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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 9 months

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Comet Donati [Chapter 7: Heart Attack]

A/N: Hello all! Only 3 chapters left!!! 🥰 Thank you so much for loving this fic and giving all my eccentric AU ideas a chance. I’m currently in Washington DC visiting one of my best friends, so if I’m a little bit tardy replying to your comments/messages then that’s why. Don’t fear!! I will check in as soon as I can, and I am still amazed by and will forever cherish your support. 💜

Series Summary: Sex, drugs, boy bands. You are a kinda-therapist recruited (via nepotism) to help Comet Donati through a recent crisis. Things are casual with Aegon, very not-casual with Aemond. Loosely inspired by One Direction.

Chapter Warnings: Language, references to sexual content (+18), drugs, alcohol, smoking, Shelby being a bigger plague than the locusts of Egypt, mental health struggles, references to violence and abuse, New Jersey, pregnancy, mini golf, lots of content for the Cregan girlies.

Selected Chapter Quote: “We’re meant to be together. We have so much history.”

Word count: 6.2k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @doingfondue @catalina-howard @randomdragonfires @myspotofcraziness @arcielee @fan-goddess @talesofoldandnew @marvelescvpe @tinykryptonitewerewolf @mariahossain @chainsawsangel @darkenchantress @not-a-glad-gladiator @gemini-mama @trifoliumviridi @herfantasyworldd @babyblue711 @namelesslosers @thelittleswanao3 @daenysx @moonlightfoxx @libroparaiso @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @mizfortuna @florent1s @heimtathurs @bhanclegane @poohxlove @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @heavenly1927 @mariahossain @echos-muses @padfooteyes @minttea07 @queenofshinigamis @juliavilu1 @amiraisgoingthruit @lauraneedstochill @wintrr13 @r0segard3n @seabasscevans @tsujifreya

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist! 💜

You type into Google as you hide in the public bathroom stall, pink tile walls and mint green porcelain, very 1950s, phantom drips of water and humming florescent lights: Can Plan B make your period late?

You scroll through the results, clutching your iPhone with both hands. Faintly, you can hear the rest of the band outside, chattering, laughing, slurping on Slush Puppies, smacking trees and rocks with their golf clubs. Yes, the consensus seems to be; Plan B can delay your period. Incidentally, so can pregnancy.

“Fuck,” you whimper. You peer down at your panties, as if you can force bloodstains to appear: sparce rosy threads of warning, dark red splotches like rust, you aren’t particular. You’ll take anything. “Fuck,” you say again, defeated. You get dressed, wash your hands, and head back out into the cloudless afternoon sunshine.

“Stargirl, it’s your turn!” Aegon shouts as you trot over to them: tenth hole, shaped like an L, featuring an intimidating loop de loop. The course is dinosaur themed; Rhaena picked it. Aegon points to Jace. “This deformed bastard wanted to skip you.”

“I told you,” Jace moans. His speech is garbled and lisping, his face comically swollen, bruised yellow-emerald-indigo and drooling blood, stitches above his left eyebrow. He just had his dental implants placed yesterday; the four teeth that he lost at Club Camelot could not be readily located for reattachment. “I can’t keep track of who’s next. I’m on like four different opiates.”

Baela frets over him. “Shh, shh, baby. Try not to talk.” There’s something about watching someone get almost-murdered that makes you want to forgive them, you suppose.

You grab your club and golf ball, dark blue, from where you left them by a tree. Rhaena gives you a covert little thumbs up and raised eyebrows. Everything good? You smile—too widely, insincere, a liar—and nod. Technically, you have yet to obtain concrete evidence to the contrary.

You take your turn, somewhat awkwardly due to the splint that still encumbers your dominant hand. You are thinking about anything but mini golf. Your ball goes halfway through the loop de loop and then comes rolling back. How many strokes? Four, five, you lose count, it doesn’t matter. Aegon is snickering, though not in a mean way, never in a mean way. Aemond is watching you. He does this constantly; you can feel his eyes—river water, otherworldly atmosphere—on you all the time, you can see him on the periphery of your vision. But when you glance at Aemond, he looks away. You’re wearing flip flops, a black NSYNC t-shirt, and bright pink shorts that Baela insists are of the very short variety. Aemond is staring a little extra hard today. Shelby alternates between glaring at him and at you.

Jace putts next. He misses the ball twice. On the third try, he hits it into a nearby pond. Golden koi fish scatter beneath the rippling sheen of the water.

“Loser,” Aegon declares mildly. “Criston, why the fuck are we in New Jersey?”

“Because you’re playing three shows at the MetLife Stadium in East Rutherford,” Criston says as he putts; his green golf ball sails through the loop de loop, bounces off a wall, and then rolls straight into the cup, a hole in one. “One Direction did it, Taylor Swift did it, and now you’re going to do it too. And if you don’t make it too unbearable for me, I’ll even take you to the beach while we’re here. Okay?”

“Okay,” Aegon agrees. He slurps on his Slush Puppie. “Oh, Aemond, I need the Netflix password.”

“You forgot it again?!” Daeron says. Jace, groaning softly, lies down on the ground in a patch of shade. Baela gets a bottle of Orajel rinse out of her purse and starts pouring it into his mouth.

“Get your own account,” Aemond snaps at Aegon. “I think you can afford it.”

“Bruh, that’s not the point! I don’t know where I left off in Grey’s Anatomy!”

They keep bickering. You stop listening. You can only hear the sounds of rustling leaves, squawking seagulls, the whistling of the warm August wind. You can only feel the weight of Aemond’s half-fascinated, half-resentful gaze on you. He wouldn’t believe me, you think. If I really am pregnant, he would never believe that it was an accident. He would never believe that I was that guilelessly, unambitiously stupid. Hell, I did it and I barely believe it.

You steal a glimpse of Aemond—black shirt and black sunglasses, white shorts, Adidas sneakers—and he turns away, pretending to pick dirt off his golf ball. Interestingly, he will talk to you about things not related to that night in Tokyo; perhaps it would be too suspicious not to, a neon sign for the rest of the band to read. But he never allows himself to be alone with you. And he never touches you, not even a grazing of hands or an absentminded bump as he passes you in aisles or hallways.

Bump, you think miserably. An inauspicious choice of words.

“We should watch Se7en,” Aegon is saying now. “Comet fam movie night.”

You mutter: “We’re not watching Se7en.”

“What’s Se7en about?” Rhaena asks.

“You wouldn’t like it.”

“What’s in the box?!” Aegon shouts dramatically—quoting the beautiful yet doomed David Mills, a name he once borrowed to schedule a Zoom meeting with you—and then cackles. It’s his turn. He clobbers his golf ball and sends it flying through the loop de loop; it pops over the barrier and disappears into a bush. Startled squirrels dart out of the leaves.

“Loser!” Jace slurs as he lies sprawled across the ground, vindicated.

“Stop spitting blood everywhere,” Aemond says. He putts next, and badly: poor depth perception. “You’re getting it on my sneakers.”

“Watch it, cyclops.” Jace points to his own stitches, bruises, surgically replaced teeth. “I let you have this one. Now we’re even. But next time I won’t be so charitable.”

“You’re not even,” Aegon tells Jace, abruptly severe. He whips off his aviator sunglasses, crouches over Jace, glaring and thunderous like a storm. Baela observes this warily. “Not even close.”

Jace is intrigued. “No?”

“No. Your face will heal.” Then Aegon pokes him in the jaw and Jace screams, tears slithering down his puffy, mottled cheeks. Cregan yanks Aegon away before Baela can scratch his eyes out. Criston repossesses Aegon’s blue raspberry Slush Puppie as punishment. Luke wins the game, five under par.

Comet’s first shows in the United States this tour start just like the last few in Asia: Jace is iced, painted with concealer, thoroughly medicated, numbed into semi-consciousness. He does lines of coke in the bathroom under Cregan’s supervision. He can’t perform without it. Criston tried to negotiate a month off for Jace, but the label’s message was clear: get him on stage, we don’t care how you do it, we don’t want to know about it, here’s a blank check, figure it out or we’ll find another manager who can. Now Criston watches Jace with his arms crossed over his chest, his dark eyes wounded and anxious, his shoulders slumped beneath the weight of what he believes is failure.

The story released to the press is that Jace fell down a flight of stairs but is recovering smoothly. He can barely sing; his mic is turned up, and during Jace’s verses Cregan or Luke layer their voice with his. He wobbles and flubs his way through Night 1 in East Rutherford. You spend the show staring up at the stage without seeing it. Baela and Rhaena are with you, but you aren’t really with them; you feel like if they reached out to touch you, their hands would find only translucent emptiness like a mirage. Shelby is flocked by fellow influencers that she’s invited in from New York City. Aemond is somewhere, somewhere: lurking in shadows, brooding, avoiding, musing, suffering, jotting down starlight-colored judgments in his black-paged notebook.

Per tradition, the band and their entourage coalesce in Jace’s suite after the show. Jace himself, the gracious host, promptly collapses on a couch and lies there senseless as the party spins around him like the planets of a solar system. Baela is perched dutifully beside him, holding ice packs to his jaw, wiping away drool the color of one of Aemond’s Brambles. A tattoo artist is inking a goldfinch, New Jersey’s state bird, to the top of Jace’s right foot. Criston is across the room and speaking—rather tensely, it seems—with cigar-smoking label executives. Shelby is snapping photos with her friends; they take turns posing each other out on the balcony, adjusting elbows and wrists and knees, swiping away stray flecks of mascara, rearranging hair, recommending plastic surgeons. Aegon is typing WhatsApp messages—mostly emojis, from what you can see—to Miley Cyrus. At Luke’s prompting, Aemond begins sharing his comments to the presently sentient members of Comet. He puffs on one of his Benson & Hedges cigarettes as he reads aloud. He kindly skips over any criticisms of Jace’s performance.

You can’t stand hearing Aemond’s voice; not because there’s anything wrong with it, but because there isn’t, because you can’t stop remembering what he said to you in that florescent-white bathroom at Club Camelot in Tokyo, because he uses his words on so many people who aren’t you, because sooner or later your time with Comet will be over and you’ll only ever hear him again through Spotify songs and YouTube clips from before the accident, because he will one day be a ghost who haunts you, rattling doorknobs and chilling pockets of air but never speaking. You escape to ask the bartender: “Can I get a Coke?”

“A rum and Coke?”

“No.”

“Like…white powder coke?”

“No, a Coca-Cola. With nothing else in it.”

“Okay, whatever,” the bartender says, perplexed. He fills a glass with ice and dark liquid that pops and fizzes with carbonation, then slides it across the counter to you. You meander out into the hallway where you can be alone, where you don’t have to pretend to be okay.

The carpet is gold but frayed, the walls adorned with faux marble columns and scuffs from recklessly handled suitcases. Even the hotels are worse in New Jersey. You sip your soda—nonalcoholic, huh? you think, then push it aside—and roam past suite doors and vending machines until you reach the cove of elevators. There’s a full-length mirror hanging on the wall there, gilded, gaudy. You frown at yourself, a reflection that suddenly looks a bit like a stranger. You’re wearing a short seafoam green dress, gold earrings and sandals, and an eerily vacuous expression. You turn and move your hair aside so you can peer over your shoulder at what’s been indelibly penned there since Rome: the tiny comet, the lyrics that encircle it.

I wanted to remember this band forever. To remember Aemond. You can feel your stomach drop as it grows heavy with dread. The pulsing music from Jace’s suite has followed you down the hall, Sugar by Robin Schulz and Francesco Yates. I think I might just have more than a tattoo to remember him by after all.

One of the elevators dings and opens. A man lumbers out, towering, broad, monstrous. You gape up at him: brown threadbare coat, heavy boots, unruly dark beard, grey eyes like a bleak winter sky. There is a miasma that colors the air around him with smoke and alcohol, sweat and earth.

“Hello there,” he says, politely enough. His voice is such a baritone rumble that it’s difficult to understand. He has a British accent, but not like Aegon’s, not like Aemond’s. He reminds you of someone you can’t quite place. “I’m looking for a certain young gentleman. I’m hoping you can point me in his direction.”

“Sure,” you reply, trying to disguise your shock so you don’t offend him. He could be someone important. He could be an eccentric producer or a consultant. Or a drug dealer. “Who…uh…who was it you were hoping to speak with…?”

He smiles: sharp canine teeth yellowed by nicotine, glinting eyes like silver coins. “Cregan Stark.”

“Okay,” you stammer. Drug dealer?? “Okay, okay, I’ll…uh…I’ll go get him.”

You hurry down the hall and into Jace’s crowded, smokey suite, clinking glasses and flirtatious titters in dim lighting like late twilight. You return your empty drink to the bartender, then tap Cregan on the shoulder and inform him that someone out in the hallway is asking for him. He doesn’t seem surprised to hear this. Drug dealer, you think confidently. Cregan gulps his vodka shot and follows you out of the suite. He steps through the doorway. He turns towards the stranger. And then he stops dead. His eyes go wide. The blood drains from his face. And Cregan—immovable, inscrutable, unflappable Cregan—shrinks until he is a child again.

Immediately, you know you’ve made a mistake. You reach for him. “Cregan, wait—”

“My son,” the monstrous man sighs. And of course now you’ve realized exactly who the mirrorlike grey of his eyes reminded you of. “My son.”

You can’t stop him. How could you stop him? Faster than you can think, he has crossed the space between you and entombed Cregan in a stifling embrace. Cregan stands paralyzed, his eyes shifting, searching for escape. Tentatively, appeasingly, his hands slowly rise to hug the man in return.

“Criston?!” you shout. But within the suite, he cannot hear you over the music and the berating of smoke-veiled, bejeweled label executives.

“Did you forget about me, huh?” the man asks Cregan gruffly. And as he steps back he grips one of Cregan’s shoulders: not like Criston would, not like a father, like a vice, like a bear trap. He shakes Cregan once, not too hard. “You can fly your private jet all over the world but you can’t call your own father back? Huh? Huh?!” He shakes Cregan again, harder.

“Criston!” you scream. “Security! Somebody!”

Nobody can hear me. Nobody is coming.

You sprint into Jace’s suite, seize Criston by one hand, drag him out into the hall. On the blurry periphery of your vision, you can see Aemond getting up off the couch to follow you. The second he spots the monstrous man, Criston is roaring. “No no no, get away from him!” He pushes between Cregan and the giant, terrifying, wrathful. The man dwarfs him. Criston doesn’t seem to know it. “You can’t be here. We’ve been over this, you’re not allowed to be here—”

The man tries to reach around him to clutch at Cregan’s shirt. Aemond pulls you away from the scuffle. Criston hits the man in the solar plexus; he is momentarily stunned, wheezing. By the time he straightens up, Criston—louder than you, bellowing and fierce—has summoned security. They are swarming the man and escorting him back down the hallway towards the elevators. Aemond goes to Cregan. Criston looks at you. You’re quivering, penitent.

“I had no idea…he asked for Cregan…I would never have…I thought maybe he was a friend of the band…”

“He’s on our no fly list,” Criston says. His voice is tired yet patient. “But you wouldn’t know that.”

You try to apologize to Cregan, but he isn’t listening to you. He’s listening to Aemond. Aemond is speaking to him, low and calm, too quietly for you to hear. “I’m okay,” Cregan says unsteadily. “I’m fine.”

“It’s alright if you’re not,” Aemond tells him.

And you know that right now you are unnecessary, intrusive. Criston goes downstairs to figure out how Comet’s security guards in the lobby didn’t catch this and—presumably—to ensure that the invader is properly dealt with. Aemond slings an arm across Cregan’s shoulders and leads him back to the party where he is cared for, welcome, valued, safe. You hide in your own suite and try not to think about the dates on the calendar—missing blood, summer days ticking down towards zero—as you steep in a hot bath and attempt to scrub everything you’ve done wrong, today, yesterday, ever, off your skin. Then you change into an oversized Backstreet Boys t-shirt and your favorite Cookie Monster pajama pants.

You try to sleep but of course you can’t, surrounded by a silence that only gets louder. When you hear the swipe of a keycard and the creaking of your door, you don’t know who to expect: Cregan, Criston, Rhaena, Luke, Baela, Jace, Daeron, Shelby, Aemond, ghosts. The clopping of his Crocs gives him away, neon pink to match his tank top. “I’m really not in the mood for anything resembling sex.”

Aegon replies as he kicks off his Crocs: “Did I ask, succubus?” He crawls into the bed, throws an arm casually across your waist, rests his head on your belly as your fingers thread through his chaotic blond hair, fond and tender. He burrows into you, into your softness and your warmth and your truth and your mysteries. Sometimes you feel like you’ll give until he falls into you like a trapdoor, the bones of his hands tangling around your spine, his blood vessels spilling into all of your rage-scarlet cavities, hollows of the flesh, hollows of the soul. “You’re sad.”

You stare up at the ceiling. “I have a lot on my mind.”

“Yeah, but I don’t know what. That’s the strange thing. Usually I can tell.”

“You’ve been gone.”

He looks up at you, confused. “I’ve been right here.”

“You know what I meant.”

Aegon doesn’t argue with you, doesn’t try to defend himself, doesn’t make promises both of you know he could never keep. He only lays his head down on your belly again and pulls himself closer to you, closer, closer, melting into your melancholy, dissolving into dreams.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I was eleven when he broke my arm. Thirteen when he cracked my skull for the first time. Then I got big enough to hurt him back.” Cregan looks out over the waves: blue currents, white froth, sunbeams like glinting blades. As Criston promised, Comet is spending an afternoon in Seaside Heights. You and Cregan are sitting on the sand together twenty yards from the others. “I grew up in a two-bedroom cabin with no electricity or running water. We had a metal wash tub outside, ate deer and squirrels and rabbits, never had clothes that fit, never saw a doctor except when what was wrong might kill us. We had a woodstove and chopped down trees to burn in the winter. I had eight siblings, six of whom are still alive. Barnett overdosed. Courtland drove his friend’s Nissan into a brick wall. I’m not sure it was accidental.”

