Can we talk about how many extremely successful celebrities have admitted they manifested their fame? You have REAL LIFE PEOPLE telling you they manifested their everything and you STILL doubt the law?
Oprah Winfrey has talked numerous times about manifesting her dreams, including her role in a movie she liked by visualising herself as an actress in the said movie. “The way you think creates reality for yourself.” — Oprah in 2007 on American talk show.
Ariana Grande wrote a whole song called “Pete Davidson”, which talks about how she manifested her relationship and engagement with Pete. “I thought you into my life / Universe must have my back” — Her own lyrics.
Lady Gaga is super open about how she manifested her fame by repeating affirmations to herself. “You repeat it to yourself every day. And it’s not yet, it’s a lie. You’re saying a lie over and over and over again, and then, one day, the lie is true.” — Her own words.
And these are just some of those who openly talked about it, but there’s many more ‘subtle’ cases, just like how Megan The Stallion tweeted in 2014 “I promise rap is gonna take off for me” or Tom Holland admitting Zendaya was his first celebrity crush and now he’s full on dating her.
So who cares if Jimmy and his 30 followers believe manifestation isn’t real? Let them be, they don’t matter. They are happy with living in failure, but you don’t have to settle for that.
Manifestation found you for a reason, don’t let it go to waste because of miserable people, they aren’t the ones you should be taking advice from.
summary: the wizarding world still refuses to accept werewolves, and despite all its magical advancements, lycanthropy remains barely understood. one thing, however, is certain: there is no cure for it.
— after years of loving remus and navigating his condition together, you’ve come to terms with it. he trusts you, but the one thing he keeps to himself is that he’s getting much worse.
tags: struggles of chronic illness, hurt/comfort, lycanthropy, deteriorating health, remus' pov (therefore lots of self loathing), post-hogwarts, disability, implied ableism, established relationship, isolation, transformation aftermath, implied sucidal ideation (very brief like u need to squint to see it), background drarry, happy and hopeful ending ofc.
─── ⋆⋅ ⏾⋅⋆ ───
Truth was, no matter how many full moons Remus went through with you, you never seemed fully prepared for what they entailed.
Every transformation arrived with its own particular cruelty, never quite repeating the last, as though the curse itself delighted in refining its brutality, shaping new ways to make him endure and then remember that endurance meant nothing at all.
You had learned how to brew Wolfsbane potion long after graduating Hogwarts and during the first wizarding war. Life outside its walls had offered a fragile kind of privacy, a quieter place where Remus no longer had to vanish in order to transform.
Yet even that careful structure, built painstakingly between the two of you, had begun to feel increasingly insufficient, as though time itself were eroding whatever small mercy you had managed to construct.
The potion still did its work in the most technical sense. It kept the wolf from fully claiming his mind, from tearing away whatever fragment of recognition remained at the height of it. But it did nothing for the body.
By morning, there was always blood seeping through his wounds to the point where recovery no longer felt like healing, only preparing himself to endure it all again next month.
And over the years, that pattern had not lessened. It had only intensified.
It had begun to feel, in a way neither of you spoke aloud, as though the more he endured it, the more it demanded in return. Healing took longer. Recovery left deeper scars.
Remus understood, that none of this came from a lack of effort on your part. You had been meticulous in your care, learning the potion and refining it until it reached a consistency that could be trusted.
You prepared for each moon days in advance, arranging everything with precision. You stayed with him through the transformations in your Animagus form, close enough that he would not wake up alone.
Afterward, you remained without needing to be asked. You tended to him through the days that followed with attentiveness. You even made sure his wounds were cleaned and treated, his potions brewed and adjusted as needed, and every small change in his condition was observed with care.
It was not that your efforts fell short. It was that the situation itself had begun to exceed what care alone could contain.
There were moments, when Remus found himself entertaining thoughts he disliked almost immediately.
The idea that perhaps it would be easier if the Wolfsbane failed entirely, if there were no partial awareness left to endure, no memory of what had happened after each transformation. The thought never lasted long enough to settle into anything resembling desire, because even in its most detached form it carried consequences that were impossible to ignore.
Especially for you.
So he kept it contained, as he did most things that felt heavy to speak of outloud.
Later, after another full moon, the flat carries the faint, lingering scent of iron and crushed herbs that no amount of cleaning removes. You find Remus curled beneath several layers of blankets, his body drawn inward in a way that suggests he’s in pain more than usual.
The light coming through the window makes his condition easier to read than he would prefer; bruising spreads across his skin in uneven patches, some fading while others remain dark enough to look fresh, and overlapping scars trace older patterns beneath newer damage.
