair and the other palms your tits through your shirt.

“Fuck you taste so fucking good baby.”, she says in a raspy voice.

Her hands wrap around your thighs, fingers pressing into the soft flesh, as she pulls you to the very edge of the counter giving her even more space to devour you. The band in your lower belly stretches more and more.

Your eyes are hooded and cloudy as you look down and the band stretches even more when you see Ellie already looking at you. Tears blur your vision as the eye contact seems to spur her even more. Low moans of satisfaction escaping her throat.

“F-fuck! Oh my god-”, you moan and realize how loud you’re getting so you cover your mouth with your hand, only letting quiet whimpers and whines escape you.

Ellie flattening her tongue and holding the same perfect motion against your clit causes the band to finally snap. Your cunt clenches around nothing and your vision blurs as you throw your head back, thighs shaking and cramping.

Ellie is relentless with her tongue causing your whole body to tremble from overstimulation. Your hands roughly thread through her hair trying to pull her back as pathetic whines escape you.

“S’too much! Ellie- ple- please! Too sensitive!”, you whine and whimper, practically in tears.

She pulls back, chuckling at your fucked out state. Breathing heavily you look down as she stands, her lips and chin shiny from your slick. She looks like a fucking god the way she is smirking at you while covered in you. Reaching out you run your thumb over her chin and bring it to your mouth, holding eye contact.

“Fuckin’ hell baby.”, she mumbles.

Grabbing handfuls of her hoodie you yank her into a deep kiss, tasting yourself on her tongue. Your hands fumble down to her jeans, undoing the button when a hand grabs your wrists earning a whine from you.

“Please Els. Wanna touch you.”, you whimper, giving your best puppy eyes. She chuckles, leaning down and kissing your neck, wrists still bound in her hands.

“Lemme take care of you tonight baby. I promise there’ll be time for me later.”, she mumbles, lips ghosting your ear. You pout but give a reluctant nod.

Gently pulling you off the counter and laughing at your dizzy head and wobbly legs. She tosses your torn tights in the trash and pockets your panties with a smirk. You give her wide eyes and stretch your hand out.

“Give those back! This skirt is too short for no panties!”, you say shimmying it down the best you can.

“Good thing we’re heading out then, huh? No one out there gets to see your pretty cunt but me baby don’t worry.”, she says and guides you out hand in hand.

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