Your words are soft like a whisper, like gentle hands. “Cregan, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not…” His voice breaks. He stops for a while, composes himself, begins again. “It’s not something I talk about. Not because I’m trying to forget it. I can’t forget it, I’ll never be able to, I understand that, believe me. There’s just nothing to be gained from talking about it. I never feel better afterwards. I always feel worse.”

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”

“I know that. Don’t you think I know that?”

You wait, watching him. There’s something he needs to say. Down the beach a ways, Baela is doing yoga, her bare feet sure and agile in shifting sand. Rhaena, Luke, and Aemond are flying kites in the breeze: black dragons, green dragons. Shelby is, predictably, filming them from where she stands on Aemond’s good side. Aegon and Daeron are swimming so far out that you’re beginning to worry about sharks. Criston is parked under an umbrella with an unconscious Jace, reading Memoirs Of A Geisha and eating a sandwich full of something called pork roll.

“After Comet happened, I got all of them out,” Cregan continues. “My mum, my siblings. Good houses in safe neighborhoods. Security in case Dad makes an appearance. He does, every once in a while. He’s locked up, he’s free, he’s locked up again. He has nothing else to do but haunt us. I’ve been waiting for him to die since I was old enough to understand what a graveyard is.” Cregan looks at you. “Does that make me a bad person?”

“No,” you answer immediately.

“The thing is…” He holds out one large hand, palm down, like he’s resting it on a table. Then he shakes it. “Nothing ever feels stable. Nothing ever feels safe. No matter how much money I see stack up in accounts, I lie awake at night wondering what I’ll do if it disappears. So many people rely on me. I can’t stop worrying I’ll end up back in that cabin somehow. I can still hear drops of rainwater seeping in through the gaps in the roof. I can still smell burning wood.”

“The fact that you feel this way, given your history, is completely logical…even if the fear itself is not. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah,” Cregan says. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Do you think it would help if we sat down and looked at the numbers and did some math? Because I suspect that even with a hundred dependents, you’d easily be able to float them for the rest of your lifetime just using the money you already have. And there will be royalties from Comet’s songs forever. Maybe if we can show you exactly how improbable your worst case scenario is, that fear will begin to fade a bit. Not go away, not completely, maybe not ever…but I think you’ll be able to quiet it down.”

“I’ll give it a try. If you recommend it.” Cregan lights a cigarette and takes a drag. Criston glances over and then pretends he didn’t notice. “I have a daughter,” Cregan says; and you can’t stop the shock from hitting your face like a fist. He smiles faintly, wistfully. “I know. I’ve worked very hard to make sure she is kept away from…” He gestures broadly. “All of this.” Fame. Debauchery. Tabloids. Reddit threads. “I was way too young. And her mother and I…we were never really together. It was contentious for a while, but we’ve sorted through things. I support them financially, obviously. And when I’m not on tour or in the studio, I disappear up to Lancaster for a few weeks at a time and no one is the wiser.”

You study him as wind tears in off the Atlantic Ocean, as seagulls swoop and screech overhead. “I’m sure she’ll appreciate how you’ve protected her once she can understand.”

“I don’t know how to be a father. Not a good one. But I try. I don’t just show up for movie nights and birthdays. I take her shopping for school supplies. I put her back to bed when she has nightmares. I take her to the dentist, to the park, to the library. She really likes pigs, so I adopted a few from a farm animal rescue and we learned how to raise them together.”

“You caring about being a good parent puts you ahead of a lot of people already,” you say. “Nobody in Comet knows?”

“Just Aemond. Once, years ago, her mother needed something and I was out of the country. I had to let somebody in on the secret, somebody I could trust. I chose Aemond. I chose right.” Now Cregan is amused. “He’s the one who suggested the pigs.”

“Of course he did,” you say; and you can’t help but smile. “How old is she?”

“Six and a half. Do you want to see a picture her?”

“Absolutely. If it’s alright with you.”

Cregan pulls his iPhone from his pocket, swipes around for a while, and then turns the screen so you can see. She looks like him, a lot like him, but with round cheeks and long dark lashes. And Cregan is beaming as he says: “Her name is Iris.”

“So you didn’t have to do the Maury paternity test thing.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “No. I knew from the second I saw her she was mine.”

“She’s lucky to have you.”

Cregan shrugs, pensive, evasive. “I don’t know about that.”

“I do.” And he believes that you mean it; you can see it on his face. Aemond is watching you and Cregan, you notice now. He glances over, pretends he didn’t, glances again. You gesture to the crashing waves and say to Cregan: “If Aegon gets attacked by a shark, will you jump in and punch it or something please?”

Cregan chuckles. “Yeah. That’s my main job here, I think. Stopping people from dying.” And then, seriously: “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. I haven’t done anything that warrants it.”

“No. Really.” Cregan reaches out, takes your uninjured hand, squeezes it briefly before releasing you. “Thank you, Stargirl.” Then he stands and walks to the water’s edge, letting the surf rush up over his ankles, for just a moment feeling nothing on his shoulders but the sunlight.

Aemond gives Shelby his kite and, as she glares bitterly, makes his way over to you. He takes off his sunglasses so he can see you better and hooks them on the waistband of his swim trunks: black, of course, his usual color. You’re actually wearing black today too, a flowing coverup over a pink swimsuit. You feel very much like hiding. When Aemond speaks, there is perhaps a hint of envy, green like leaves of poison, gleaming like snakeskin. “What were you and Cregan talking about?”

“Fatherhood.” And then you realize how it might sound.

There is a split second where Aemond looks startled; then he remembers Iris. “Right. Not so easy for people like us to navigate.”

People like us. Celebrities, boy band members, haunted men. You scramble for a nonchalant way to feel out the subject with him. “How does Louis Tomlinson handle it?”

“He’s a saint,” Aemond says. And you think: Patron saint of baby daddies? “Freddie was very, very unplanned. The mother was a nobody, a rebound. And a lot of people assumed she did it on purpose to try to keep Louis. Or to get eighteen years of a luxury lifestyle out of him. Or to just get fame in general. Personally, I believe it was all of the above.”

“Right,” you say, sweating heavily beneath your coverup.

“But none of that is the kid’s fault, and Louis is a good enough guy to realize it. So he plays nice with Freddie’s mother and they don’t go to war through tabloids anymore.”

“So, uh…” How can I put this? “You’re good with kids too. Cregan told me you had the pig idea.”

And the look that crosses Aemond’s face, the look: caustic, incredulous, night-dark, self-loathing. “Are you insane? Have you met me? I terrify kids. And I should, but not just because of the eye and the scar. What the hell do I know about being a decent father? What do I know about being a decent anything? I’d have no idea where to start. I’d fuck it up even if I tried desperately not to. I’d end up with kids like Aegon: addicts who hate themselves, people who are irrevocably lost.”

You say meekly: “I think Criston is something like a father to you. He could be a role model.”

“I’m not half as good a man as Criston is.”

Change the topic, change the topic, before Aemond gets suspicious. And there’s something else you’ve been meaning to ask him. “Aemond…after you almost murdered Jace…when we didn’t know if or how he was going to be able to perform until he healed…did anyone ask you to come back to Comet and fill in for him?”

“No,” Aemond says. And he’s thunderstruck by the thought, appalled, petrified.

“You don’t think that it might have been a good idea? That it might make sense?”

“No,” he says again instantly.

“But…in Tokyo…when Daeron made that speech at the last show…I think the crowd’s reaction was pretty powerful, don’t you? People still care about you. They love and respect you. And I think…maybe…it might help you with what you’ve experienced. To get back on stage—even just one last time—and prove to yourself that you still have what it takes. To know that if you do leave Comet, it’s your choice, not anyone else’s.”

“They love who I was,” Aemond says. “Not who I am now. And that’s easy to do. They don’t have to look at me.”

“Goddammit, there’s nothing wrong with how you look, Aemond!” you burst out. “You look fantastic. I never get tired of looking at you. I want to look at you all the fucking time. I’d hang life-sized portraits of you on every wall in my apartment in Kansas City. That’s how much I enjoy looking at you.”

He thinks you’re joking, he thinks you’re trying to make him feel better. You can’t stop him from thinking these things. And yet still, as he turns away, he is smiling: just a whisper of a curl at the corner of his lips, secretive, fragile.

As Comet is leaving the beach, you stop at a souvenir shop on the boardwalk to buy your keepsake for this tour destination. You settle on a pink frisbee that has I love the Jersey Shore! embossed on it in large, abrasive letters. You think your parents’ Australian cattle dogs will enjoy fetching it when you get home. Home feels so much closer—both literally and figuratively—than it did just a few weeks ago.

Criston is browsing through the t-shirts. “Hey, what size is your mom, Aegon? Medium?”

“How the hell would I know? Probably.” He holds up a pair of red, white, and blue bikini bottoms that say Firecracker across the ass. “You think my dad would mind if you sent her these?”

Criston is blushing. “Aegon, stop.”

“You could get her a bikini top too. Oh look, that one over there is red, it matches. And it says MILF across the tits. So that’s pertinent.”

“Stop!” Criston cries, distressed, and flees the store.

Halfway through the hour-long drive back to the hotel, Aegon insists that Criston stop the Escalades so he can get a hoagie from a Wawa. Aegon has never had a hoagie before. He says he cannot truly experience America without one.

At the ordering counter, Jace—slightly less bruised and swollen today, and thus in better spirits—taunts Aegon: “Are you sure you need all that bread? You’re going to be wearing a muumuu on stage by the time we get to the Midwest.”

“You know, just because you said that, now I’m going to get two hoagies…”

On the television mounted inside the Wawa, CNN is reporting on a group of tornadoes that just struck Wichita. And it occurs to you that tornadoes don’t have trajectories to calculate like hurricanes or airplanes or comets; they are climatological sharks. They strike quickly, indiscriminately, and then they’re gone again. They aren’t named. They aren’t enshrined. They don’t even have a belly to cut open and retrieve pieces of your loved ones from. If they take someone, they’re just gone.

While the rest of the band is in line to order their food, and Aemond is scrutinizing the dried fruit and nuts selection, you sneak through the other aisles.

It’s time. I have to find out eventually. I have to know.

You pluck a pregnancy test—cute, pink, nausea-inducing—off a rack, purchase it with truly impressive speed at the checkout counter, and race to the bathroom. It’s surprisingly difficult to piss on a tiny stick of doom, especially when your primary hand is in a splint and only partially useable. Eventually, you manage. You put the cap back on the pregnancy test, set it on top of the toilet paper dispenser, and stare at the metal door of the stall. The Wawa speakers are playing The Fray’s Over My Head.

It won’t be positive. It can’t be positive.

You think of pregnancy test commercials you’ve seen: happy couples rejoicing, happy single women getting negatives. How are you supposed to react to bad news? Nobody ever tells you. Do you scream, sob, beg for forgiveness, schedule an appointment at Planned Parenthood? Do you kick the bathroom stall door down in mindless feminine fury? Do you throw yourself off a balcony?

There’s no way it will be positive. It was one time. Just one goddamn time.

And who knows if that will ever happen again with Aemond. This does not improve your mood.

You pick up the pregnancy test. It is unequivocally positive.

You shove it into the small rectangular trashcan for pads and tampons, things you won’t be needing in the immediate future. You get dressed, leave the stall, go to the sink and wash your hands. Then you grip the cool, slick, white porcelain and gaze at yourself in the mirror under nowhere-to-hide florescent lights. What do you feel? Everything, nothing, things you can’t name yet. You’re a raw nerve, you’re completely numb.

The bathroom door swings open. Shelby enters. She squares up with great purpose. Your eyes roll to her, slowly, with no tolerance left, not a drop of it. “Stay away from Aemond,” she demands.

“Make me.”

She is in disbelief. “I’m sorry, what?”

You turn all the way towards her. “Fucking make me, Shelby.”

“I knew you wanted him,” she says, she seethes. “I saw you in those paparazzi photos from Reykjavik and I knew you were already twisting your claws into him.”

You hold up your hands to show her; your thoughts are fuzzy, dazed, without inhibition. “I have no claws whatsoever. If I did, you’d know about it. Believe me. You’d be able to look down and watch your heart beating through the gashes.”

“You don’t belong here. Some Midwestern farm girl running around in flip flops and Cookie Monster pajama pants? You’re trash. You’re a user. You’re a nobody. And if you’re trying to steal a taken man, then you’re a whore too.”

“I’ve been called worse things by better people.”

“I can make them hate you,” Shelby says indignantly. “Comet. The world.”

“Good luck with that, Malibu Barbie. Nobody even knows I exist.”

“Stay away from Aemond,” she says again, trembling with her futile bleach-blond rage. “We’re meant to be together. We have so much history.”

“And yet no future.” You smile sweetly, breeze past her, step on one of her perfectly pedicured feet with a thoroughly unpretentious flip flop. By the time you return to them, the band is almost ready to leave Wawa.

You’re not hungry, but Aegon coaxes you into taking a few bites from his hoagie. You’re not able to focus on what people are saying, but you hear Aemond mention that he wishes Comet had time to visit a planetarium in some nearby town called Toms River. You think about what it would be like to lie side by side with him under the stars, under the sky where comets appear again after vanishing for centuries. You wonder if there’s anyplace where you and Aemond could ever be truthful with each other.

At night you can’t sleep. There is no shortage of reasons why. You wander from your bed to the gold-carpet hallway to the vending machines, where you stare brainlessly at the options. Am I supposed to not be drinking caffein? Did I get any Vitamin D today? How much sugar is too much? You buy a bottle of apple juice—surely a safe bet—and head back to your suite.

As you walk by Aemond and Shelby’s door, your steps slow. Some nights you can hear them in there arguing: Shelby reiterating all the reasons why they’re perfect for each other, clearly a rebuttal to an accusation you weren’t privy to. Some nights you hear muffled casual conversation or episodes of Cosmos. Some nights you hear nothing at all. Some nights your imagination colors in the gaps before you can stop it: his hands on her, his mouth on her, things you know you have no right to dread and yet you do. But tonight, Shelby is momentarily removed from the scene. You can hear the distant pattering of the shower, and then Aemond alone in the living room gathering up plates and glasses. He’s singing something very quietly, so quietly it takes you a while to recognize it. It’s not even a Comet Donati song. It’s Through The Dark.

You sit down in the empty hallway, your back to his door. And you lean your head against it as you listen to Aemond singing softly to himself, doubt sinking into you the same way that trapped blood fills a bruise: Maybe it wasn’t as good for him as it was for me. Maybe he doesn’t talk to me because he doesn’t want to. Maybe I don’t belong here anymore. Maybe I’ve invented a history that we don’t really share. Maybe he didn’t mean it when he said he loves me.

“What am I going to do?” you whisper, scalding tears brimming in your eyes, shivering hands settling on your belly. In a few months, you’ll be showing. “What the hell am I going to do?”

#aemond one eye #aemond targaryen #aemond x you #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x y/n #aemond x reader #Aegon Targaryen #aegon targaryen ii #Aegon II Targaryen #Aegon Targaryen II x reader #aegon ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #Aegon x you #aegon x y/n

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deep-at-night · 26 days

Text

⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀❝ 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 ( 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 ) 𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄, ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐑𝐄 ( 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐞 ) 𝐈𝐓'𝐒 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓. ❞

Dragged out of the spirit world on her journey to the afterlife by the god of the moon, Sora serves him as avatar and enforcer of his heavenly principles. Equipped with divine power and immortality she is forced to live a life that she had gladly sacrificed. Being bound to Tsukuyomi brought upon her the same fate that he had been punished with, to be forever seperated from her brother as he was from his sister, the goddess of the sun. Feeling that he has robbed her of her purpose, she has no affection for the god that denied her the peace of death.

𝐎𝐎𝐂. : selective. slow to fluctuating activity. dni if your mun or muse are under 21. Sora is based on Naruto's Itachi Uchiha. Added headcanons. Those are inspired by Moon Knight and further based on Japan's Shinto Religion. Interactions are preferred in English and completely in character. I am mainly looking to exchange longform creative writing and am very much open to skip the smalltalk completely.

#userfakevz #(𝐌𝐘 𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓)

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mugeesworld · 1 year

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Sanji with a chubby partner head cannons!

Omg guys. I'm getting way more likes and followers then I thought I would! I'm so thankful😭♥︎. Y'all are so kind tysm! Writing is a big outlet for me so to see other people enjoying it makes me so happy!

I also have a wattpad if you're interested! It's called heeheemugee. And I have a few stories there. Tysm once again. On with the head cannons.

NSFW (you've been warned) female y/n (as always if you want a Male y/n version or gender fluid version let me know!) ♥︎♥︎♥︎

Sanji is my all time favorite character so I will most likely be adding to this whenever I have a idea😍 he's sooo baby girl

And ik sanji goes for "skinny" girls but I'm here to tell you. He would love, worship, praise, the ground you walk on hunny. Theirs not good plus size representation in one piece and that's what you're gonna be. You're gonna be the goddess that walked in and changed that! As you fuckin should??!

Imagine. You recently moved to a small island to get away from your troubles for a while. You got to relax everyday. Taking in the beautiful sights of nature while there and living peacefully in your small hut.

Like any other day you decide to go for a walk and pick a few apples from a apple tree that was near your house. You grab your basket and cute little hat and skip along the streets making your way to your favorite tree.

The straw hats recently made it to this island while exploring the grand line. As per usual sanji was making his rounds to buy more food for their long journey.

While walking around the island in search of different food stands he comes across a single apple tree. I'm sure the owner won't mind if I take a few! He thinks to himself, walking towards the tree.

He starts to pick a few apples putting them in his basket when he hears a sigh coming from the other side of the tree. He looks around to see a gorgeous lady trying to grab a apple that was just a little to high for her to reach.

He stares for a moment taking in the gorgeous sight in front of him before shaking his head and helping the lady. "Here! Let me!" he says grabbing the apple and reaching his hand out to give it to her. "Oh! Thank you!" you say happily excepting the apple from his hand.

You take a closer look at him since he doesn't look familiar. He feels his cheeks starting to get warm as you scan him. "You're not from here are you?" you finally ask. "No- No I'm not. Im here picking up food for my crew!" he says anxiously.

You give him a warm welcoming smile. "I see! I hope you enjoy your stay! This tree isn't owned by anyone so you're free to take as many as you would like! Need help?" you ask putting down your basket.