Even the freckles you once pointed out to him at Hogwarts, tracing them across his shoulders with fondness, have begun to disappear into the accumulation of all his recent scars
You step closer without hesitation. “Remus,” you murmur, voice softened as you crouch beside him. “Are you sure a heating charm won’t help? It might lessen the bone aches, love.”
He exhales through his nose, and shifts slightly beneath the blankets. “I’m alright,” he says.
You spend the rest of the night tending to Remus, cleaning blood from his split skin and binding clawed-open scratches while dark bruises bloom violently across his body beneath your healing charms.
By the time you manage to feed him a few spoonfuls of soup, exhaustion has already begun dragging him under completely.
He feels a little better, or at least better enough to convince you that sleep will handle the rest. That has always been the hope after transformations. A good night’s sleep. A few days of recovery. Another potion. Another full moon survived.
The night ends with you fluffing the blankets securely around him before climbing into bed beside him yourself, exhaustion pulling you under quickly enough that you fall asleep believing Remus has done the same.
Remus spends the entire night awake, silently crying in pain.
He knows everything that used to work does not anymore when it comes to easing it. The truth is one cruel, harsh thing: he is getting worse.
And if you do not notice the tear tracks left across his pillow the next morning, well, you remain none the wiser.
─── ⋆⋅ ⏾⋅⋆ ───
During their years at Hogwarts, Remus had gone through every full moon with the help of James, Sirius, and Peter.
Though that had been a lifetime ago now.
Back then, before the war took James and Lily, before Sirius was imprisoned for murdering Peter, things had been simpler. Not easy, but simpler in a way Remus found himself aching for more often lately.
The full moons had still been painful then. He remembered far too many important moments spent curled up in bed in the boys’ dormitory or recovering beneath the sharp medicinal smell of the Hospital Wing while Madam Pomfrey fussed over injuries that never seemed to shock her anymore.
The slow splitting of bone beneath his skin, the horrifying stretch of transformation, the knowledge that society viewed creatures like him as dangerous and unworthy; none of that was new.
One thing had been different, though.
The pain had been less.
The irony of it almost made him laugh sometimes, because if someone had told seventeen-year-old Remus Lupin that the transformations would someday become worse, that his body would continue finding newer and more unbearable ways to suffer long after adulthood, he was fairly certain his younger self would not have endured it nearly so long.
Standing at the kitchen counter making tea later that evening, Remus found himself relishing the memory of how much easier it used to be, even when those years had still been filled with pain.
There was a particular sort of bitterness in realising your old suffering had once been the better option. It left him wondering whether, a decade from now—assuming he survived another decade at all—he would look back at this version of himself and wish for this pain instead.
The thought settled heavily in his chest as his eyes drifted across the small home the two of you had built together.
Everywhere he looked, there was evidence of a good life.
Photographs from Hogwarts lined the shelves, moving portraits of him and his friends grinning after graduation, Lily laughing somewhere in the background while James nearly knocked Sirius over trying to celebrate.
Another frame held a much younger Remus sitting stiffly beside Lily while she carefully placed newborn Harry into his arms, his expression caught somewhere between terror and awe.
There were pictures from the years after James and Lily died too, quieter and sadder ones, the first photograph ever taken of you and Remus together where neither of you quite looked like yourselves yet. Then came the later years. Harry growing older. Summer holidays spent in this very house. Scarves abandoned over chairs. His spare glasses left forgotten on tables. A broom leaning carelessly near the back door after Harry had visited last.
Evidence.
Evidence of love. Of survival. Of family.
Your yarn basket sat beside the sofa exactly where you always left it, overflowing with tangled wool and half-finished crochet projects. A collection of horribly misshapen mugs crowded the kitchen shelves because neither of you could ever bring yourselves to throw them out after you made them together one winter.
Remus stared at all of it and suddenly felt sick with guilt.
Because what sort of person looked at a life like this and still thought, I cannot keep doing this anymore?
The thought stayed with him for the rest of the evening, settling heavily beneath his ribs while exhaustion slowly wore down what little patience he still had left.
So when the argument finally happened later that night, it had really only begun with a careless slip of the tongue.
“How are you feeling?” you had asked gently from across the kitchen while Remus sat at the table nursing a cup of tea gone lukewarm in his hands. “Do you want me to make something for the pain, love? Or maybe I could—”
“There’s nothing you can do to help,” Remus had snapped, the words coming out far louder and sharper than he intended.
The silence afterward had been immediate.
You stared at him from across the kitchen, your expression caught somewhere between confusion and hurt, as though the outburst had physically struck you. Remus looked away almost instantly, jaw tightening the moment he realised what he had done.
“Well,” you had said after a moment, your voice noticeably more restrained now, “sorry for trying.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean, Remus?”
He exhaled heavily, dragging a tired hand across his face. “Forget it.”
“No, because you don’t get to bite my head off for asking if you’re alright and then tell me to forget it.”
“I said it came out wrong.”
“And I’m asking you to explain it properly.”
The exhaustion already sitting heavily in his bones made patience difficult to hold onto. Remus pushed his tea aside with more force than necessary before leaning back in his chair, visibly agitated.
“There isn’t anything you can do,” he said again, quieter this time but no less tense. “That’s all I meant.”
You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “You say that as though I’ve been trying to fix a bloody cold.”
“That’s not what I’m saying,” Remus said, sharper than intended, the words coming out clipped with exhaustion rather than real anger. “Bloody hell, that’s not what this is.”
“Then what are you saying?” you asked, frustration finally bleeding through properly now, no longer softened by patience. “Because every month you pull further away from me like I’m doing something wrong and I’m trying to understand where I’ve gone wrong here, Remus, I just don’t get it. You won’t let me help you, and if I am doing something wrong then just tell me so I can stop.”
Remus immediately shook his head. “You are not doing anything wrong.”
“You act like I am.”
“I don’t.”
“You do,” you shot back, voice rising slightly. “You barely speak to me after transformations unless I drag answers out of you, and half the time you won’t even tell me where it hurts. You just sit there pretending you’re fine until you can’t anymore, and I’m left trying to figure out what’s changed every single time because you won’t say it out loud.”
His expression hardened slightly. “What exactly do you want me to say?”
“The truth would be a good start.”
Something bitter flickered across his face at that, quick and involuntary. “The truth?” he repeated more quietly now, almost as if testing whether it was worth saying at all. “Fine. The truth is I’m tired.”
“So am I.”
“I know that.”
“Clearly you don’t,” you snapped before you could stop yourself. “Because I have spent years trying to help you through this, through all of it, and lately it feels like you resent me every time I do. Like I’m making it worse just by being here and trying to help you get through it.”
“Well, I didn’t fucking ask you to spend years taking care of me!”
The second the words left his mouth, he regretted them. Your face crumpled for half a heartbeat before anger rushed in to replace it.
“Right,” you said tightly. “Because that’s the problem here, Remus.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Remus said at once, shaking his head slightly as if he could undo it by force. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
“No,” you replied. “Apparently I don’t, because you refuse to actually say what you mean. You just say these things and expect me to somehow translate them into something else, and I can’t do that anymore, Remus. I can’t keep guessing what version of you I’m speaking to every time something goes wrong!”
The argument only escalated from there, both of you too exhausted and emotional to pull back once it had begun.
“You shut me out constantly now,” you said, your voice louder than before as you set your mug down against the counter with a sharp clatter. “Every single month I watch you suffer through this and you act like I’m some stranger hovering around you instead of the person who’s been beside you through all of it.”
“You think this is easy for me?!” Remus snapped.
“I think watching you slowly destroy yourself while refusing to talk to me about it isn’t exactly easy for me either!”
“That’s not fair.”
“Neither is this!”
The words rang through the kitchen harshly enough that both of you fell silent for a second.
You looked furious now, but beneath it Remus could still see the hurt sitting there untouched.
“I don’t know what else you want from me,” you admitted, your voice cracking slightly despite your effort to keep it steady. “I’m trying my best, and somehow lately it still feels like I’m failing you.”
“You are not failing me because there’s nothing left to help!”
Your arms folded tightly across yourself as though holding yourself together. “James, Sirius, and Peter could help you through transformations,” you said quietly now. “You always talk about Hogwarts like the four of you got through it together, so clearly they managed something right that I can’t.”
Remus physically flinched at that.
“It isn’t about you not being enough,” he said through clenched teeth.
“Then why does it feel like it?” you demanded. “Because every time I try to help you lately you tense up like I’m doing you more harm than good.”
“That’s not what’s happening.”
“Then what is happening, Remus?” you asked, sharper now, because the uncertainty was starting to feel worse than the argument itself.
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Because the truth sounded too horrible once spoken aloud. That his body was getting worse faster than either of you realised. That every transformation hurt more than the last. That no amount of love or care or healing could stop what lycanthropy was slowly doing to him. And perhaps worst of all, that he had started wondering whether there would eventually come a point where surviving it simply was not worth the pain anymore.
Instead of saying any of that, Remus looked away from you and said bitterly, “You cannot keep acting like there’s some solution to this, Y/N.”