Sanji feels his heart race seeing your beautiful smile. As if your face could get any prettier. That smile proved him to be wrong. It most certainly can.

"Sure! I would appreciate that..." he says scratching his neck. (You're making bro nervous 😟) you nod and start picking apples and putting them in his basket. While doing so you both finally exchange names.

"So Sanji..." you say making his spine shiver hearing his name roll of your tongue. Something he wish he could hear 1,000 more times.

"Are you the chef?" you ask. "Yeah I am. Why?" he asks. "Well I'm guessing you're a pirate then right? Taking these apples like this on sea. They will go bad very quickly. I can show you how to make them into apple sauce and then how to can them. They will last way longer. Plus it's delicious!" you explain.

Sanji thinks for a moment. She's right. These apples won't last long. And I get to see her longer.... "Ok! Sure!" he says excited to learn.

You smile and grab your basket. "Great! I'll show you the way to my house and we can start!" you say grabbing his hand to show him the way.

Sanji nearly jumps out of his skin feeling you grab him like that. You're hand is so soft and small against his. (I got big hands😞) He never wanted you to let go. He wants to stay like this forever.

As y'all walk down the street y'all talking more about canning sorta going over how it will happen. You see sanjis forehead sweating in result of the sun beating down on y'all. You suddenly stop catching sanji off guard as he turns around to see why you place your hat on his head.

"You need it more then I do!" you say before continuing down the path. Sanjis cheeks go red at your sudden act. How sweet he thinks. Y'all arrive at your house and you start to show him how it works.

Once y'all are finished he tastes the apple sauce. To his surprise it was amazing. "Holy crap! This is amazing y/n!" he nearly yells. You laugh at his reaction. "Oh stop it's just a simple apple sauce nothing crazy. But now that you know how to make it. It should help your crews food last longer!" you respond.

You put the apple sauce into jars so they are easier to store. As you turn around to hand him the case of jars you notice he has apple sauce on his upper lip. You put the jars down while laughing and quickly wet a rag.

Sanji turns his head. Confused at what you're doing. "What is it?" he asks. You continue laughing while making your way back towards him with the wet rag. "You have some apple sauce on your face. Here." you say before grabbing his face with one hand and wiping it with the other.

Sanji starts to have a overload while you do this. Blushing like crazy until his nose starts bleeding. "Oh no. Are you ok???" you ask scared as the blood starts pooling out of his nose he take the rag from your hand and nods embarrassed. "Y-yeah! This happens sometimes haha!" he yells trying to play it off.

You quickly grab a first aid kit. "At least let me patch your nose." you say taking out some supplies. You try to walk over to him but he quickly jumps back. "No no. Don't come any closer y/n." he says panicking.

Y/n gives him a confused look. "But why I just want to help? Did I do something?" you ask.

"No! Well yes.... But no! It's just.... You're making me flustered y/n and it makes my nose bleed.... Sorry" he admits. You continue to look at him confused. Flustered? But why....

"How do I make you flustered? I haven't done anything..." you ask. Sanji sighs at your cluelessness.

"You... You make me nervous....Cause you're so... Gorgeous." he finally admits. Your eyes widden. Gorgeous? No one's ever called you that before. Could you really make someone that nervous to make their nose bleed just by your beauty??

"Well... Can you close your eyes? Please so I can help you?" you ask still desperately wanting to help him. Sanji thinks for a moment before closing his eyes and removing the rag.

You slowly make you way over to him. Putting two pieces of tissue in his nose and wrapping under it so it stays. You tell him your done and he opens his eyes. Before you can say anything he leans in and kisses you.

Placing his soft lips on yours kissing you passionately like he's been waiting for this moment his whole life. You we're surprised at first but start to kiss back.

Y'all pull away to get air. "Y/n you're the most gorgeous girl I've ever seen. I'm never felt this way about someone in my whole life. I don't want to say goodbye to this. I don't want to see you go...." he admits holding you by your waist.

"Come with me. Join my crew! I'll keep you safe. We can sail the sea together and most importantly be together y/n. I don't want to leave you!" he says. You widden your eyes. Does he really like you that much.

You've only just met this man but he seems so genuine. Like someone you want to spend the rest of your life with. You've only talked to him for a couple's hours but the time you've had together and what you've learned about him means so much to you. You don't want to see him leave either.

"Yes" you whisper. "W-what?" sanji asks not thinking he heard you right."I'll go with you." you say looking up at him smiling. Sanji picks you up and sways around the room as y'all laugh together.

He suddenly puts you down getting serious. "Theirs one more thing I have to know y/n before you come with me..." he says looking at the ground. "Will you be my girlfriend?" he asks smiling at you.

You throw your arms around him and place a kiss on his cheek. "Of course I will!" you nearly yell.

And CUT. AND THEY LIVED HAPPILY EVER AFTER!

Sanji just loves you. Home boy is obsessed with you. Everything about you. He can get enough. Your a addiction he don't want rehab for. It's almost unhealthy how much he loves you.

I can't put it in to words how much he would worship you. He can't believe you're real. He's scared your a dream and he's gonna wake yo with you not there. He treats every day with you like it's his last and saviours you every second.

He is so clingy. He can keep his hands off you. He would try to be respectful about it. But he just wants to tear you apart man. He wants to grope and grab every single inch, cm, mm of your body. Not one spot going uncherished.

Everything you do he finds attractive. Walking? Hot. Pushing hair out of your face. Hot. Sitting still. Hot. Literally doing nothing at all. Hot.

When he first seen you naked he has to get a look from every angle. To just take it the beauty. He had you stand in the middlebof the room. And he just walked around you. Taking it all in. Even getting on the ground or standing on a chair to see it from there. Nothing will go unnoticed.

Making sure to rub his hands up and down your body praising a worshipping every single inch before railing you.

I usually put in what I think the characters favorite part of you would be but lord. I can't pick. Cause he would love all of you. He would shoot himself in the head before answering that.

It's not possible to choose ONE thing that is better then the rest of you cause all of you is perfect to him. He sees no flaw.

He loves holding you. Laying on your stomach in between your legs wrapping his arms under your back. While you play with his hair. Makes him so weak bro. Always a horny mess. Always ready.

He probably love quickies. Just to help him get through the day. Cause with you walking around he won't be able to get anything done with out at least pounding into you once. Very very high stamina.

Position? Don't matter. He will do it from any angle you like. The feeling of you wrapped around him is enough. He gets pussy drunk instantly.

BIG AND I MEAN BIGGGG moaner. He don't care he letting everything out. He can't help it. He whimpers and whines for you. Breathing heavy. Trying to speak but it comes out as mumbles cause he's so overwhelmed by the way you feel.

Oh you're more submissive? He loves taking the lead and teasing/rubbing every inch of your body till you are a pleading mess. Beginning to be fucked. And he does. As a dom he would put everything into making both of y'all feel good. Definitely a service dom.

Any tiny thing you like while having sex he would do just to make it better for you. Whether it's being choked, spanked, kissed. Whatever you want. He's on it. He tries so hard to make you feel so good so he can see your lewd over stimulated face. He loves seeing how his cock makes you all "drunk"

Knowing he fucks you best and no one else can do that. Definitely the type to ask. "Who do you belong to/ who fucks the best?" during sex. Really gets him off knowing your his.

Oh but you're a dom? No problem. He love having a women dominating him. Being told what to do by such a beautiful lady turns him on in ways he can't explain. He wants to fulfill your every need and make you happy.

Anything you say goes. You want on top. Get on. You want to tease him with a vibrator? He's ready on bed. You want him to eat you out he's already laying on his back ready for you to take a seat on your thrown like you deserve.

Even stuff more kinky! Oh you want to peg him? He's down. He probably bi anyways. You can't tell me he's not zesty. I mean look at him! He probably love having you peg him.

The feeling of you driving into him with your strap so aggressively makes him go crazy. Pushing his head into the pillows to avoid screaming. Only thing is he feels bad that you're not getting anything out of it when you really are. So he makes sure to repay you after.

He would call you by whatever name you give him. Mommy? Done. Mistress? Hell yeah. He is down for whatever. He probably even has mommy issues. Look at him. I mean..... Like...

With all of that being said about him wanting to please you. It drives him insane seeing you between his legs sucking him off. He would throw his head back and just whine. He love language might be acts of service but Lord he loves seeing you this.

I'll add more later probably but I'm busy but wanted to get this out! ♥︎

#chubby #chubby y/n #chubby!reader #chubbyreader #heeheemugee #nami #one piece #robin #sanji #sanji smut #sanji x you #sanji x y/n #black foot sanji #sanji headcanons #sanji x reader #vinsmoke sanji #sanjionepiece #black leg sanji #op

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shegxox · 1 year

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flirts. | chamber , sova

that moment when you hear chamber flirt with viper the first time on the field.

cw: swearing

wc: 1,005

a.n: idk what this is but uh, enjoy? also, let me know if you guys like this type of stuff. ++ gaia visual here ^^

previous : next

"VIPER, you must let me take you out sometime. Dinner– dancing! I know the perfect place."

"Chamber, I would rather drink my own poison."

You stifled a giggle as you and KAY/O shared a look, the robot merely shook his head as the two of you overhear the comms of the agent on the field.

"Does this happen all the time?" You asked, muting off your voice in comms.

"More often than you think," KAY/O replies.

You have just arrived at the Vulture, catching up on a mission that you were supposed to be in. Viper, Chamber, and Sova were already on the field, leaving you and KAY/O at the aircraft.

"Come now, mademoiselle. No need to be so cold, I know just the thing to warm you up."

Your eyes widened and slapped a hand on your mouth, hunching over as you heard those words.

"Less flirting, more focus." You could already tell that Viper was gritting her teeth.

"How could I focus when I'm in a presence of such beauty."

"Pfft–" your laughter busted out as you watched them from the screens. "Oh my gods this is so painful to hear!"

KAY/O lets out a defeated sigh, "Affirmative."

You tapped on your comms and finally made them aware of your presence.

"Chamber, you're so lame." You managed to utter out through fits of giggles.

The comms suddenly went silent.

"Yeah, that's right, I can hear your cringey lines."

Sova's voice then joined in, "Gaia? Is that you?"

"Yup and hearing Chamber flirt just took away half my life span." You said dramatically, "Lameness is my weakness!"

You faintly hear Viper let out a chuckle

"What are you doing here?" Chamber's voice suddenly cut through in a demanding tone.

"Uhh, I'm part of the mission, duh."

"How was I not informed of this?"

"The last-minute briefing we had that you skipped." Viper answers in a deadpan tone. "It would only be natural for her to be here, she's the one who caught Legion lingering around the site."

"That's right." You nodded. "And FYI, my flora just sensed movement."

"I'm picking up a signal near A site," KAY/O added as he scanned through the screens. "Everyone in position, they're here. I'm sending Gaia in."

You made your way to your motorcycle that was parked near the exit, KAY/O lowers the altitude of the Vulture, preparing to open the aircraft's backdoors.

"Sova, ice cream and barbie movies after this?" You quickly asked as you mount your ride.

"It would be a pleasure," Sova replied.

"That's how you do it, Chamber." You teased as you put on your helmet.

"Ah, even I would say yes to that offer if you asked me, ma chérie." Chamber shot back in a flirty tone.

"Who wouldn't say no to you, mon chou?"

You feigned a gasp, your ride humming to life.

"My, my mon cher. Hitting on two ladies at once?" You laughed darkly. "What a player."

"I could say the same for you, little goddess."

---

"I hate myself so much." You groaned as you clutched your side, falling down on one knee.

"Not as much as I hate you." Your copy seethed before sending vines searing through your direction.

"I am you, dummy." Swiping your hand on the ground and up, the earth rises as it curved its direction, forming a barrier that blocked the vine's attack.

You pressed on your comms, "I need an arrow or a bullet at 12 o'clock, 8 meters, now!"

The familiar sound of Chamber's gun rang through the air almost immediately and you put your barrier down to see your copy's body fall.

"Merci!"

With the detonator in hand, you ran towards the spike, the beeping sound going faster as you began defusing. The bomb started to glow red and your surroundings started to rise.

"C'mon, I have ice cream waiting for me after this." You clicked your tongue as the spike started to form cracks underneath it, nearing its end. And just before it did, you finally defused it.

"Oh sweet barbie mermaidia." You breathed out in relief before letting yourself down on the ground.

"That was fucking close. . . "

Hurried footsteps pounded the ground as they rushed towards you.

"Gaia!" Sova kneeled next to you as he started inspecting your state. "Are you alright? Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine." You rasped before trying to sit up. "Just got hit on the side, no biggie."

"Are you sure?" Your mentor asked worriedly

"Yeah, look, I'm healing right now." You assured as you twisted your torso a bit to the side to show your glowing palm covering your side.

Sova heaved a sigh in relief.

"Good."

"Well, that was a job well done." A new voice entered as Chamber stepped into view. "A close call, but well done."

You gave him a weak smile, "Thanks for the headshot."

"No problem, mademoiselle." Chamber held out a hand. "Merely aiding a damsel in distress."

You scoffed, taking his hand.

"I could've handled her if we had more time." You sighed as you stood up with Sova following suit.

"But, yes. I was in distress."

"Would the damsel still be in distress if I say that she owes me one?" Chamber asked with a sly smirk.

"Oh god, what do you want." You shot him a playful look of disdain.

"Dinner, dancing– I know the perfect place." There was a glint of craftiness in his eyes and you couldn't help but be impressed.

You huffed a laugh, "Cute but recycled. You'd have to wait in line."

Chamber shot you a charming smile, "I'm a patient man."

You then felt a large warm hand on your lower back.

"We need to head back," Sova utters, looking at you gently. "Captain is waiting."

"Ah, right. Let's go." Taking your hand from Chamber's hold, "I'm taking my bike, by the way, I have somewhere to be first."

Sova's eyebrows furrowed, "Is it another mission?"

"Ah no," You chuckled. "I'll just buy some ice cream."

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sweetiecutie · 1 year

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Pairing: dark! Sirius Black x fem! Reader

Warnings: obsessive behavior, yandere themes, stalking, blackmail(?), toxic behavior, oc as reader’s best friend but it’s really brief

A/n: it’s Friday 13th so here have some dark content. Im really into mood for yandere content, so there will be more💖

You thanked every possible goddess and greater mind existing as you stomped out of your detention, feeling positively angry and exhausted. You were hungry due to skipping today’s dinner, your arms hurt from continuous polishing of old Hogwarts armours, your head was buzzing with heavy thoughts only adding to your sour mood.

You’ve always liked professor Flitwick - him not only being a head of your house, but an excellent teacher and great person in general only made your respect towards him grow bigger with every day. But detentions with him were pure nightmare - meticulous and boring work, caused, in your case, by you being late with handing in your charms homework on time for nth time.

It was already past midnight and the only thing you wanted was to get into your warm cosy bed, hide under your fluffy blanket and black out for the rest of the night, getting well-deserved sleep.

You were making your way hurriedly down the dark Hogwarts halls, that looked strangely hostile and unwelcoming in a silver moonlight pouring in through numerous paned windows. You couldn’t help but constantly look behind, not being able to shrug off a feeling of being closely watched, just to find no one around, as expected in such a late hour.

Just a bit. Just a bit more and you’d be in the safety of Ravenclaw common room, welcomed by dying fire and fluorescent stars glued to the ceiling by generations of ravenclaws.

And just as you let your guard down, you felt a pair of strong hands grabbing you by your shoulders, turning you around swiftly so that your back was pressed tightly against a cold stone wall of a castle, your throat constricting in fright, not allowing a single sound to escape your lips.

And there he was, standing in front of you in all of his beauty - hogwarts playboy and your personal nightmare - Sirius Orion Black. He was grinning his usual, perfectly practiced, smile down at your shrinking form, and even despite recognizing the person cornering you your whole body only tensed impossibly more.

- Lovely to see you here, Y/n, - black-haired purred mere inches apart from your face, his dark eyes, glistening in a dim moonlight, were ogling you like a predator getting ready to pounce on an innocent lamb.

- Don’t act as if you weren’t stalking me all this time, you creep, - you spat out, anger mixed with revulsion and fear was bubbling underneath your skin. Black tutted at your bitter words, one hand coming to caress the side of your face with his knuckles, all wounded and rough from constant fights he was picking up. You seemed to regain a little control over your own body, your hands coming to boy’s broad chest in an attempt to push him off, but to no avail - Sirius didn’t budge, but only came closer, caging your smaller body under his towering height.

- Now, now, my dearest. Words can hurt, you know? - black-haired uttered in feigned offence, jutting his lips out like an upset child, but you knew better than all of that. You struggled against him once more, but fruitless - your muscles were too tired and weak after long hours or physical work, and Sirius was simply way bigger and stronger than you.

- What do you want from me, Black? - you inquired exasperatedly, voice seething with poison.

Sirius’ perfect eyebrows furrowed up a bit, an expression of fake hurt dissolving quickly and you could see that your question really did surprise him. The hand that was previously tenderly stroking your cheek stopped in its tracks. You could see anger brooding in his amethyst eyes, mad at you using his last name despite him asking you multiple times to refer to him with his first name instead.

- What do you mean? Y/n, we haven’t seen each other the whole day, all of our classes were separate, and this bloody detention of yours! Of course I’m here to see you, what else does it look like? - Sirius said all of that with such fierce, that you knew this time he was really offended by your question, as if the logic behind all of his actions was dead obvious.

- And I don’t want to see you. Leave. Me. Alone, - you seethed at him, sharply accentuating your last words with long pauses, looking him straight in the eyes.

You watched as Sirius’ jaw clenching tightly. The hand retrieved from your cheek, balling into a heavy fist; a moment later it hit on a stone wall mere centimeters next to your head with a dull thump, strength of the impact making cold stone of the wall behind you vibrate slightly. You jolted harshly at that, inhaling sharply through your nose; you didn’t dare to blink, too afraid to let your eyes off this, this animal - ferocious and insane, driven by his instincts and emotions only, and you were trapped right inside his claws.

A moment of silence stretched uncomfortably, with Sirius glaring down at your shrinking form and you trying your best not to break under the pressure of his heavy gaze.