Your face fell immediately.
“I never thought there was a solution,” you said quietly. “I just thought I was helping.”
Eventually, the two of you spent nearly an hour apart cooling off in different corners of the house, the earlier shouting leaving behind the sort of silence that felt raw rather than peaceful. Remus remained in the kitchen long after his tea had gone cold, staring blankly at the dim light above the sink while guilt settled heavier and heavier in his chest with every passing minute.
In the end, he was the one who came back first.
You were sitting curled up in bed when he stepped quietly into the room, still looking exhausted, shoulders slumped with defeat that made him seem younger than he was. The anger had long since drained out of him, leaving only regret behind.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly after a moment, his voice rough from exhaustion and shouting alike. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”
You looked up at him immediately, hurt still lingering faintly across your face despite how quickly you always tried to hide it from him.
“I just wanted to help.”
“I know.” Remus sat carefully beside you, every movement betraying lingering pain no matter how much he tried to conceal it. “And you are helping. Merlin, you help more than anyone ever has.”
Even if it was becoming less true every month.
You softened almost instantly at that, the tension in your shoulders finally easing as you leaned into him. Remus wrapped an arm around you automatically, holding you close while you settled against his chest, your fingers absentmindedly tracing the old scars scattered across his skin where freckles had once been more visible years ago.
“It scares me when you shut me out,” you whispered quietly.
Remus closed his eyes for a moment. “I know.”
“You’re going to be okay,” you murmured after a while, more to reassure yourself than him. “We’ll figure it out. We always do.”
He felt something inside him twist painfully at the certainty in your voice.
By then, you had already forgotten most of the argument entirely. You believed him when he said your care was helping. You believed the exhaustion would pass the way it always had before. You believed Remus was okay, or at least that he would be.
Somehow, your kindness hurt him more than your anger ever could.
Remus genuinely did not understand why you tolerated him and all the endless complications that came along with loving him, even—especially—the ones you did not know about.
─── ⋆⋅ ⏾⋅⋆ ───
It had been nearly a week and a half since the previous full moon. Usually, this period served as recovery time for Remus, where you helped him slowly settle back into his regular routines and day to day life before the next transformation arrived to tear through it all over again.
It was always a tumultuous stretch of time for him because although his body would gradually improve; the physical pain easing little by little with each passing day, the mental burden only seemed to worsen in its place.
It was a Friday, which usually meant you and Remus would head out for one of your little dates with Harry and his boyfriend Draco, a pairing Remus still struggled to fully accept despite how many years had passed.
(He had insisted for ages that Draco was a “weird” fit for Harry, though he had never once stood in the way of Harry’s happiness. At this point, the stubbornness of it had become almost amusing).
Now, however, Remus stood in front of the full length mirror in your shared bedroom, supposedly in the middle of getting dressed, though he had not moved in several minutes.
Half dressed and exhausted already, he could see every flaw reflected back at him with painful clarity. Every scar. Every faded freckle buried beneath damaged skin. The bruises still linger faintly yellow and purple along his ribs. Loose skin. The slight softness now settled around his stomach from the weight he had gained over the years.
And really, Remus could not help but feel like throwing up.
He looked repulsive; he looked like a monster wearing the shape of a man.
The thought struck him so violently that his breath caught somewhere in his chest, and suddenly he was crying before he even fully realised it had begun, harsh sobs forcing their way out of him as years worth of self loathing finally cracked open all at once.
There was so much disgust festering inside him that he no longer knew how to contain it. So much bitterness and exhaustion and loneliness that had nowhere to go except inward, rotting quietly beneath his ribs month after month after month.
Because really, his entire life had become nothing more than a series of arithmetic checks designed to ration what little energy he had left: If I leave the laundry until tomorrow, then maybe I will have enough energy to cook dinner tonight. If I visit Harry this weekend, I will probably spend the following day unable to get out of bed. If the temperature drops tomorrow, my joints will ache worse. If it rains, the old injuries in my back will flare again.
If. If. If.
Everything had become a calculation.
It was exhausting constantly trying to predict whether his own body would betray him from one day to the next, and worse still was the humiliating awareness that half the time the calculations failed him anyway.
A few weeks ago, you had caught him sitting far too long at the kitchen table, quietly trying to plan the coming days around a stack of apothecary receipts and potion ingredients, and had teased him for treating something as simple as rest like a timetable. (“Remus, you don’t have to schedule everything like it’s an exam revision plan,” you had said, smiling as you leaned over his shoulder. “Merlin’s tits, do Muggles seriously plan their entire lives like a to-do list?”)