- It’s her, isn’t it? That bitch Lena. She’s turning you against me, putting all that bullshit in your head? - Sirius’ chest thrummed with dry humorless chuckle, his eyes colder than ice.

You felt as if ground was swept right from beneath your feet, your chest swelling with sticky horror. No, not her. Not your best friend. Sirius was purely insane, deeply delusional in every aspect of you. He’ll simply kill her. Or injure her so badly, her chances to live would be near to zero. And he had more than enough money, influence and wit to make it seem as if he never had to do anything with such a ‘terrible accident’. You already knew that, after that Hufflepuff boy that obviously fancied you went missing one day, Sirius’ knuckles raw with fresh cuts and bruises.

- N-no, Sirius, wait, - you stammered out, hands instinctively flying up to rest on his shoulders, his muscles tense under your touch. Your mind was racing with a speed of sound as you tried to find a way out of this horrible situation, to keep Lena and yourself safe.

Sirius was watching you with his scrutinizing cold eyes, fury etched on his sharp features. You felt your eyes sting with tears of panic as you stammered out squeaky:

- S-She al-lways approved of y-you, Siri. Always, - you saw his stony expression crack slightly after hearing you use the nickname, your body shuddering intensely, panic was making it hard to breathe. It was a straight up lie - Lena saw right through Sirius’ insanity, warning you to stay as far as possible from him. But that didn’t matter, you’d do anything just to keep your best friend safe.

Sirius’ fist unclenched, coming to cradle your nape; expecting expression etched on his face encouraged you to go further.

- I… I was just playing. R-really, how could you eat that, huh? - you sputter out hastily, stumbling over your words and forcing a chuckle out, it came out way too tense to sound natural. But Sirius seemed to follow through everything you’ve said as soon as next words left your trembling lips:

- Of course I’m glad to see you.

His lips stretched in a wide grin, so brilliant it seemed to lighten up a thick darkness of a hall. His thumb came to rub small circles into the skin of your jaw; his other hand that was previously propping Sirius’ heavy body next to a wall came to rest on you waist, drawing you in until your bodies were pressed tightly against each other, you could feel heat radiating off of black-haired even despite numerous layers of clothing.

- You little minx, really got me here, - he murmured softly, eyes fixated upon your face. It took everything in you to force a smile onto your lips, your hands were trembling ferociously, still laying upon boy’s broad shoulders.

Sirius ducked down, rubbing your noses affectionately before sealing his lips with yours, his eyes fluttering closed, lost in euphoria, meanwhile you couldn’t bring yourself to even blink, watching his every move with great caution. His hand resting on the back of your head felt extremely heavy and a strong scent of his undoubtedly expensive cologne made you nauseous - it felt like you could pass out at any moment.

Sirius broke away shortly after, leaving a last small peck on your numb lips. It was the first time he went as far as actually kissing you, and you were terrified to even think of how long it’d take until he tries anything more heated than pressing his lips against yours for a few long seconds. Your stomach twisted painfully at the thought.

- Siri, I’m really tired. Detention was pure hell and I need some sleep, - you uttered quietly, his shoulders slumping slightly in disappointment underneath your palms, but he nodded his head in agreement.

- Yeah, right. Let’s get you to bed then, princess? - Black said with a cheeky grin stretching his soft (now you knew) lips. His hands left your body just to grab one of your hands into his, intertwining your fingers together, leading his way up to the Ravenclaw tower.

Making it up the spiral staircase and uttering a right answer to the metal raven upon heavy door, you looked up at Sirius just to find him already beaming down at you. His free hand came to cup your jaw, bringing your face closer to his - hot lips pressed to your forehead, leaving a chaste kiss on your unnaturally cold skin. He broke away rather reluctantly, winking down at you:

- Sleep tight, sweetness. See you tomorrow, - and with that you departed, slamming a heavy door shut behind you.

Standing in a huge circular room crammed with countless books and parchments, with welcoming fire cracking joyfully and fluorescent stars twinkling down at you - you felt utterly and wholly petrified. Cold sweat was seeping through the soft cotton of your uniform shirt on your back, heart pummeling at the huge surge of adrenaline running through your veins, knees trembling ferociously, struggling to keep your body up.

And it was only now that the realization fully sank in, realization of how deep you got yourself into trouble in your desperate attempt to ensure your best friend’s safety, now seeing absolutely no way out of Sirius’ tight clutches.

Part 2🖤

Likes, reblogs and comments are highly appreciated - feedback inspires writers on creating even more content for you💖

#sirius black #dark!sirius black #yandere sirius black #sirius black x reader #sirius black x you #sirius black x y/n #harry potter #harry potter writing #harry potter x reader #harry potter x you #harry potter x y/n #marauders #marauders x reader #marauders yandere #yandere harry potter #yandere x you #yandere x reader #marauders era #dark!harry potter

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tayshs · 2 months

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my sweet angel ── Chuck Bass x reader fem!

English is not my first language so my English is not that good.

Chuck Bass x reader fem! Smut

*you were with your two best friends, Blair and Serena, when suddenly your boyfriend Chuck Bass arrives and kisses your hand telling you that they had to go to Chuck's room*

what's up baby? *y/n says to chuck*

I have a surprise for you, my princess. Let's go up to my room where we can have some privacy. *takes y/n's hand gently and leads her towards the stairs.* Your friends will be fine, they know we need some alone time.

*once in his room, he closes the door softly and turns to look at Y/N. He holds her by her cheeks* You are absolutely stunning my love.

*slowly runs his fingers along Y/N's chin and jaw, moving towards her neck.* Here's your surprise: a room full of rose petals. *Y/N looks around the room that is covered in soft white roses; It seems like a romantic fairy tale* I wanted everything to be perfect for you.

*Y/N says* I have a surprise for you too, sit down *Y/N makes Chuck sit on the bed and she begins to undress showing a very sexy lingerie*

*His heart skips a beat as he watches Y/N reveal her lingerie.* You look stunning, my love. Come here *makes a gesture, pulling her towards him and kissing her softly but passionately* We will have a night to remember.

*Y/N smiles but gets up and puts on very hot music to start dancing sensually*

*watching Y/N dance, he gets more excited with the second one. As she approaches him, he reaches out and pulls her closer; their bodies pressing against each other. He kisses her deeply as they sway together.* My sweet goddess.

*Y/N takes off her top revealing her big tits where under one boob she has the letter "C" for Chuck tattooed*

*Chuck's eyes widen in surprise and pleasure as he looks at Y/N's breasts, especially noticing the tattoo. He kisses her with more fervor, his hands traveling down to caress her buttocks.* I love you, my love.

*He gently brings her closer, lowering his head to lick and suck on one of her nipples; his hands ran down her sides until they reached her hair.* You're mine, Y/N.

*Y/N, moans and strokes Chuck's hair*

*He turns his attention to her other breast, sucking hard as he pulls her closer. He grabs the back of her neck and pulls her into a deeper kiss.* I love you now, my queen.

*Y/N smiles and gets up to take off her thong revealing her wet pussy*

*He admires her naked beauty, his erection getting harder by the second. He pulls her closer, picking her up and carrying her to the bed.* My beautiful angel.

*Y/N spreads her legs revealing her wet pussy for Chuck* eat my pussy

*He carefully places Y/N on the bed, spread out for him. He kneels between her legs and gently spreads her lips with his fingers. He breathes deeply, savoring her arousal before he begins to slowly lick her up and down.* My sweet love.

*Y/N moans when she feels Chuck's tongue on her clit*

*He grabs and sucks her clit harder, running his tongue along her slit. He pushes a finger inside her as he continues to pleasure her with his mouth.* I'm going to make you cum for me, Y/N

*Y/N continues moaning louder while Chuck is still down there sucking her pussy* *Y/N grabs her tits to grab her erect nipples*

*Feeling her orgasm approaching, Chuck licks harder and faster, adding another finger inside her. Her moans fill the room as she closes her eyes,* cum for me, Y/N.* Y/N's body shakes with pleasure as she releases a deep breath and pulses against her mouth.* You're mine now, baby.

I have always been yours, love *Y/N gets up and sits Chuck down to pull down his pants and boxers to suck Chuck's cock*

*He sits up and watches Y/N as she pulls down his pants. She takes his erection in her hand, stroking it gently before leaning forward to lick the tip.* My love is so fucking perfect.

*y/n puts Chuck's cock in her mouth and sucks it slowly*

*He moans loudly as Y/N begins to suck his cock, running her tongue along the vein on one side and then the other. He gently runs his fingers through her hair, guiding her movements.* Suck my cock, sweet angel.

*you suck and suck chuck's cock*

*As Y/N continues to suck him, he feels an intense heat building up in his balls. He grabs her by the back of the neck and holds her steady as he climaxes.* I'm about to cum, Y/N!

*y/n grabs Chuck's balls while sucking his cock faster making Chuck cum in her mouth and y/n swallows his cum* how delicious

*He exhales sharply as his orgasm hits him, feeling a blissful release into Y/N's warm mouth. Once he finishes cumming, he gently caresses her hair and face.* That was perfect, my sweet goddess.

*Y/N smiles and gets on the bed, lays Chuck down and bluntly gets on him and puts his cock in her pussy, starting to ride him*

*He grabs her by the hips, guiding her as she rides him. He gazes at her beauty, enjoying the feeling of their bodies coming together. He lifts his pelvis to match her rhythm.* Ride me, Y/N.

*Y/N moves from side to side and jumps on Chuck's cock while he watches Y/N's tits go up and down*

*He puts a breast in his mouth and sucks it while she bounces on his cock. He reaches up to run his fingers through her hair, deepening their connection.* You are so beautiful Y/N.

just for you baby *Y/N says hardly while letting out gasps and moans*

*Feeling Y/N getting closer, he grabs her ass tightly, lifting her higher as he pumps faster. He looks into her eyes, urging her to continue.* Come for me Y/N.

*Chuck changes position putting Y/N on all fours to force his cock violently into Y/N's hole*

*He fucks her hard, his thrusts propelling her forward. She moans loudly into the pillow as they increase speed.* Fuck me, Chuck.

*Y/N grabs the pillows while moaning Chuck's name loudly* CHUCK! I AM GOING TO RUN

*He feels Y/N's walls clenching around his cock. He punches her one last time as she explodes around him.* Fuck, y/n.

*Y/N reaches her orgasm squeezing Chuck's cock hard*

*He pulls out and covers her ass with hot semen. He kisses a trail from her neck to her back.* Perfect, baby.

#chuck bass #gossip girl #chuck bass smut #gossip girl smut #smut #chuck bass x reader

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tavyliasin · 4 months

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The Abdirak Essay - Fandom, Pain, and Loviatar's Love

Another day, another Lia Essay - and if you're really really deliciously sinful my very dear darlings, I shall give you yet more when the sun rises again upon the morrow. So, today in Niche Fandom Adoration Hours, I give you:

For The Love of Loviatar: Why Discomfort Can Be Delightful, How Agony Alleviates Anguish, and All The Ways Abdirak Fans Are Also TavyliaSin's Very Favourite People (Who Also Probably Need A Hug) ((Do We Love The Long Titles?)) (((If No, Consider This Essay Title Part Of Your Penitance)))

The themes of this essay will discuss: BDSM, Kink, Chronic Pain, wounds/injury, Acute Pain, Mental Health, mentions of harmful behaviours, a discussion of psychological elements from someone with absolutely no formal training or experience, vague mentions of trauma, and the magic of friendship. So please make sure you are in a comfortable place within yourself if you feel any of the above might be difficult to read for any reason. It is ok to skip sections as each has a topic header, or you can leave at any time. Nobody is judging you for that at all. Additionally, NSFW discussion further through, so minors DNI as usual. Very little of my blog will ever be suitable for under 18s, for your safety and for mine. Editing in to add a link to the Abdirak fandom gift to chronic pain pals A Cameo from Declan (Abdirak's Performer) (Fully SFW)

All that said, the main theme of this piece is actually:

To truly understand suffering is to avoid being its cause.

So, let's understand what "Suffering" is first, shall we, Dear Ones?

The Difference between Pain and Suffering

Lia hasn't completely lost the plot darlings, the two words may seem almost interchangeable but they are not. At the very least, this is the interpretation I have and the discussion that follows will stick with it too~ Pain is the sensation itself, whether physical or mental, it is the hurt, the bruise pressed upon, the moment a heart breaks. That is pain. Suffering on the other hand, is the effect that the pain has. It is the anguish, the torment, the overwhelm and the exhaustion. So, whilst two people might have the same pain, let's say a stubbed toe for a simple example, their suffering might be very different. One might feel able to walk it off, maybe swear a little and move on. Another might need to sit immediately, feel tears in their eyes, or even become utterly overcome by misery from the intense sensation. This might sound like a difference in tolerance, but it can also be seen as taking the bigger picture into account. One brick might not feel so heavy to someone with empty hands, but added to a pile of bricks already carried it may feel as if it weighs a dozen times as much.

What about Abdirak? How does he relate to Pain and Suffering?

When I first heard Abdirak speak, I knew he understood this concept to its very core. His goddess wants pain, but in himself he does not seem to want actual suffering. He does draw a different line, with pain being physical and suffering being the mental aspect, however the principles are very close to my own. Some people might see Abdirak and judge him as cruel, as a torturer delighting in anguish, but that could not be further from the truth. When he speaks of delivering pain with a loving hand, that really is meant. When he was speaking to the player character, for a moment I felt so intensely seen when he speaks of seeing a greater suffering.

"Forgive me, but that look in your eyes - something terrible has happened to you. ...I see those same eyes when I look in the mirror, dear one."

This, to me, was such a moment. He recognises trauma easily, and we also have this chance here to either interpret this as "oh, right, the tadpole stuff, the things in the game" or we can allow our own feelings about a player character's backstory as the interpretation of what he has seen. Either way, he immediately offers to alleviate that suffering with pain, something he is familiar with, something he knows to help from personal experience. There's the important point. His motivation is not to cause hurt, but to relieve it.

How does pain make anything better?

Deep breaths loves we're getting to the heart of a few things here and it may get heavy. At the most basic broken down level, right at the bottom of everything, it's about distraction. Pain is instant, sharp, a sensation that draws our nerves tight and fires off that electricity directly into our brains. It takes our attention and focus away from whatever else is on our minds. Usually? This would be detrimental, to be unable to concentrate on something because pain is intruding. However, think back here, "delivered with a loving and measured hand." This is precise pain, sensation that is welcomed and applied with expert care in order to reach that point right between where pain is suffering and where it cuts out the thoughts. BDSM darlings will know this as similar to "subspace" which I will discuss later~ Whilst there is some short term benefit to using strong sensation to distract the mind and alleviate intense distress, if taken into real life scenarios there are a lot of things to consider, and it is far better to speak with a therapist. Though the most commonly suggested low-harm methods can be things like gripping an ice cube for a minute or two, or even something like exercise that can push the mind to focus on the body instead of the source of the distress. The element of penance is also there. Abdirak brings to the fore those thoughts of struggle and guilt, so those are the thoughts that are stripped back by the physical pain. It's intentional, careful, and taps at the other core of using pain to alleviate suffering.

Why we love Abdirak, and the importance of recognising the weight of unwarranted guilt.

Remember my little villain essay? Back then I spoke of how a love for villains can also come from the way we are prone to judge ourselves unfairly, to heap undeserved guilt at our own feet, and to believe every slight mistake to be a heinous sin. Sorry, darlings, the only heinous "sin" you are allowed to believe in is me. Name puns aside... Part of the draw is indeed right there, believing ourselves deserving of punishment it's appealing to want to submit to that and find absolution from everything we judge ourselves for. And yet, it isn't a horrific thing, it's coloured by love and affection. The Love of Loviatar from Abdirak does not ignore that first part. But I do encourage you, if you are feeling particularly called out right now, to stop seeking punishment for things that are objectively not your fault, and instead treat yourself with kindness and forgiveness. By all means continue to indulge in our beloved priest of Pain and the joy he brings, but do so without any negative self-assessment, alright? Good, I'm glad we agre- THAT MEANS ALL OF YOU. No exceptions.

And what of the Fandom?

Ahh Abdirak fandom. Small, loving, welcoming, and utterly devoted~ Similarly to villain fandom (Abdirak is obviously not a villain, but is arguably villain-coded), his fandom also draws a lot of kindness and understanding. Despite how we might see ourselves, we are remarkably free from judgement in how we treat each other. There's endless encouragement, genuine warmth, and alongside spicy takes that might make lava look like a suitable spot for ice fishing there's a profound amount of respect and consent. By which I mean, there's no shame. There's no allowance for "I hate that character you like", or "that kink is bad because I don't like it". Tags and CWs are applied to posts and works with care and nobody is treated poorly for enjoying what (or who) they enjoy in the fictional space. To go back to the quote at the start of this essay, "to truly understand suffering is to avoid being its cause." I feel the vast majority of us have that depth of insight and recognition for suffering and have the empathy required to wish to avoid it. And that is why I would perhaps feel safest in the company of Abdirak fans (and likewise Raphael fans), there's another level of connection in those tadpoles~ Which leads me neatly forwards to...

Endurance: Abdirak and Chronic Pain Sufferers

Here, loves, we're going to get a bit more personal. Those of us with chronic pain conditions may find an even deeper connection. So I'll go over a little for those who are fortunate enough to not have personal experience here: Chronic Pain - This applies to pain which is constant or frequently recurring, that lasts (and/or is expected to last) for more than 3 months. It's not like a broken bone that heals and has an end, it's not like a few headaches that come and go with little consequence, it is either always present or always on the edge of flaring up at any time. It's different to acute pain, because most conditions have no cure, many barely have any treatment so all one can do is try to endure the worst of it. The other side-symptoms can be reduction in physical ability, exhaustion, mental health difficulties (because for some odd reason constant pain is not a path to happiness), low self esteem, and of course carrying the guilt of feeling like a burden if you need help from others (you are not a burden, and anyone who says so can receive the blessing of forever feeling like there is a stone in their shoe that they cannot find). As an aside, this can apply to chronic mental health struggles too - it is still pain, only a different kind. Though I will be looking primarily at physical pain here, as that's where Abdirak's focus is. Now, where are we going with this? The difference here is in how pain is treated. Abdirak speaks of pain as a wonderful thing, as something that is sought after, that is a way of worshipping Loviatar. This is something that might feel strange to someone who is plagued by pain, but there's another quote I'd like us to remember.