Remus had laughed along with you at the time, forcing out some amused remark while something ugly twisted sharply in his chest. You would never have to think about these things. You would never understand what it was like to ration your own life in increments because one missed recovery day meant everything else unravelled after it; because agreeing to see someone meant paying for it in pain later, because even rest itself had to be carefully budgeted or it stopped working at all.
Still, he had memorised every detail listed there anyway. He added all of it into the endless equation running through his head every waking moment now.
How badly will it hurt tomorrow?
It never truly helped, but the illusion of preparation gave him something dangerously close to control, even if that control was entirely fabricated.
The bedroom door suddenly swung open before he could stop crying properly, and you stepped inside still talking before you even looked at him.
“I swear the washing machine has a personal vendetta against me,” you rambled distractedly. “It ruined my dress completely, the threads along the sleeves are all coming apart and now I’ve nothing to wear tonight unless I—”
You stop abruptly once you notice him standing there.
Your eyes flicker from his tear stained face down toward the sweater clenched tightly in his hands, the old knit fabric stretched a little too tightly now across his frame.
“Oh,” you say quietly, immediately gentler. “Love, if it’s too uncomfortable I can charm it a little looser for you.”
And somehow, pathetically, that tiny act of kindness became the final thing that shattered him completely.
Remus broke apart with a noise so wounded it frightened even himself, sobs tearing violently out of his chest as he bent forward, one shaking hand pressed hard against his mouth as though trying to physically force the sound back down.
You were beside him instantly. “Oh, love, hey, hey, what’s wrong?” you murmur frantically, hands cupping his face before moving to steady his shaking shoulders. “Breathe for me, sweetheart. Remus, breathe. What happened?”
He could not answer.
“Remus, listen to me,” you continued gently, clearly trying to piece together what had upset him so badly. “Y’know it’s normal to gain a little weight in your thirties, right? You’re fine, really, the sweater probably just shrunk a little in the wash and—”
That only made him cry harder.
Because he was not crying over the extra weight.
God, he wished it were only that.
He wished this entire breakdown could be explained away by something as ordinary and fixable as weight gain or tiredness or stress from work. He wished he could simply laugh weakly and let you reassure him and move on from it like any normal person would.
Instead, the tears kept falling harder and harder no matter how much he tried to stop them, humiliation curling painfully in his chest because he knew you still did not understand what he was actually grieving.
Everything hurt.
It all hurt so much.
Remus had spent his entire life in pain in one form or another, but there had once been spaces between it. Small mercies; periods where recovery felt possible, where he could almost pretend the transformations had not left permanent damage behind each time they tore through him.
Lately, though, it felt as though those spaces had disappeared entirely. The pain no longer arrived only with the full moon. It threaded itself through ordinary moments until even standing at the kitchen counter making tea could leave his back aching badly enough that he needed to sit down halfway through.
And the worst part was how normal it had all started becoming.
Remus could no longer remember the last time he had experienced a day completely untouched by discomfort. There was only manageable pain and unbearable pain now, and lately the line separating the two had begun narrowing in ways that frightened him.
It was exhausting living like that.
Exhausting having to calculate every outing, every chore, every responsibility against how much pain it would cost him afterward. Exhausting pretending he was coping better than he truly was because the alternative meant watching concern settle into everyone’s faces all over again. Exhausting knowing his condition was getting worse while everyone around him still spoke about it as though recovery remained possible if he simply rested enough or took the right potion or waited for things to improve.
Things were not improving.
That was the part he could no longer force himself to ignore.
The wolf was destroying him slowly, and Remus had become painfully aware of it in ways he could not explain aloud without terrifying both of you.
A selfish part of him wanted everything to simply stop for a little while so he could finally rest, properly rest, without having to calculate and ration and recover endlessly. He wanted to wake up without immediately assessing what hurt that morning. He wanted enough energy to finish the mountain of unfinished work piling up around him. He wanted to be the person everyone around him believed he still was.
And somewhere beneath the panic clawing viciously through him, Remus knew some of this was simply the panic attack dragging him downward into its familiar spiral of despair.
Remus just wanted to be gone, whether that meant dying or disappearing or simply ceasing to exist for a little while. Anything, anything, so long as he no longer had to feel this way anymore.
Your voice continues drifting toward him through the panic, gentle and grounding and desperately trying to pull him back, though for several horrible moments it does not seem to reach him at all.
Remus can still barely breathe properly, his chest tightening painfully as tears continue spilling down his face no matter how hard he tries to stop them. The room around him feels distant and warped at the edges, every thought inside his head collapsing into noise until suddenly your hands are cradling his face firmly enough to force his attention back onto you.