"Pain without purpose is a terrible thing, wouldn't you agree?"

Chronic pain has no purpose. It's there whether by illness or injury, or some other unseen cause. It was not a choice, it doesn't bring any relief, and often it drags us right down with it.

"Please let me alleviate this pain."

And there's another line, one we wish we could hear, one we wish so very deeply in the core of our being that we could believe. That there could be someone who could bring an end to the pain even if only for a brief time, a fleeting hope of relief.

How fanworks can be a means of coping with chronic pain.

So here's the next point... What in all the hells do I mean, how can fanworks help a single thing? Well, have some personal moments. I had a deeply unpleasant flare up the other night, so I put out a brief ask to writing groups for some comforting fiction shorts. In the past, I've written a few myself - like these: Abdirak - Migraine Comfort Yurgir - Migraine Comfort Tav - General Comfort, with Audio Multi-Character Comfort Drabbles (Including Abdirak) Full AO3 fic of Abdirak x Chronic Pain Reader (Spicy, NSFW)

These are the two I received from some writers very dear to my heart who have more talent and skill than I could ever hope to aspire to in their works. Elfvamp (who does not have tumblr) (image description is attached to the image)

and this one from @morb-untamed

Darlings, when I tell you there were tears in my eyes at these, I mean it. THIS is just an example of the understanding and compassion possible in the community, the care and consideration, and the emotion that words can carry through them that make things genuinely feel more bearable in the moment of distress. Both captured something that it took me too long to realise. Perhaps what follows might sound entirely unreasonable or unhinged, but for someone like myself who has not known a single second of what "0%" feels like in over 10 years, it's beginning to seem far more sane by the moment. What if, within the confines of my mind, I try to rewrite the understanding of pain as something different. Just tell myself each new pain is an offering to some vile deity who has decided my mortal vessel is worthy of enduring, rather than one that is being punished with suffering. Breathe through it and listen to those character voices, find my own purpose to the pain. Let it become inspiration, note it down, get that visceral and intimate knowledge to the page instead. Naturally, this probably isn't a healthy coping mechanism, nor one that is infallible, but there have been moments recently where thinking that has made the moderate levels less distressing, easier to tolerate for a time. Perhaps it could do the same for you, but perhaps not, either way - it is there. Please do read through the comfort pieces too, and if you would like to see more - even ones with more specific aims and pains, please do just ask and I will make them happen. Either through my ask box, or in comments/reblogs, or any other way you wish to contact me honestly.

Alright, Tavylia, we've covered personal pain, but you promised NSFW discussion!

Oh my very dear darlings I had not forgotten this part~ You may here people talk about "good pain" and "bad pain", and wonder how/why pain can ever be good. It's not just about a physical hurt sensation or using that as a distraction. Pain can cause a rush of adrenaline, and even endorphins - similar to how people enjoy extreme sports, horror films, or theme parks, it's a pleasant feeling from something that would usually be scary, because it's safe and controlled. Falling from a high place? That's terrifying, dangerous. Parachuting safely from that same high place? It's controlled, there's no real danger, but the feeling of danger brings that adrenaline rush. There's the key. In real life BDSM there is control in the safe signal, in knowing it can and will stop when needed, that although there is someone causing pain they will stop at a moment's notice. (Anyone who does not respect a safe word/signal is not someone you should be in that situation with, if you are engaging in or want to try BDSM with real partners please PLEASE do your research on safety, that's too long a lecture to add here) In the context of fiction, we can go a lot further. Could a real person easily withstand Abdirak hitting them with an axe in their back? Obviously not, that's far too much. But this is a world with magical healing, and our fantasy and fiction is quite safe to extend where we find is interesting. So when reading - and especially writing - with pain and pain play, I encourage you to remember these links to adrenaline, endorphins, and that it isn't about harm, it's far deeper, and finding an understanding of that (even if you never wish to experience it) might be of some benefit to understanding those around you who have this intimate relationship with pain.

A title for the End

I think I've covered a lot here, but I do just want to round us off now. If you have any questions about this topic (or any of my other essay posts), please do feel free to ask - that's why my box is there, for all kinds of discussions to open up. Not just for smut and creative writing, but for all the ways we connect with fiction and characters. There is so much more than a single story being told, each of us experiences it through the lens of our own experience, we all find our connections in different ways, and I will have more character essays on this later. There's so much more to see, to learn, from all the interpretations throughout the fandom. I'm very grateful to be here to witness it, and for you being here to share in these thoughts and explore them more with me. Pain can teach us many things, about ourselves and others. Empathy, kindness, compassion - when we know how much we need them ourselves, we begin to see how much others may need it too. Much like how Abdirak sees the pain behind the player character's eyes, and feels that strong desire to help in the ways he knows how.

A Final Note for the Pain Pals

To my Chronic Pain Pals, darlings you do not always have to be strong. It's alright. It will not break you entirely to let go of that incessant need to try and quietly endure. Find those places it is safe to let it out, look for those tricks you can use on your brain to make Loviatar's Favour just a little more bearable. You are worthy of kindness, support, and compassion. The same you are likely giving of yourself to everyone else. You are not a burden, these are pains you do not choose, and you deserve something more gentle without any guilt attached to it. You are also not alone, find community, find those who understand.

Pain without purpose...but have we given it one now?

So I hope this time the pain has had a purpose in teaching, in helping us connect in new ways, to find compassion and understanding. Until next time, Dear Ones, look after yourselves.

Oh hey look I know who made that gif that came up in the search~ What an absolutely wonderful coincidence ;) (And a final final footnote, hello Abdirak fan community, you are perfect and I wish you nothing but the best in all things)

#baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #abdirak #chronic pain #fandom essay #pain #pain and pleasure #comfort in fanfiction #comfort in fiction #coping with pain #the best fandom corners can be in the most unexpected places #the lessons pain can teach #to understand suffering is to avoid being its cause

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brights-place · 1 month

Note

do you write for Viva x Barb? if no, I understand but if so, mmaybe a nsfw one-shot for them? /not forced whatsoever

Vivarb NSFW one-shot

Pairings: Barb X Viva

Warnings: Nsfw, Cursing, fluff

A/N: VIVARB FOR ALL THESE VIVARB SHIPPERS OUT THEREEE! This request was fun to write OML even though I can't write Smut well at all (╥ ω ╥)

Viva and Barb were laying on the bed arms wrapped around each other while they watched TV with a content smile on both their lips “Are you doing well there?” Barb questioned Viva who had zoned out for abit

“Yes, I’m just thinking.” Viva smiling “About?” Barb said raising a brow “You being so pretty.” Viva cooed “Fuck baby, you’re literally a goddess.” Barb said as bites her lip and nuzzled into Viva is neck kissing the girl is cheek

A Blushed grew on Viva is cheeks as Barb got on her knees, pinning Viva against the bed they laid on with their lips on eachothers ad a light moan slipped past Viva is mouth as barbs hand held onto Viva is waist “Do you want me to continue?” Barb asked softly. “Yes... yes, please.” Viva muttered as Barb chuckled pulling Viva is white jump suit off her head and pressing her lips on Viva’s plump cherry lips again as She pushed Viva against the bed completely resting her hand on viva is chin while Viva kissed back passionately. As the blonde pushed up her hips so that barb can get rid of the jump suit completely as Barb took off her own clothes impatiently

Barb let out a grunt of annoyance her hips motions against Vivas lower region as they botj shared a kiss together, like contents smile both of their lips as their arms wrapped around each other Barb, pinning Viva is hands up against her head “You drive me crazy,” she whispered dragging sweet kisses along viva is soft pink neck as barbs hands rubbed the soft skin of Viva is chest as she gently pinches Viva is nipples, rolling them between two fingers and making Viva turn her head in pleasure. As she close her eyes, breathing deeply while Barb played with them smirking as Viva looked up towards her girlfriend who was smiling down at her

“It’s all baby, relax. Let me take care of you.” Barb whispered her hands pressed in between Vivas thighs, spread them apart slowly, with a smug look on her face. A slight chuckle skipped bar slips, and she looked up towards viva, who ordered slowly with a blush on her face.

Let out a small wine as she noticed Barb slowly blow or breath of air against her clit, throbbing feeling under her clit as she looked at with a whiny face they kept her mouth shut, her hand clasping over it, and she felt Barb tongue piercing glide along her folds.

Barb chuckle lightly, and she pulled back, but Viva slowly reached out to hand, grasping the back of Barb’s hair, tucking her forward again as Barb spoke up “your quite needy” Barb cooed as viva looked away, ashamed couldn’t help but feel hot and bothered.

As Barb lifted up and fixed, Viva is position overhead in between Viva thigh, her fingers tracing Viva is in her thigh softly, feeling the pink flash grow warm as viva covered her face, a slight squeal of excitement past her lips as she closed in her tongue saliva against Viva clit, looking up towards the blonde girl Who was looking away.

The sound of saliva making contact with Viva is pink click was heard before the noises of slurping was heard making Viva’s body shake and her back slightly arch as Viva started to call out loudly eyes shut as she started to pant heavily begging Barb to stop which Barb knew Viva wanted her to continue even if Viva told Barb to stop.

Barb eyes stared at Viva is expression teasing her once again by pulling her tongue away as a whine escaped Viva “Barbra!” Viva said pouting as Barb kissed Viva is cheek before begging for Barb to continue which the girl had gladly done

Let’s say the night was eventful and Riff heard things that he didn’t want to hear at ALL

( I got lazy at the end Lmaooo)

reblogs + comments are appreciated ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

©brights-place 2023 — do not repost on another platform, copy, translate or edit my works! if you fit my DNI list please don't interact!

#trolls band together #trolls #tuck art #trolls viva #trolls barb #vivarb #viva x barb #rarepair #trolls 3 #dreamworks trolls #trolls x reader #trolls world tour #fluff #Smut #Trolls Smut #barb x viva #trolls fanart

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coffeehighallthetime-blog · 6 months

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I'm Kind, Not Complacent chpt 7

chpt 7

word count: 2.6k

pairing: gow heimdall x reader, kids!

A/N: hello. I'm sorry this is late, I have been going through it 👉👈 and I'm just trying my best lol. thank you as usual to everyone who likes and comments and thank you for your patience, I hope you enjoy it! there is not much Heimdall content in this chapter but I hope you enjoy hanging out with Freya!

@engardeitsme thank you, lovey for your support I appreciate you endlessly!

@nokolla @lunaryasha, thank you for reading and appreciating my writing! if anyone else would like to be tagged just let me know!. hope you all enjoy!

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Freya’s room was full of natural sunlight. Her windows reached from floor to ceiling, creating triangular shapes through the plant-filled space. Bare wooden beams braided with ivy vines and sweet moss towered high above into the scaffolding, and Yn’s eyes trailed from one to the other, how different breeds of plants dangled from hooks, and spiralled down towards her as if they wanted to greet her.

Yn turned her eyes to Freya's back as she walked around her table, watering her different plants.

“Go on then, pick up a watering can,” Freya spoke over her shoulder and Yn stiffened at being caught staring around once again before setting her things down and grabbing a pail, dipping it into a deep basin before joining Freya in water the plants around the room.

Yn had been going to lessons with Freya for nearly two months now, and the days always started the same. Freya never came to get her, it was Yn’s responsibility to come to the chamber on time, and if she was late, Freya stated the door would be locked. The goddess had taught her on her first day the importance of caring for the plants, especially since they were going to be taking from them. It must be an equal exchange. As a result, they had spent the first two weeks focusing on the care of Freya’s plants, how to water, how much, what the soil needs to be like for each specimen, feeding carnivorous varieties, pruning dead leaves and shriveled growth, and finally spells to whisper whilst the care is given to promote healthy growth. It had all made the girl's head spin at first, and the goddess didn’t seem to care if she caught up to the information or fell behind. Despite this, Yn quickly picked up the pieces, taking every challenge in stride with a smile on her face.

Freya finished first, sitting to prepare a pot of tea for the two as she watched the girl finish her pruning and watering. In their first few sessions, Yn would rush to finish after seeing Freya had stopped. However, after being scolded about skipping steps, clipping fresh leaves, and underwatering, the girl had learned to ignore what was going on around her and focus on doing a diligent job on her own time.

Freya would wait patiently, brewing tea and setting up the rest of their lesson. She had note cards next to specimens, explaining their names and what they were used for. There were step-by-step instructions on potions, with the ingredients put to the side, and pronunciations of incantations.

“It’s important we look at individual pieces. This way we can distinguish what needs to be added together to get the results we want.” Freya explained as Yn approached, sitting to sip her tea as Freya finished setting up.

“These are the specimens I had you research last week. I want you to look at each one, and from memory, tell me what each one is used for and how to apply it best.” Yn nodded as she immediately started to examine leaf shapes and textures to sort the different plants, writing her deductions on fresh parchment. Freya gave her this test once a week, and as Yn’s pen moved swiftly against the paper, the goddess could not help the pride that bubbled, nor could she ignore the raven watching them from the rafters, its bright red eye trained on the girl as she flawlessly recited newfound knowledge. Freyr glared up at it from the corner of her eye, a vine whipping to shoo it off its perch, “After this, we will work on spell pronunciation and if there is time, we will spare until the sun sets.”

“Yes, ma’am.” the girl spoke, focused on her task. Freya raised a brow as the girl started to configure the plants in a pattern of the different characteristics they possessed, and then into the different medicines they could be used for, Including tonics the goddess had not yet taught her. In particular, a medicine using a combination of yarrow and mallow. Yn looked up to meet Freya’s gaze and smiled sheepishly. “I noticed these are both strong plants for healing and thought they may be good for a wider variety of healing if they were to be combined. Mimir taught me a bit about mallow, which is from here in Asgard, but this is from Vanir, right?” She held up the yarrow and Freya nodded.

“You’re combining ingredients from different realms?”

“O-oh, is that not allowed?” Yn frowned, lowering the plants, grabbing her notes, and flipping to a page for Freya to see her writings. The girl had been doing some of her own research on the combinations of specimens. Freya’s brow furrowed as she read the scribbles. They were conclusions she had come to but never thought to teach the girl for fear it may bring too much attention to her from Odin.

“ It’s complicated. We are meant to be focusing on Vanir magic for the time being.”

“Ah ok… I just thought… u-m it’s stupid, I’m sorry-” Freya shook her head and smiled, tapping at the girl’s notes.

“Explain it to me.” Yn smiled and explained her process as Freya pushed over the mortar and pestle so they could test the hypothesis. The magic was sound and Freya couldn’t help the smile that kept pulling at her cheeks. The girl was exceptionally bright and used her affinity for logic to aid her in her studies. Odin was right to show an interest in the girl, and that was the true cause for Freya’s want to keep the girl at the basics for as long as possible. Yet despite this, the girl’s intelligence was inspiring and her passion, infectious. For a moment, on these odd mornings during lessons, Freya lost herself in the innocence of the young goddess’s exploration and tried her best to ignore her true reason for being tasked to teach the girl.

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“I can’t do this,” Freya whispered to Mimir as they traded the girl for her lessons. The man stiffened slightly, resting a hand on the girl’s shoulder. He smiled down at her and pushed her toward the door.

“Go set your things down, lass, I’ll be right with ya.” Yn frowned but complied, worried she was in trouble. As the door shut, Mimir whipped to stare down at the goddess.

“That is not for you to decide.”

“She’s just a child.” Freya stood ridged, her fists clenched at her sides as she glared at the satir. Mimir stood his ground, his visage unreadable to her. Freya had always hated his ability to not show his emotions on his face.

“She’s been given a purpose here, my queen. A purpose bestowed onto her by the All-Father himself. Or have you forgotten?”

“I have forgotten nothing,” she spat, her eyes like hot coals. “I know very well why she’s here and refuse to continue raising another warhorse for him to-

“The girl is bright and strong, and we are only helping her on-”

“So she can be used to kill millions-”

“This is not our choice-”

“There is no choice!” The goddess’s wings flexed out, the feathers rattling as her shoulders shook with rage. Mimir stood like a statue, his bifrost eyes shimmering finally with an emotion Freya could see; sorrow.

“You know as well as I do,” Mimir spoke softly, a melancholic smile on the corner of his lips, “that this is beyond the both of us…” He turned, placing his hand on the door of his study, “every day I am with her, I feel like I am raising my own child… and then leading her to her death…” His eyes pointed into a deep glare as he looked at the goddess over his shoulder, “But I’ll be damned if I don’t equip her with the tools to give her a fighting chance.”

Mimir opened the door and walked in wordlessly, leaving it open by a hair. Freya could hear the girl on the other side, asking if the goddess was upset with her.

“Now who could ever be upset with you, little thing.” Mimir’s voice rumbled through the door. Freya peaked through the crack, watching as Mimir ruffled the girl’s hair and her laugh filled her chest and sank to her stomach.

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“That’s enough, child,” Freya spoke softly to the girl, setting down her water and sitting on a stool, ushering Yn to do the same. “You are doing well. I don’t even need to keep an eye on you, anymore.”

“Thank you, Ms. Freya,” Yn spoke softly as she pulled herself onto her stool. She picked up the teapot sitting at the wooden table and slowly poured some into the goddess’s cup before filling her own. “Do you think I’ll be ready to learn spells soon?” Freya hummed and sipped her tea, the steam whsiping up into the rafters.

“Possibly. How do you feel about pronunciation?” the girl shuffled slightly in her seat, pouring honey into her cup.

“I’ve been practicing every morning and night, miss. I really do think I’m ready. I-I’ve been excited to start spells as I have been working hard on potions and medicine a-and want to start on new lessons so that I can be of use to the All-Father sooner-”

“Why do you want to learn magic, Yn.” the girl paused, her cup hovering just below her lips.

“Well… I thought that’s why I was here.” she lowered her cup, letting the warmth of the cup heat her hands. “Mimir a-and the All-Father-”

“I did not ask what the two old men want, or why we need to be in this room together for two hours every other day,” Freya spoke, her face like a stone as she looked down at the girl. Yn swallowed dryly, setting her cup down and staring down at her knees. Freya frowned, and tucked a finger under the girl’s chin, tilting her head up for their eyes to meet. “I’m asking why you want to be here…why do you stay…”

Yn stared up into Freya’s eyes, feeling a sense of calm rush over her. Her shoulders relaxed and she stared back at the goddess, her vision steady.

“I want to know….” Freya smiled, releasing her chin

“Know what?” she asked, crossing her arms.

“I want to know… about the world. About my place in it. I want to know how to be an actual deity. Someone who can be strong enough to protect people, to protect Vanaheim, as you did…I can’t do that if I don’t even know the extent of what I am. Goddess of peace who only knows how to manipulate…goddess of logic who thinks too much with her heart…” Freya listened in silence, letting the girl speak before resting a hand on her shoulder, squeezing lightly.

“There are always more sides to a god than originally known. I am the goddess of love and family, but I am also the goddess of war.” the girl nodded slowly, wrapping her head around the idea there may be more to her than even she knew.

“S-so you are saying those opposites… may be a part of me for a reason? That could be…full of chaos and madness?” the girl trembled at the thought, her skin going pale. Freya frowned, setting down her own cup and resting a hand on her lap.

“Possibly, but possibly not.” Freya’s voice was strong and caring, her eyes focused on the girl’s, “But just because they are, does not make you a goddess to be feared. Two sides of a coin just help to have a deeper understanding of oneself.” the girl still couldn’t stop the tremble in her hands but looked up to meet the goddess’s gaze, her breath steadying. Freya closed her hands around the girl’s. “We will figure everything out together. I promise.” Yn swallowed and slipped out of her stool, hugging Freya around the waist and burying her face in the woman’s stomach. Freya wrapped her arms around the girl, squeezing her tightly. She couldn’t help the hot coal sinking down her throat and settling in the pit of her stomach, knowing she was bound to both teach the girl and tell Odin about every instance of growth until she was what he envisioned her to be. They were all nothing but puppets in the end.

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“Mimir?”

“Hm?”

“Do you think I’m dangerous?”

The man froze mid-stride, looking down at the girl beside him, her hand clasped in his as they walked to supper. She frowned at his stiffness and looked away, tugging him down the hall.

“It’s ok… I guess I already knew the answer…” Mimir didn’t budge, pulling the girl gently back next to him and crouching down to her level. Yn looked at her feet, and when the satir tried to meet her gaze, she turned to avoid it.

“Lass, look at me.” When her head didn’t budge he tilted her head up and had to hold in a chuckle at the weak glare pointed at him. “Now what’s all this about?” she shuffled her feet, kicking up dust.

“ I don’t want to be a bad god…” She whispered, her hands wringing at the hem of her tunic. “Freya said I may be a goddess with more sides… meant to be able to manipulate and cause chaos… but I don’t want to be those things, I don’t want people to be scared of me.” She pushed, looking up at the man. “She said that it’ll be ok… but I still wanted to tell you because I don’t want you to think you should be scared…” Mimir sighed and shook his head with a smile.

“How could I ever be scared of you, sweet girl?” She huffed softly, rubbing her eyes.

“I don’t know…” he stood back up, ushering her with a hand to her back.

“Come on then. What say you we start with dessert tonight?”

“Really?”

“Sure! Just uh, don’t tell the queen.”

The girl hummed in agreement, but despite Mimir’s words and promise of sweets, she couldn’t stop the new knowledge of what she may be fester inside her, letting it fill her with dread. Freya had wanted to teach her, a Mimir had wanted to reassure, but really all they did was leave the girl with more fear and unanswered questions.

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For the first night in a while, Heimdall had been able to sleep peacefully without the overbearing ring of noises from the lodge keeping him awake. He lay curled in his furs, soft puffs of air passing past his lips as his chest raised and fell in a slow gentle rhythm. A knock and rattle of his door stirred him awake. He groaned, throwing the covers over his head, hoping they were lingering sounds that would soon dissipate as he fell deeper into the sleep. Maybe it was a drunk trying to get into his room downstairs or across the hall. There was silence and then another set of knocks, followed by a quiet voice whispering his name through the door. Heimdall frowned, his brows furrowing as he rubbed the sleep from his face. He slowly willed himself to sit up and looked over at his door, listening closer.

“Heimdall…” the voice trembled, “C-can I please come in?” the boy’s feet carried him to the door before he fully knew what he was doing, and he opened to meet glassy eyes staring back at him. Yn’s face brightened despite the tear stains, and she rubbed her eyes.

“I'm sorry, I know you were sleeping well and I didn’t want to-“

“Just,” he sighed, grabbing her wrist. “Come in so I can get back to sleep.” He didn’t let her respond, dragging her into his bed and laying his head back on his pillow, holding the covers open for her. Yn sniffled softly, and laid down next to him, letting his warmth slowly calm her. “What’s wrong.” He mumbled, his eyes already closed. Yn looked up at his face, how he was already starting to doze off. He had truly come a long way, and under other circumstances, she would have smiled.

“I’m worried I may be a bad god.”

“There is no such thing as a bad god, only weak underlings” he grunted, wrapping his arms around her waist and resting his chin on the top of her head. She hummed, expecting an answer akin to this from the Aesir, still, it didn’t ease her.

“Still… I think people here are afraid of me… most of the maids won’t even look at me and the einherjar avoid me on the sparing grounds a-and even in the great hall…even at breakfast!…” she swallowed. “W-what if Mimir or Freya-”

“Anyone afraid of you is either brainless, “he spoke through a yawn, “or a coward. Now go to sleep.”

“Are you afraid of me?”

“Am I brainless or a coward?”

“No-”

“There you go.”

“Hm…” the girl smiled slightly, rubbing her eyes and yawning as she settled in the bed. “But do you dislike me?”

“If I disliked you would I wake up in the middle of the night and waste my precious sleep hours consoling your idiotic claims.” She didn’t respond and this was answer enough. He huffed through his nose, pulling the covers closer. “Go to bed, songbird.” She buried her head in his chest, sighing with a tired smile.

“Thank you, weasel…”

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#gow x you #heimdall gow #heimdall x reader #god of war ragnarok #god of war x reader #gow heimdall #heimdall x you #i am kind not complacent #god of war ragnarok x reader #gow #gow x reader #gow freya #gow mimir #gow ragnorak #child!heimdall #child!reader

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beautification-tales · 4 months

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Ginny's heart skipped a beat as she crept down the creaky stairs of her parents' old house. The scent of freshly baked cookies and pine needles filled the air, reminding her of Christmas Eves long past. She'd been expecting this feeling, of course; she was still that same skinny college girl who used to believe in Santa Claus. But now, as she caught a glimpse of a familiar figure hunched over by the tree, she couldn't help but feel a rush of excitement and nervousness course through her veins.

Her heart raced as she approached him, her breath hitching in her throat. Santa Claus, her Santa Claus, was putting the final touches on a pile of presents under the tree. "Santa?" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the crackling of the fire. "Santa, is that you?"

He turned around slowly, his eyes twinkling behind his snowy white beard. A warm smile spread across his rosy cheeks. "Ginny!" he exclaimed, his voice full of delight. "What a surprise! Why are you up?”

She felt her cheeks flush with a mixture of embarrassment and joy. "I-I couldn't sleep," she stammered. "I wanted to see if you needed any help."

He chuckled, his belly jiggling beneath his red suit. "Oh, you don't need to worry about that, my dear. I've been doing this for quite some time, you know." He motioned for her to sit beside him on the plush rug beside the tree. "But," he added with a twinkle in his eye, "I'm always glad for some company."

As they sat there, watching the fire dance and listening to the soft crackle of the wood, Ginny found herself opening up to Santa Claus in a way she never had before. She told him about her struggles in college, about how she missed the innocence of childhood and the joy of believing in magic. And when she confessed her secret crush on him, she felt a weight lift off her shoulders.

Santa Claus chuckled warmly, his eyes twinkling. "Why, Ginny," he said, "I've always known you were a special girl. And you know what? I think you might just be the perfect person to help me out this year."

Ginny felt her heart skip a beat. "Really?" she breathed.

"Yes, really," he replied, reaching into his red suit and pulling out a small, glistening object. "I've been searching for someone to take on this role for a very long time."

He placed the enchanted cookie into her hand. It felt warm and heavy, like it was imbued with magic. "This," he explained, "is an enchanted cookie. If you eat it, it will make you my special helper.”

Ginny's eyes widened in disbelief. "Really?" she breathed.

"Really and truly," Santa Claus assured her, his voice gentle and sincere. "It will give you the magic and power to help me all Christmas Eve.”

She looked down at the enchanted cookie in her hand, feeling a mixture of awe and trepidation. She took a bite as the warm cookie tasted like cinnamon and chocolate.

As she chewed, she felt a strange sensation coursing through her body. At first, it was a tingling in her fingers and toes, like pins and needles. But then, it spread through her entire body, making her feel more alive and vibrant than she ever had before. Her breasts seemed to swell, growing larger and fuller beneath her sweater, and her hips widened, curving out in a way that made her feel incredibly feminine.

She glanced down at herself in shock, then back up at Santa Claus. He was grinning from ear to ear, his eyes twinkling with delight. "That," he said with a nod, "is the power of the enchanted cookie. It's giving you the body of a goddess.”

As she continued to stare at herself, her reflection in the tree, Ginny realized that her pajamas had completely morphed into a Santa Claus outfit. The once-plain pajama top had transformed into a tight red blouse with white plush cuffs. Her pajama pants were now a pair of shiny black panties that hugged her legs and shapely behind. She even had a pair of black boots on her feet.

Her hair, which had been tied back into a ponytail, now flowed freely around her shoulders in soft, wavy curls. She felt as if she had been transformed into a living, breathing version of one of Santa's elves. She couldn't help but smile, feeling a thrill of excitement and anticipation coursing through her.

Santa Claus chuckled, seeing the look of awe and wonder on her face. "Well, well, well," he said, clapping his hands together, "it seems my magic cookie has done its job. You look absolutely radiant, Ginny. I knew you'd make a perfect addition to my team."

He stood up and offered her a hand, helping her to her feet. She felt a newfound confidence and grace as she took his hand, their skin connecting in a warm, electric way that made her heart race. "Now then," he continued, "it's time for you to begin your training.”

Ginny looked at Santa with a hunger in her eyes. She had always loved Santa but now it seemed she wanted even more as she licked her lips. She felt the magic coursing through her but she also felt something that made her now heavy breasts tingle.

"Yes, sir," she breathed, her voice huskier than before. "I'm ready to help you, Santa."

He chuckled, his laugh filling the room. "Oh, Mrs Claus, you have no idea how much help you're going to be. You are going to make all the children happy this Christmas Eve."

#beautification #breast expansion #transformation #f2f transformation #mrs clause #bimboification #stepfordization

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 10 months

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Comet Donati [Chapter 3: Steal My Girl]

A/N: Hello lovely readers! Thank you so so so much for the love this fic has received. I wanted to give you a heads up that I will be co-leading a field trip to Japan from July 4th-14th and will therefore have much less time to write. HOPEFULLY I won’t have to skip a Sunday update, but I wanted to make you aware just in case. I hope you enjoy Chapter 3!!! 💜

Chapter Warnings: Language, references to sexual content (18+), drugs, alcohol, smoking, mental health struggles, Aegon-induced chaos, ANGST, Iceland, you cannot escape the Cookie Monster pajama pants.

Selected Chapter Quote: “So what, you don’t like me anymore?”

Word count: 8.3k (wtf I need to chill).

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist! 💜

Athens, Madrid, Porto, Vienna, Stockholm, and now: descending into Reykjavik through clouds like iron. The North Atlantic is an endless sheen of cold overcast blue, a mirror of the sky. The earth is rocky and anemic. There are no jewel tones here, no sapphires or emeralds or aquamarines or fire opals or topazes. It is impossible to look down at Iceland, this dominion of impassionate jaggedness, and not think of how the Vikings had to reap their treasures from every other corner of Europe, silver and gold and glass and slaves piled into ships to be rowed back to the hostile earth they clung to, perhaps just to prove they could.

Across the aisle of the private jet—more like a penthouse than a plane, posh neutral colors and hand-stitched leather—Luke is showing Aemond his latest lyrics, loops of silver on matte black pages. They’re good, from what you’ve heard. They’re really good. And that tells you what kind of person Aemond truly is as he helps Luke polish rocks into gemstones. Anybody can soften the blow of mediocrity. It takes courage to build ladders for people who might one day outclimb you.

Daeron is playing his Nintendo 64, which is hooked up to a 98-inch flat screen tv; Mario is leaping through paintings into worlds of lava, ice, sentient ticking bombs. Criston is answering emails. Cregan is sprawled across a couch with his sunglasses on, presumably sound asleep. Jace is leering at you, dark hair hanging in his face and slurping a Vesper.

You ask him half-mocking: “What tattoo are you going to get for Reykjavik?”

He yanks off his sequined red blazer—nothing underneath, as usual—and twists around to show you the puffin on his left shoulder blade. Comet, at some point in time that preceded you, has already been to Iceland. “Cute, right? Wanna pet it?”

You roll your eyes. “I’m sorry I asked.”

He grins. “No you’re not.”

Aegon kicks the back of Jace’s chair. He’s scribbling some notes of his own, which is unusual. In place of a spiral notebook with onyx pages, Aegon is writing on crinkled Starbucks receipts with a Sharpie. He’s wearing his favorite aviator sunglasses, khaki cargo pants, an excessively bright cyan tank top, and matching Crocs.

Baela stares blankly out the window for a few seconds—like she’s buffering, a lagging connection—and then she looks to you hopefully. “Shopping when we land?”

“Does Iceland have shops…?”

“Probably more than Kansas,” Aemond says, then smiles mischieviously.

“Missouri,” you fling back. He returns his attention to Luke.

“They totally have shops in Iceland,” Baela assures you.

“Then I am amenable. I need more concert outfits.” You mostly wear your boy band t-shirts from home, which has become a joke: One Direction, Backstreet Boys, New Kids On The Block, NSYNC, the Jonas Brothers, Boyz II Men, 98 Degrees, BTS…but never Comet Donati. Anyone but them. Aegon calls you a traitor. Aemond teases, smirks, tries to hide how much he watches you the same way people contemplate art on museum walls, a little confounded, a little entranced.

“Rhaena?” Baela says. “Hello? Hello? Hola? Bonjour? Rhaena?”

Rhaena startles, peering up from her novel: Jurassic Park. Once upon a time, as you’ve learned, she had planned to study paleontology. She wants to be alone in the middle of a field someplace digging up bones. Well, no great tragedy there; one is never too old to be a paleontologist. She can take off five years, or ten years, or twenty, or thirty to see Luke through his touring days and then pick back up her own ambitions like keys left on a hook. But Baela gave up a ballet scholarship to follow Jace across the globe, puddle to puddle, land to land, and in your albeit limited understanding, ballerinas age in something like dog years. Their career is a brilliant, lightning-brief flash and then long, anonymous decades running out their mortal clock as choreographers, backup dancers, personal trainers, instructors for blue-blooded five-year-olds. Baela won’t be able to reclaim that dream for much longer. It might be too late already. She is out of practice; but she misses ballet. When Jace is being snide or oblivious, you’ve seen her gazing out windows—Escalades, hotels, jets—wondering if it was all worth it. You gut yourself for someone and they don’t even have the courtesy to put up a gravestone. It’s only natural to develop a propensity to haunt.

“What?” Rhaena asks.

“Shopping. This afternoon. Interested?”

Rhaena’s eyes go wide. She fidgets: closing and then opening her book, touching a hand to her earrings, delicate strings of small silver hearts. “Um…I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Oh, not this again,” Baela groans.

“Just go without me. Bring me back something, you know what I like.”

“What’s the problem?” You are investigative but not accusatory. The tone is essential.

“She’s scared of store employees,” Baela says.

“Well you don’t have to make it sound like that—!”

“What’s so scary about store employees?” you ask Rhaena, calm, cool, collected, nonjudgmental. Aemond glances over, as he often does when you’re working, like he can’t get enough of watching that switch flip, when you slink covertly into therapist mode like a water moccasin weaves through swamps, subtle ripples in the muddied water and vigilant eyes.

“I just hate it when people are watching me,” Rhaena says, twirling an earring. “They’re always waiting right by the door—especially at the posh places like the ones Baela goes to—and they want to know what I’m shopping for, and they want to make suggestions, and they follow me to the fitting room and ask what I like and what I don’t. And I can’t get rid of them! Even if I’m like ‘Just looking, thanks!’ they’ll circle back every five minutes to check on me. I can’t stand it. I get so frazzled I can’t decide how I really feel about a skirt or dress or whatever because I’m too busy trying to make conversation with someone I don’t want to talk to anyway. I end up with a headache and a shopping bag full of regrets. I’d rather click a button on my MacBook Air and save myself the suffering.”

You nod sagely. “What is it about talking to the employees that stresses you out so much?”

“I don’t want to say or do the wrong thing. I don’t want to cause problems.”

“But it’s not like you’re going to do anything they haven’t experienced before. They see hundreds, maybe even thousands of customers a month. And even if you did something ridiculously, dementedly embarrassing, like…um…hey, Aegon, what’s the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever done while clothes shopping?”

“I fell asleep in a fitting room. I pissed on the floor. I set something on fire. I vandalized One Direction merchandise.”

“No, there was that other time,” Daeron says. Mario is swimming through rings of underwater coins; they chime gleefully as he collects them.

“What other time?” Aegon says.

Daeron grins. “Come on. You know.”

Aegon remembers. “Oh yeah. Once I bit a girl’s feet until I accidentally ripped off part of a toenail and she bled everywhere. But that wasn’t my fault. She was begging for it. It was consensual.”

Criston, not looking away from his emails, says: “And that’s why Aegon is now banned from all Michael Kors locations for life.”

“Right.” You turn back to Rhaena. “So you would never do anything that deranged. But even if somehow you did, what’s the actual worst-case scenario? What, realistically, could happen as a result?”