“Remus,” you whisper shakily, your thumbs brushing beneath his eyes. “Look at me, love. Please look at me.”
And he does.
The second your arms pull him against your chest, something inside him completely breaks apart.
A sob tears out of him so violently it frightens even himself. The sound is rough and wounded and horribly animalistic in a way that makes humiliation immediately claw through him afterward because it does not sound human anymore.
He can feel the way his breathing keeps hitching uncontrollably against you while you hold him tighter instead of recoiling, your hand moving shakily through his hair while you whisper soft reassurances against his temple.
“What’s wrong?” you ask quietly. “Remus, talk to me.”
For a few seconds all he can do is cry harder.
Then eventually, brokenly, he whispers, “I can’t do this anymore.”
You pull back just enough to look at him properly, immediate concern flashing across your face as you rush to reassure him.
“It’s okay,” you say quickly. “We don’t have to go see Harry and Draco tomorrow, love, it’s alright. I’m sure they’ll understand if you’re not feeling well enough—”
Remus shakes his head almost desperately before another sob catches painfully in his throat.
“No,” he chokes out. “No, it’s not that.”
“Then what is it?”
His hands shake violently where they clutch weakly at your sleeves.
“I just can’t do this anymore,” he cries. “All of this, I can’t—I can’t keep—”
The realisation slowly drains the colour from your face. Remus watches the exact moment you understand what he actually means.
Without a word, you carefully lower both of you onto the floor until you are sitting together against the side of the bed, Remus half collapsed against your chest while he struggles to breathe through the sobs still wracking through him. Your arms remain wrapped tightly around him, one hand gripping his almost desperately now as though you are frightened he might disappear if you let go.
“It’s gotten worse,” he finally admits through broken breaths. “So much worse.”
You stay silent, letting him speak.
“It hurts every day now,” he whispers. “Every second. I wake up hurting and I go to sleep hurting and sometimes it feels like my body never recovers properly anymore.” His breathing stutters unevenly. “The transformations are worse and recovery takes longer and the pain doesn’t leave afterward like it used to. I thought it would pass, I thought maybe I was just exhausted or stressed or getting older but it just keeps getting worse.”
Tears continue slipping down his face faster than he can wipe them away.
“My knees hurt all the time now,” he admits shakily, the confession sounding pathetic enough to make him hate himself for it. “My hips ache after every full moon for days afterward and sometimes my hands shake so badly I can barely hold things properly and I’m so tired all the time.”
A horrible, humourless laugh breaks weakly through another sob. “I keep trying to adjust to it and then it gets worse again and I have to learn how to live in my body all over again because this keeps becoming my new normal and I don’t know how much worse it’s going to get.”
By the end of it, he can barely get the words out at all.
Your own tears have begun falling quietly somewhere during his rambling, though you continue holding him through all of it, your thumb rubbing shakily across the back of his hand while he cries into your shoulder.
“Love,” you whisper brokenly once he finally falls silent. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Remus squeezes his eyes shut.
“I knew something was wrong,” you continue softly through your own tears. “I’m not a bloody fool, Remus. You’ve been shutting me out for months and refusing to tell me what was happening and I kept thinking maybe I was doing something wrong somehow, but you could’ve told me.” Your voice cracks painfully. “I would’ve been there for you.”
“I didn’t want to burden you,” he mumbles weakly. “Didn’t want to ruin whatever image you still had of me. At least the half decent one.”
You lean forward carefully and press a soft kiss against his damp cheek before resting your forehead against his.
“Remus,” you whisper, “I love you. Not whatever version of your body you think you’re supposed to be.” Your fingers intertwine more tightly with his. “Bodies change, love. Mine has changed too. That doesn’t make you harder to love.”
Remus cries quietly for a long while after that.
When the two of you finally crawl into bed later that night, his hips still ache, his knees still throb painfully beneath the blankets, and every joint in his body still feels bruised and raw from years of damage that no longer heals cleanly.
The pain has not disappeared.
Neither has the fear.
Though for the first time in months, the ache inside his chest feels just a little less unbearable than before.
─── ⋆⋅ ⏾⋅⋆ ───
And as it turns out, the road toward being okay is a tumultuous one, painfully non linear in all the most ordinary ways.
It takes time for Remus to learn how to ask for help when he needs it instead of silently enduring until he reaches a breaking point. It takes time for you to learn not to immediately offer help every time you think he might need it, because sometimes the loss of independence stings worse than the pain itself.
Most of all, it takes time for the both of you to learn each other all over again, for you to recognise the moments where he does need help even when exhaustion leaves him too tired or ashamed to verbally ask for it.
Eight months later, the two of you have fallen into something that cannot quite be called easier, though it is no longer as unbearable as it once was either. The pain still exists. Remus still has bad days where getting out of bed feels impossible, and the full moons still leave him aching for days afterward in ways neither of you can truly fix.
There are still moments where frustration gets the better of him, where pain and humiliation twist together until they come out harsher than intended.
(“I can do it myself,” Remus had snapped once while trying to stand from the sofa after a particularly bad full moon, exhaustion making his hands shake with the effort. “I’m not a fucking toddler.”)
Other times, though, there are moments that would have once been unimaginable to him, moments where he finally lets himself ask for help.
(“Can you help me up?” he had whispered one winter morning after his knees locked painfully beneath him halfway down the stairs, his voice thick with embarrassment. “Please. I just… I can’t do it right now.”)
And there are some rare times where Remus had stopped pretending he was fine when he clearly was not, and you had stopped trying to fix every part of his pain, understanding now that sometimes all he needed was someone willing to sit beside him through it. It did not make the lycanthropy easier, nor did it stop him from getting worse, but somehow carrying it together made it easier for Remus to survive.
Slowly, very fucking slowly at that, Remus begins pulling himself out from beneath all the burdens that have haunted him for years. Not perfectly and not all at once, but enough that he starts noticing the difference in small moments before he notices it anywhere else.
He begins accepting what has happened to him and what continues happening to him in this painfully mundane life of his.
Because that is the thing about chronic suffering in the end. Most of it is not a cycle of great torture. It exists in ordinary moments. In aching joints while making tea. In needing help buttoning a shirt after a difficult transformation because his fingers hurt too badly to cooperate. In learning how to build a life around pain without allowing pain to become the only thing life contains.
More often now, Remus finds himself staring at the photographs scattered throughout your shared home, though the feeling they stir in him has changed. Once they had filled him with grief for everything he had lost and guilt for all the times he had wanted to surrender beneath the weight of it.
Now they bring peace, or something close enough to it.
The memories of everyone he has loved and lost no longer feel solely painful. James and Lily smiling brightly from moving photographs, Sirius finally free and laughing so hard during Sunday tea that he nearly spills his drink across the table, even Peter lingering painfully at the edges of memory despite everything that happened; all of them remind Remus that his life has contained something meaningful enough to grieve in the first place.
It is bittersweet in a way he suspects life often is.
The glass is not entirely full, nor entirely empty either, and for the first time in years Remus finds himself capable of accepting that perhaps it does not need to be one or the other.
He has come a long way from the quiet, scrawny twelve year old boy crying in Madam Pomfrey’s office after full moons because he could not understand why this had happened to him.
He is no longer the twenty one year old standing shell shocked at James and Lily’s funeral believing he had lost all three of his best friends in a single night.
He is no longer the twenty five year old convinced he was ruining your life simply by remaining in it.
He is not that thirty eight year old lying awake wishing he could die just so the pain would stop for a little while.
Now, Remus finds solace in the people who remain.
In meeting Minerva every once in a while and sharing grief neither of them ever fully learned to put down.
In listening to Luna ramble happily about all her strange adventures across both the wizarding and muggle world with the sort of sincerity only Luna could possess.
In sharing tea with Tonks while she animatedly complains about work and laughs halfway through her own stories.
In watching Harry build a bright, beautiful life for himself despite everything that should have destroyed him.
In accepting Draco slowly and reluctantly at first before eventually recognising the great devotion with which he loves Harry.
Most of all, Remus finds comfort in you.
In your patience. Your stubbornness. Your quiet insistence on loving him through every ugly complicated part of being alive.
And these days, when Remus looks around the home the two of you built together, his chest no longer twists with guilt alone.
Now it twists with gratitude—because somehow, impossibly, he found a group of people so deeply convinced he was lovable and worthy of care that they spoon fed the belief into him for years until eventually, one day, he finally learned how to feed himself.
And it is at that point, almost two years later, that Remus realises this had been the point all along.
Not on some grand life changing day either, nor during one of the dramatic moments he once believed revelations were meant to arrive within.
The understanding comes to him quietly on an ordinary evening while he lays stretched across the sofa with your legs tangled absentmindedly with his own, watching you knit some sort of ridiculous mug warmer for his tea that he already knows he will treasure for the rest of his life simply because you made it.
You continue rambling softly about his upcoming birthday, asking what sort of gift he might want this year despite Remus insisting repeatedly that he truly does not need anything.