Rhaena considers this. “The employees will think I’m weird, I guess.”

“So what you’re so concerned about is that the store employees—who are literally paid to be inconvenienced by you—might think you’re weird? Which they’ll remember for, what, maybe an hour before some other customer gives them a more memorable calamity to focus on? You don’t think they’re more annoyed by purse-dog-toting heiresses screeching at them or cokeheads pissing on their floors?”

“Rude,” Aegon says.

Rhaena smiles guiltily. “I mean, when you put it that way, it does sound stupid.”

“Not stupid,” you insist. “Just out of proportion.”

“Okay,” Rhaena says. She takes a deep breath, steeling herself. “Okay. I guess I’ll go shopping.”

“Yes!” Baela cheers, already scrolling through Reykjavik shops on her iPhone.

“Hey, Stargirl,” Aegon says, and then hurls something at you like a frisbee. It’s an Amex Black Card.

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

You raise an eyebrow at him. “What’s my budget?”

“No budget. As long as it’s slutty.”

“I will buy nothing but cardigans and mom jeans.” You crane your neck to peek at his receipts. The black Sharpie squiggles aren’t words; they’re shapes, pictures. “What are you drawing?”

“New merch designs!” Aegon holds up the receipts so you can see.

“Circles…?”

He is somewhat wounded. “Donuts!”

You don’t even know where to begin. “Why donuts, Aegon?”

“Because that’s his code word for doing lines in the bathroom,” Criston says.

“No!” Aegon objects. “Because Donati sounds like donuts! So we could have all these mini donuts, print them on hats or shirts or whatever, and then in the frosting where the sprinkles would be we can put tiny stars, suns, moons, planets, galaxies…and comets, obviously.”

Jace scoffs. “I think you spend a little too much time thinking about donuts.”

Aegon goes quiet. So does everyone else. Gazes flit nervously around the cabin. The only sounds are the roar of the jet and Mario 64, although Daeron has turned his back on the cheerful Italian protagonist and is looking pensively over his shoulder at Jace. Aegon resumes sketching his cosmic Sharpie donuts, his lips pressed tightly together.

“Hey,” you say to Jace, and then once you have his attention, wicked dark eyes: “Shut the fuck up.”

“What?”

“It’s a great idea. It’s a really adorable idea, actually. Let’s see you come up with something better. Go on, whenever you’re ready. I’m waiting. I’m still waiting. But you’re not much of an ideas guy, are you, Jace? Fortunately, you’ve always had other people around to pull that weight.”

Jace opens his mouth to say something, then snaps it shut as Cregan stands up. He towers over you both, as tall as Aemond but more muscly all over, in the chest and the shoulders and the legs. He lowers his sunglasses to show his eyes: greyish, cold, flinty. He glares at Jace, and then at you, and then at Jace again. Jace holds up both hands, showing his palms. You bow your head in capitulation. Cregan lies back down on the couch and repositions his sunglasses just as the pilot turns on the fasten seatbelts signs. As you click yours into place, you exchange a glance with Aemond across the aisle. He is smiling, foxlike and approving, as if he can’t wait to see what else you have left to show him.

“So!” Baela says. “Guess who found a shop in Reykjavik that sells Gucci!”

The jet glides through mist and fog to make a rather bumpy landing at Keflavik International Airport, fighting against gusts of wind coming in off the North Atlantic Ocean, the same water that swallowed the Titanic, the Faucett Peru Boeing 727, the Free Life hot air balloon, whaling vessels and Viking longships, countless cruisers and destroyers and submarines that blasted holes into each other during the world wars. As the band prepares to disembark, Aemond reaches into the front pocket of his shirt—black, with white circling koi fish—and slides out a pair of sunglasses. He doesn’t like wearing them. They limit his vision even more than it already is. But he never walks into an airport without sunglasses on, you’ve discovered. Just in case paparazzi are there snapping photos.

“You don’t have to do that,” you tell Aemond.

He gestures to his scar and his blind eye, a pale cloudy blue. “I’ve thought about just getting it cut out. But then I’d have to worry about shoving in a fake one.”

“I think it’s kind of beautiful,” you say. “It reminds me of Neptune or something.”

And the look he gives you, the look, like he’s never heard anything like this before, like he didn’t know that words could fit together in that order. You hold out your hand to him. He lays the sunglasses in your palm. You put them on, grinning up at him.

“Now I’m the one who looks like a multi-millionaire popstar.”

“Hey, we match!” Aegon says as he follows you and Aemond out of the jet, massaging your shoulders and clopping noisily in his Crocs.

There are paparazzi at the airport, but only two of them, young men in black hoodies who dart around loosing flashes into the stuffy, aggressively heated air. Jace, Baela, Daeron, and Aegon beam and wave, radiant, magnetic, born celebrities. Rhaena smiles politely but hides behind Luke. Cregan saunters and smolders, knowing exactly what his devotees expect from him. Criston and the security guards are loaded up with suitcases like pack mules. The paparazzi don’t pay much attention to Aemond—a former heartthrob, a cracked relic, a fossil or a ruin—but one of them snaps a few pictures of him. Aemond turns his face so they’ll get his good side, his unmarred side…and then he grabs for your hand. You try not to reveal how ecstatic you are, how wildly, uncoolly, over-the-moon thrilled. Your expression might end up commemorated forever in a tabloid, after all.

Shopping in Reykjavik is mostly wool sweaters, hiking boots, and weather-proof jackets, but Baela leads you and Rhaena to a boutique that carries something more her speed: Gucci, Burberry, Balenciaga, Valentino, Saint Laurent. You and Baela try to distract the employees as much as possible; still, they find time to nettle Rhaena with those bothersome, predictable, unnecessary questions. She gets a little flustered, but she fights the instinct to run and hide, to allow herself to sink into a frenetic puddle of self-inquisition. You can almost see the words scrolling behind her dark gentle eyes like a news ticker: They get paid to help me. They aren’t going to remember any of this in a few hours. I’m not on a stage. I’m not being judged.

In the fitting room, you take two selfies to send to Aemond’s WhatsApp account: one in a flowing neon yellow gown, the other in a short, velvet, sparkly black dress embroidered with silver stars.

You ask: Day or night?

He answers before you’ve changed back into your jeans and pink Harry Styles hoodie. Night, obviously. And then he adds: Which constellation are you? Vulpecula the fox? Cygnus the swan?

“God, he’s such a dork,” you murmur to yourself, smiling. You have to think for a while before you reply. You don’t know many constellations; that makes it difficult to rattle off something witty. Then you are inspired. You type: Definitely not Virgo :)

He responds immediately: :)))))

“What does that mean?” you whisper to yourself in the solitude of the boxlike fitting room. “What the hell does that mean???” He spends nearly all of his time with you, but he rarely touches you. He’s never made a move. He’s never even kissed you. You wouldn’t mind if he did. No, fuck the coyness that women are supposed to cloak themselves in to preserve their worth. You’re waiting for him to kiss you like someone drowning waits for a gasp of air.

Despite Aemond’s vote, you can’t help yourself. You buy both dresses. You don’t look much like an Aegon Targaryen, but the cashier doesn’t seem too troubled by this. Baela and Rhaena are still trying on outfits, so you swing your bag around boredly and wander over to see what Criston is up to. At Aemond’s insistence, he accompanied you on this shopping expedition and left the rest of the security detail back at the Reykjavik EDITION, a luxury hotel overlooking the harbor. Criston is in the jewelry section and holding up a medallion necklace, rotating it to see how the light reflects off the speckling of tiny gemstones, the wise golden face. His own face is distant and melancholy.

“Oh, that’s lovely, Criston!” you say. “All those emeralds. Who’s pictured on it?”

“Saint Jude. Lost causes.”

Interesting. “Are you religious?”

“Not especially. But Alicent is.”

“Who…?”

Criston walks off to the cash register. You watch him go, curious and perplexed.

Back at the hotel, you enter your suite to find a blond Targaryen lounging in your bed…but perhaps not the right one. Aegon still has his Crocs on and is, for some reason, clutching a plushie puffin. He glances over at you, noting your shopping bag.

“Fashion show?” he says. “I hope it’s nothing but miniskirts and bikinis.”

“Don’t you have places to be? Substances to snort?”

“Cregan is currently trying to locate some.”

“That’s really not good for you. Physically or mentally. You might be addicted.”

He barks a laugh, like it’s absurd. “You can’t get addicted to coke, Stargirl.”

“You definitely can.”

He suddenly looks panicked, like he’s never considered this before.

“So.” You hesitate. “Aemond.”

“Yes, I’m familiar with the concept.”

“He’s insecure. Very insecure, though he’s learned how to hide it.”

Aegon throws and catches the puffin, bouncing it off the ceiling. “I wouldn’t disagree.”

“It goes deeper than the accident, I think. The scar, his eye, what happened with the band…that awakened it again. That freed something that he’d had locked away. But where did it start?”

Aegon stares up at the ceiling. He tosses the puffin a few more times, abusing it terribly. “Whoever you are when you’re in high school…that’s sort of who you are forever, you know? If you’re popular and beloved and understood, you carry a certain self-confidence into the rest of your life with you like a suitcase. It’s an assumption that people care about what you have to say. It’s a conviction of your own value. It’s a presupposition the world would have to wrestle away from you. But if you’re a loser in high school, that stays with you too. And it’s one hell of a heavy suitcase to lug around.”

You try to imagine seeing Aemond through eyes that aren’t awed, craving, quietly adoring. It’s simply not possible. “He was alone?” you ask softly, dreading the answer.

“I had friends. He had grudges.” Aegon’s mouth twists as he tries to stop it from trembling. “My father…”

“I know, Aegon.” Your voice is gentle. “You told me in Kansas City, that night at the bar. You don’t have to say it again.”

He is relieved. “Yeah. So people respond to that in different ways, right? I lived in the present. I talked to anybody who would listen to me, and I partied and I got high and I got laid, and I was the antithesis of the kind of son my father would have wanted just to spite him. Aemond escaped into the past. He read books, traced bloodlines, collected old obsolete things. Maybe that gave him hope that a better place was waiting for him out there somewhere, a better time. He got to be cool for three years. That’s it, and that’s all he’ll ever have. He was the one with vision. He said he was going to audition for The X Factor, and I only went with him to meet girls. Then he made it through the first round and I did too. And when they were going to cut us, he found Jace and Luke and Cregan and convinced everyone to start performing together. The show wanted to replace Luke, did you know that? They thought he was too boyish, too innocent. Aemond fought for him. And then Comet finished in second place, and all the sudden we were signed to a label, and we were selling millions of records and we were touring, and we were winning Grammys, and we were buying our parents and siblings houses…and two months after our third album came out, Aemond was maimed at the Budokan and it was time for him to get off the ride.”

You stare at Aegon, tremendously sad, not knowing what to say. Sometimes the right words don’t exist.

Aegon smirks. “He really likes you.”

“Maybe.” And then, with guileless vulnerability: “I hope so.”

“That’s dangerous.”

Your brow knits into fearful grooves. “Why?”

“I know how to enjoy something without owning it. I don’t think Aemond does.”

You don’t want to ask, but you have to. “What was Shelby like?”

Aegon considers this for a long time before he answers. “She was simultaneously too good for him and not good enough.”

Too gorgeous. Too cool. Too Pinterest-board perfect, airy like summer. But not deep. A river, a glimmer, but with no understanding of the abyss. You aren’t sure how you know that this is what Aegon means, but you do. You don’t want to think about Shelby anymore. You pivot. “So Aemond is the past and you’re the present. Who’s the future? Daeron?”

Aegon smiles, lazy and warm. “I think you’re the future.”

“Yeah right. Get your Crocs off my bed.”

He complies, groaning, flopping onto the floor gracelessly.

“Where’d you get the puffin?”

“Some Icelandic kid recognized me in the elevator. He wanted to give me a present. In return, I signed an autograph and got him and his dad front row seats to the show tomorrow. So I’d say it was a very favorable exchange for him.”

“You’re a saint,” you say, and then find yourself thinking randomly of Saint Jude again. Lost causes. Lost causes.

Aegon grins at you as he crawls to his feet and makes for the door. “Patron saint of mayhem.”

~~~~~~~~~~

You’re watching old Comet Donati performances on YouTube when the hotel fire alarm goes off. And it’s strange, because the unscarred, clear-eyed boy on the screen is Aemond but also isn’t him; he smiles more easily, he looks at people without suspicion, he is ebullient and confident and carefree like kids blowing bubbles on front porches. When you open your suite door, dressed in your favorite Cookie Monster pajama pants and an oversized New Kids On The Block t-shirt, Aemond is just arriving.

“Oh good,” he says. “You’re still awake.” And then he walks with you to the nearest stairwell.

Outside, the hotel guests are clustered together with their travel companions, shuddering under coats and sweaters and blankets clasped around their shoulders like capes. Even at the start of July, Iceland is cold: fifties during the day as Americans like you measure in Fahrenheit, forties at night, nearly always overcast. It’s 11 p.m., but the sun won’t set until midnight, and even then only for a few short hours; the sky is wearing the colors of dusk, lilac, rose pink, pale blue, fire and gold. You’re shivering, rubbing your bare forearms and feeling the goosebumps that have risen there like braille. Aemond tugs off his black and white Calvin Klein hoodie and offers it to you. As you pull it over your head, you breathe in the pieces of him that have snared in the fabric: smoke and cologne, gin and soap and the brine of the seaside air. Now wearing only his jeans and his koi fish shirt, Aemond lights a cigarette and gazes up at the hotel, postmodern angles and semi-transparent glass.

“No one’s going to give me a hoodie?” Aegon says, quaking in his cyan tank top. Criston reluctantly unzips his bomber jacket and hands it over.

“Did you do this?” Criston asks him, meaning the fire alarm.

“What?! No! No way, man! It wasn’t me!”

Criston turns to Cregan for confirmation. Cregan shrugs, ambiguous. “I knew it!” Criston exclaims. He is distraught.

Several fire engines arrive, red lights strobing, and firefighters enter the hotel to investigate. Baela and Jace are standing near each other but not speaking, arms crossed, faces tense. Luke, Rhaena, and Daeron are watching an episode of The Crown on Luke’s iPhone. Cregan lights a cigarette and manages to take two drags before Criston notices and lunges to bat it out of his hand.

“Stop it!” Criston orders. “You’ll ruin your voice!” Nobody tells Aemond not to smoke. His voice doesn’t matter anymore.

Aegon asks you, his hands buried in the pockets of Criston’s jacket: “Would you run into a burning building to save me?”

“Why would you be in a burning building?”

“That’s really not the point.”

“I’d think about it.”

Luke says, the glow of his iPhone dancing across his face: “Wow, Prince Charles is a bitch.”

“You’d think about it?” Aegon says to you. “You’d think about it?!”

“You have no excuse to be in a burning building. You have now experienced an evacuation, you know exactly how to leave a building successfully, if you’re still in it for some reason then that’s your problem.”

“You hear that, Criston?” Aegon says. “This is a good thing. Now everyone knows what to do if there’s a real fire! And we’re in hotels all the time, so this is super helpful!”

“Please shut up,” Criston begs.

“Hey Cregan, share with the class, what did you learn about fire safety from this fortuitous occasion?”

“I already knew what to do.”

Aegon is grinning. “Yeah? What’s that, Cregan?”

“Get in the shower and wait for the fire department to come rescue me.”

Everyone laughs—even Jace and Baela—and Cregan’s lips quirk up in one corner, the only hint that he is joking. A parade of firefighters exit the hotel. One of them is carrying a toaster. Black smoke pours out of the slits in the top.

She says something in Icelandic that you can’t understand, then repeats in English: “Who was trying to cook hotdogs in a toaster?”

The guests chatter incredulously among themselves: Who would do such a thing?

You, Aemond, Luke, Rhaena, Daeron, Cregan, Jace, Baela, and Criston are mindful to look anywhere except at Aegon. You gaze out at the horizon, the kaleidoscopic midnight sun. Aegon peers down at his Crocs, hair tangled and blue eyes wide.

“Very well,” the firefighter with the toaster says, a little smugly. “We will consult with the hotel staff and see which guest was registered to that room.”

“Goddammit!” Criston hisses, and shoves by the band to go meet the firefighters. You can’t hear what’s being said, but his hands move in exaggerated gestures of humiliation, apology, restitution. Fortunately, the Icelandic people seem to be forgiving.

Daeron turns to Aegon. All he says is: “Why?”

“I couldn’t figure out the buttons on the stove!”

Criston comes trudging back to the band. Guests are being admitted into the hotel to return to their drinks, their television shows and mystery novels, their families, their lovers, their beds. “Alright, it’s taken care of. Go to your rooms. All of you, right now, go.”

No one has the heart to argue with him; he looks half-broken already. Everybody disperses. You and Aemond end up alone together as the elevator zooms to the fifth floor. He takes his small, square metal lighter out of his jeans pocket and toys with it, repeatedly flicking the lid open and then shutting it again.

You point to it. “Vintage lighter. Vintage bike. And yet you write with glittery gel pens instead of quills and ink. Poser.”

“I like old things,” he says, smiling. “I think history is important.”

And you hear Aegon’s words like an echo: That’s dangerous. You start pulling off Aemond’s hoodie to give it back to him.

“No,” he says, sounding pleased. “You keep it.” So you do, finding excuses to bring the sleeves close to your face—touching your hair, your lips, your eyelashes—so you can inhale him.

Aemond leaves you at the door of your suite, but you don’t go inside. You wait for another five minutes until Criston steps out of an elevator and into the hallway, alone and agitated. Still, he has concern to spare for you.

“You okay? Locked yourself out?”

“No. I was just hoping to ask you something.”

“Go ahead.” Criston is tired, but his eyes, dark like fertile earth, are attentive.

“When Aemond was hurt…when the label yanked him out of Comet…no one fought for him?”

“Luke did,” Criston says.

And then he continues down the hall, shoulders low, a man troubled by both the past and the future.

~~~~~~~~~~

The Blue Lagoon is like Aemond’s sightless left eye: a milky blue, opaque, something you could drown in. The band spends several hours splashing and wading in water warmer than the blood in your veins. The white silica mud that forms the floor is soft beneath your bare feet, squishing between your toes; people spread it over their skin like a skin shedding its scales in reverse. Criston orders strawberry-banana smoothies from the in-water bar, trying to distract Aegon and Jace from the beer and the wine. Currently, Comet’s most worrisome performers are locked in combat: Daeron is on Aegon’s shoulders, Luke on Jace’s, entangled in a spirited chicken fight. This is much preferable to their first choice, Marco Polo, which led to Jace ‘accidentally’—and repeatedly—bumping into various early-twenties female tourists, whereupon he would inevitably profusely apologize, introduce himself, and pose for selfies, beads of turbid mineral water dripping from his curls. Cregan has drifted to the other side of the lagoon, floating on his back and basking beneath the overcast midday sun.

“I can’t believe they made everyone shower naked before getting in here,” Rhaena says, drinking her smoothie, submerged in rippling blue up to her collarbones. She had nearly refused to go through with it—I’ll wait in the car! I’ll be fine! I’ll just watch The Crown on my phone for three hours!—until you and Baela offered to hold up your towels to shield her from view and insisted that none of the other guests (all female, as the showers are sorted by gender) were paying attention. Nudity is not a big deal in Iceland. It’s quite a far cry from Missouri.

“You gotta honor the local culture, babe.” Baela flashes Rhaena a teasing grin. “Scandinavians are super progressive. No shame about bodies or relationships. Very sex-positive.”

“Well Jace is certainly blending in.”

Now Baela isn’t grinning anymore. She frowns broodingly out over the lagoon. Rhaena, regretting that she said it but knowing it can’t be taken back, noisily slurps at her smoothie even when it’s gone. You and Aemond exchange an uncomfortable glance. Baela has never broached the topic of her relationship with you, but you know it’s coming. You can sometimes see her working up the nerve like a bucket filling with water, drop by drop.

You change the subject. “See, Rhaena? The naked shower thing wasn’t even that bad. It was over in two minutes, and absolutely nobody was judging you. And if you hadn’t done it, you would have missed out on this amazing experience!”

“You weren’t nervous?” she asks you. “Not at all?”

“I little bit, yeah. Of course. I’m an American.” Everyone chuckles. “But logically, I knew no one would really be watching me. I’m not that interesting. And also…I wasn’t truly naked.”

“Huh…?”

You wiggle your eyebrows and, smiling radiantly, spin around and point to the black-ink tattoo between your shoulder blades, underscored by the straps of your swimsuit that cross just below it: a comet with a streaming tail, lyrics that Aemond dreamed up in a kinder world. Rhaena laughs.

“Oh, right, of course.”

“You are obsessed with that thing!” Baela says, but she sounds relatively happy again.

“It’s true. I am. I admit it.” Sometimes you find yourself staring at it in hotel bathroom mirrors still foggy with steam, wiping away condensation to marvel at the irrevocable ways in which Aemond has marked you, ways you are thankful cannot be erased. When you wear anything that reveals your upper back like a spilled secret, you often catch Aemond gazing at it too. Now he reaches over and skims a fingerprint along the circle that his lyrics form around the comet:

I’ll come back for you if it kills me

Comets clip by again after eons and so can I

There’s a jolt down your spine like lightning, but more eager than jarring. All other thoughts vanish from you. You look over at Aemond, and he looks back, his lips slightly parted, his right eye beckoning to you. And you know it will be good with him, if it happens, when it happens. It will be more than good. It will be laced with an intensity, with a dire breed of necessity that you’ve never tasted before. All at once, you and Aemond realize what you’ve done and drift away from each other again, weakening gravity, elliptical orbits.

“No shame, guys,” Baela quips, raising her smoothie glass in a toast. “Sex-positive, remember?”

After the 45-minute drive back to Reykjavik, and after the concert, the band coalesces in Jace’s suite. There aren’t many hangers-on for this stop of the tour; Reykjavik is isolated and peaceful and not particularly desirable for friends of convenience who are more interested in clubbing and drugs than camaraderie. You wouldn’t trade nights like this for anything in the world.

Aemond is reading off his latest notes, white ink on black paper, stars on the backdrop of the universe. A Benson & Hedges cigarette smolders between two fingers on his left hand. Smoke curls up around his face. “Aegon, you were three steps behind the choreography for basically the entire show.”

“Yeah, that was on purpose.”

“It wasn’t,” Aemond counters, but he can’t help but smile.

“Women love a tragic disaster of a man who is screaming to be fixed.”

“Daeron,” Aemond continues. “I really like that hair flip you’ve started doing…”

Aegon is knocking back dark glass bottles of Gædingur Stout and slurring, very drunk and sinking deeper by the minute. In the absence of coke, he has resorted to other crutches. You are squeezed between Aemond and Baela on one of the couches. And Aemond isn’t really touching you, but he also is: the delicious subtle pressure of his thigh against yours, occasional nudges of his elbow, ostensibly unintentional grazes of knuckles and palms. He’s drinking his usual, a Bramble, and so are you, swirls of slow-moving pink like drops of blood in open water. And you think in a hazy bliss like listening to ground-level conversations from the bottom of a swimming pool: Tonight, tonight, tonight, he’s going to come back to my room with me tonight.

“Oh great,” you mumble as you check your Facebook messages on your iPhone.

“What’s wrong?” Rhaena asks. She’s nestled against Luke on the opposite couch, twirling locks of his hair around her benign, delicate fingers. Jace is sitting beside Luke, drinking a Vesper and trying not to make eye contact with Baela. Daeron is in the fuzzy white sheepskin lounge chair, Cregan perched on a bar stool, Criston standing watchfully with a vivid green bottle of Perrier in one hand. When he briefly steps out onto the balcony to take a call from the label, you can hear only the most dim, indistinct murmurings through the thick tinted glass, sounds but not words. Aegon is sitting—and occasionally crawling around—on the floor. The Backstreet Boys’ I Want It That Way is playing.

“I’m subletting my apartment in Kansas City and there is a strict no pet policy. But my neighbors snitched on the new tenant and apparently she’s got a Flemish Giant rabbit living there with her.”

“Not even a normal rabbit,” Baela muses. “A giant rabbit.”

You sigh. “All the rugs are going to be chewed up by the time I get back.” And Aemond glances over anxiously, like he doesn’t want any reminders that you won’t always be around.

“What’s your apartment like?” he says.

“Old. Vintage. Most of it hasn’t been updated since the 1950s. You’d appreciate it, actually. It would match your aesthetic.”

“Maybe I’ll have to see it sometime.”

You smirk at him, flirtatious, baiting, the silver stars on your dress reflecting golden lamplight. “Maybe. If I invite you.”

He leans in to whisper so only you can hear: “You will.”

“I think I’d be a landlord if I wasn’t famous,” Jace says, nursing his Vesper meditatively like an aspiring philosopher. “I’d just sit back and collect the checks as they rolled in. And you get to raise the rent every year.”

“Yeah, that sounds like you,” Aegon says, grinning up at him saccharinely.

“What would you be, Stargirl?” Jace asks; and you realize you hate the sound of him using Aegon’s name for you.

“I mean, a therapist.” And everyone laughs, even Criston.

Jace flushes, brushing his curls back from his face with one hand. “Oh yeah. Clearly.”

You look to Aemond. “You’d be a historian or an archivist or something.”

“Or a writer,” Luke says.

“Maybe,” Aemond agrees, a tad uncomfortable with the attention. “Or an animal activist, maybe. I’d like to do some sort of good in the world.”

Aegon shouts, far more loudly than necessary: “What would you be, Criston?”

“Thousands of miles away from you.” More laughter, riotous; but Criston is smiling a little.

“What about you, Cregan?” Jace asks. “What would you want to be if Comet didn’t exist?”

Cregan downs a shot of Absolut Vodka. “A plastic surgeon.”

“What? Why?”

Cregan shrugs. “You get to see tits all the time.”

There are scandalized squeals and guffaws. Baela says: “I would not let you anywhere near my tits.”

“And not just tits!” Daeron adds brightly. “Don’t they do, what’s it called, vaginal rejuvenation?”

Cregan points at him with his empty shot glass. “Exactly.”

“Oh God, that sounds painful.” Rhaena hides her face behind a flute of champagne.

“Yeah,” you say. “I don’t think I’m interested.”

Aegon snorts, drips of Gaedingur Stout flying from his nose. “Like you’d ever need it. You’ve got a pornstar pussy, fucking gorgeous.”

A hush sweeps through the room like a dust storm. Baffled glances dart around wildly. Immediately, Aegon realizes his mistake. He gazes up at you from the floor with large, glazed, drunken blue eyes that glisten with apology. You gape back, half-furious and half-petrified.

“Wait, what?” Aemond says. Ashes build on his cigarette, forgotten.

“Oh, wow.” Jace gestures from you to Aegon. “You guys…you guys have…?”

“It was once, a long time ago,” you say quickly. “Like, a really long time ago. Over a year ago.”

Aegon is trying to help. “Ages ago. Ancient history.”

“Where? In Kansas City?!” Baela gasps, stunned.

Aegon tells her: “You remember that bar we all went to after the show, right? The one on the roof?”

Baela is blinking at you, not comprehending. “You hooked up with him? In a bar?! Aegon?!”

“Um, yeah.”

Jace brays out a laugh, shaking his head. “Damn, Stargirl. I thought you had better taste than that.”

You feel like you’re fighting for your life. You feel like you can’t breathe. “It really wasn’t serious…” Not the sex part, anyway.

“No, no, it totally wasn’t,” Aegon agrees gamely. “It was like, what? How long were we in that bathroom? Maybe ten minutes total?”

Daeron is giggling. “Bruh, stop roasting yourself!”

As the chatter flies, you hide your face in your hands; beneath your palms, your cheeks are hot. You can feel Aemond pulling away from you, spaces opening up between your thighs and shoulders and arms like the ever-expanding void of the universe. When you steal a glimpse of him through the cracks in your fingers, he is staring down at the floor. He is silent, but you can see the thoughts—the images—riddling him like bullets. You can see him filling up with them like a punctured ship fills with seawater. He smokes until his cigarette is gone, and then immediately lights another.

Luke is the one to mercifully intercede. “Hey, Criston, where are we going next?”

“Uh,” Criston says, trying not to gawk at you or Aegon. “Let me think. Uh. Oh, right. Paris.”

Jace cackles. “The city of love! How appropriate!”

Criston ignores him. “You have some press interviews and then you’re doing two shows at the Accor Arena on July 7th and 8th…”

Aemond gulps down the rest of his Bramble and then walks out onto the balcony, closing the sliding glass door behind him.

“Fuck,” Aegon sighs miserably, then guzzles his Gaedingur Stout.

You bolt off the couch and go after Aemond. The heavy sliding glass door growls as you roll it open and then shut it again. Outside, Reykjavik is cold and windswept. The midnight sun is aflame. It’s still too bright to see the Northern Lights; even if they were there, you would have no way of knowing. Aemond is smoking with his back to you. He’s looking out over the boats bobbing in the harbor, sunbeams glinting on the crests of waves. Flapping gulls swoop and scream.

You say cuttingly, like a surgeon slicing away malignancies: “So what, you don’t like me anymore?”

Aemond flicks ashes over the balcony railing. “I just think I understand you better.”

“What does that mean?”

He whirls to you and says pointedly: “Why are you here?”

A disorienting question. Too easy. “I followed you out onto the balcony.”

“No, here with the band, here in Reykjavik, why are you here?”

You know how the truth sounds, but you can’t rewrite it. “Because Aegon asked me to be.”

“Because he asked you to come fix me, right?” Aemond demands. “To crack open my skull and stir things around until I’m okay with the fact that my life ended seven months ago.”

“No!” you shout into the wind. “I mean, yes, he thought I’d be able to help you, to help Comet, but that’s not what this is about for me anymore—”

“Why would I believe you? You’re a liar, you’re a confirmed liar, why would I believe a single goddamn word of what you have to say?!”

“I didn’t lie to you!”

“Friends!” Aemond roars. He doesn’t touch you, but his rage is horrifying, ageless and deep like lava bubbling beneath tectonic plates. “You said you and Aegon were friends!”

“We are friends—”

“No, you’re not. You met him, you fucked him, and then when he invited you to join the tour you dropped everything to do it, why, because you still want him? And I’m the charity case? Or I was just next in line? Maybe you were planning to work your way through the whole band. Who’s next, Jace? I don’t think he’d object.”

“No—!”

“You and Aegon. And you didn’t even have the guts to tell me.”

“Because I didn’t want to have this conversation, the one where you eviscerate me for something that happened before I even met you!”

“You chose him,” Aemond says, venomous. “At the bar in Kansas City, you chose him.”

“What?! Aemond, I don’t even remember seeing you, I don’t think you were there at all—”

“I was there.” He glares at you, thunderstorms, tornadoes, the earth splitting in two. “Last June. Rooftop bar. String lights. View of the river. I remember it, I was there.”

“Well then you didn’t notice me either and you probably spent the whole night with Pilates princess, Malibu Barbie Shelby, so what’s the fucking point?!”

He glowers at the horizon. Iceland DOES have jewel tones, you think erratically. But they only come out at night, like owls or bats. “It’s different.”

“It’s not different! You’re so convinced people don’t like you that you do insane, irrational things that make people not like you! It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy! It’s a fucking circle, you idiot!”

“I’ve had enough psychoanalysis, thanks.”

“No, you could use some more of it, you could use a lot more, you have so many demons it’s like Paranormal Activity in your brain, they’re in there all day tearing things off the walls and kicking over chairs and sabotaging anything you dare to care about and you let them!”

He turns away from you. “Just go the fuck back to Kansas.”

“I’m from Missouri!”

Aemond pitches the end of his cigarette over the balcony. His good eye flicks to the sliding glass door. The curtains rustle as the faces that hovered there just seconds ago disappear back into the suite. Very muffled through the thick glass, you can hear Criston chastising people.

You ask Aemond, embers in your throat: “This is really something you consider unforgiveable?”

He shakes his head, mournful, violently disappointed. “You’re just a groupie. You’re just a slut.”

Slut. It’s not the word, it’s the way he said it, with dismissiveness, with condemnation, the same way men love to use it as a blade to carve off every other piece of you—kindness, coldness, ferocity, loyalty, wit, passion, talent, triumphs, failures, ghosts—until that one little word is all that’s left. You’re dismantled into a clutter of loose bolts and bent nails. You’re a beef cow that was led into the maze of a gnashing, metal-and-blood processing plant and came out the other side a brainless, raw-pink patty just the right size to fit in a Big Mac box, something to be consumed but not remembered. “What did you say to me?”

He’s staring out into the twilight sky, both hands on the balcony railing. “I can’t believe you. I can’t believe I…”

“Are you kidding me?! I can’t believe I got your lyrics tattooed on my fucking back, what am I supposed to do about that now, rip my own skin off?!”

“So get it covered up. I’m sure Aegon would be thrilled to help you choose a new design, or Jace, or Cregan, or Daeron, or whoever.”

“You know what I think?” you say, caustic like acid.

“Don’t say it,” he threatens, low and dark.

“I think you haven’t fucked anyone since the accident, and you’re terrified to. But you shouldn’t be, Aemond. Because there’s nothing wrong with you. There has never been anything wrong with you.”

But he doesn’t hear that part. He only hears the first thing, what you never should have said at all. It’s true, but that doesn’t mean you should have said it. “I hate you,” he says softly, and you can’t think of a reply. The space between you fills up with wind, cold, dying sunlight. Aemond looks at the sliding glass door. “I don’t want to go back in there.”

“Well, we’re five stories off the ground, so you’ll probably have to.”

He studies the series of balconies that run along this side of the hotel, each separated by perhaps three feet of open air. Then he starts climbing over the metal railing.

“Aemond, don’t!”

But it’s too late. Fortunately, he has long limbs. He scrambles onto the next balcony, and then the one after that, and then one more, until he reaches the balcony for his own suite. He tries the sliding glass door—locked—and then sits down to wait for someone to open it. You go back inside Jace’s suite, where everyone pretends to have been talking about something other than you.

“Where’s Aemond?” Criston says, alarmed.

“He’s on the balcony of his suite. You should go let him in.”

“What?!” Criston yells, and then sprints out into the hallway.

You flee too. Both Baela and Aegon try to stop you, try to talk to you. They’re asking what Aemond said. They’re asking if you’re okay. You tell them you’re fine and that you want to be left alone. They argue. You insist. You walk back to your own room and start packing.

Your suitcase fills up with crumpled clothes and souvenirs: a Colosseum pencil sharpener from Rome, a tiny alabaster Apollo from Athens, a Spanish fighting bull refrigerator magnet from Madrid, handmade soap from Porto, a bar of chocolate from Vienna, a moose snow globe from Stockholm, a silica mud mask from the Blue Lagoon, a tiny stuffed comet that Rhaena crocheted for you. You reach back to touch your fingertips to the comet tattooed over your spine, tears biting in your eyes. If I had told him from the start, would that have made a difference? If I had met him first, would we have had a chance? You are gathering up your makeup when you hear a knock on the doorframe.

Cregan lurks there. When he speaks, he sounds startled; he sounds afraid. “You can’t leave.”

“I’ve literally never had a conversation with you, so thanks for the input but I’m still going.”

“No,” he says, persistent. “You can’t leave.”

“Aemond doesn’t want me here.” Your voice is fragile, shattering. “I can’t help him anymore.”

“It’s not just about Aemond. It’s about everyone. They’re all fucked up. They all need you.”

You stare at Cregan, not understanding. “I really don’t think I’m equipped for this.”

He fixes his cool greyish eyes on you. He is harsh but somehow not unkind. “You would never be able to comprehend where I came from. I’m not going back to that. The band has given me everything. I’m not going to let anyone take that away from me. You have to stay. You have to fix Comet. You can’t leave.”

He watches you, and you watch him, and you aren’t sure who has the upper hand here, who is the predator and who is the prey. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe everyone is a patchwork of strengths and deficits, fields of gold strewn with landmines.

At last, you relent. And Cregan doesn’t vanish until you’ve begun taking your souvenirs out of your suitcase and placing each of them—carefully, reverently—back on your nightstand where they were before.

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