“It doesn’t have to be something big,” you tell him while counting stitches distractedly. “I just want it to be something you’ll actually like.”
“I’ll like whatever you get me.”
“That is not helpful at all.”
A smile tugs faintly at his mouth despite himself.
“You made me that scarf three years ago and I still wear it constantly,” he points out lazily.
“That scarf is falling apart.”
“And yet I continue wearing it.”
You laugh softly at that before finally looking up at him properly, and the expression on your face nearly undoes him where he lays.
Because your eyes are so unbearably full of love that it feels as though the feeling itself might spill over and drown him entirely if he stares too long.
You look at him with such uncomplicated affection, such complete certainty, that sometimes Remus still struggles understanding how a person like you can exist at all. It is as though you carry some endless bright thing within yourself and insist upon turning it toward every monstrous, complicated, ugly part of him until even he cannot help but stand inside its warmth eventually.
And unexpectedly, his ribs twist painfully around his lungs, though not with the familiar agony of transformation. This ache arrives differently, softer and deeper all at once, and the realisation settles over him so suddenly it nearly steals the breath from his chest.
Just like his ribs twist and split beneath the full moon to form something monstrous, they twist for you too.
Just like his heart clenches in pain, it also clenches whenever he looks at you.
The feeling is not the same, and somehow it is exactly the same.
Because the wolf is made from his flesh and bones no matter how much he despises it, and love is too. The worst parts of him and the best parts of him come from the very same place. They exist within the same body, beneath the same battered ribs that have endured both agony and tenderness so profound it frightens him sometimes.
It reminds him suddenly of Eve being created from Adam’s ribs, of love itself being born from flesh rather than separate from it.
And perhaps that is what finally frees him; the thing he has hated most throughout his entire life is made from the very same parts of him capable of love.
The same ribs.
The same heart.
The same body.
For years Remus believed the wolf had made him fundamentally unworthy of being loved properly, as though suffering and monstrosity somehow cancelled out tenderness. Yet here you are beside him still, years later, knitting ugly little mug warmers and arguing with him over birthday presents and looking at him with enough love to make his chest ache from carrying it.
And so, Remus accepts it.
All of it.
He accepts the wolf even as he continues hating the pain it causes him every month. He accepts the scars carved into his body and the exhaustion that still follows difficult transformations. He accepts the strange fragile joy of being loved so thoroughly despite all the parts of himself he once believed impossible to live beside.
Most importantly of all, he accepts himself.
Remus feels almost foolish for only now stumbling upon something human beings seem to have instinctively known since the beginning of time: that accepting the love you are given requires accepting yourself enough to believe you deserve to receive it in the first place. That fear has a way of blinding people not only from happiness, but from recognising love even when it sits directly before them. That the entire point of loving another person is to allow yourself to be loved in return despite how frightening and vulnerable and immeasurable that exchange truly is.
Slowly, Remus reaches for you.
You pause your knitting immediately when he tilts your chin upward gently before leaning down to press a soft kiss against your lips. The expression you wear afterward is so fond it almost makes him laugh.
“I love you,” he whispers quietly.
You smile instantly, warmly, beautifully, as though hearing those words from him will never become ordinary no matter how many years pass between you.
“I love you too,” you whisper back with such overwhelming sincerity that he feels his chest tighten all over again.
His ribs contract once more beneath the feeling, though this time it is not from pain.
And although Remus knows they will ache again soon enough because of the wolf, knows another full moon will eventually arrive as it always does, he finds himself breathing through the feeling instead of fearing it.
His ribs are constant reminders of every pain he has endured, of every person he has loved, and of every ounce of love somehow returned back into his hands despite everything he once believed made him unworthy of receiving it. They ache with old grief and survival alike, though somewhere within that ache lives the proof that he was loved through all of it anyway.
Remus Lupin has lived a hard, complicated, painfully ordinary life.
Though for the first time in a very long while, when he looks at it now, he realises it has also been a life filled with love.
And finally, after all these years, he wants to keep living it.
─── ⋆⋅ ⏾⋅⋆ ───
a/n: pheww this was so fun to write, i love writing angst and that includes making remus suffer. this fic is so, so special to me <3 some scenes were inspired by an ao3 fic i read a few months ago but i cannot find the @, i just remember it had the name rachel, so if u find it lmk please :))
Remus Lupin who's constantly reminded that people find him intimidating, his big stature and the dozen of scars littering his face and body, the deep, gravely voice.
Then you come along and stumble over your words, can't look him in the eye and seem to be avoiding him. Obviously, you must be scared of him. So, when he tries to remidy that, being extra nice to you, making sure to smile instead of keeping his stern resting face (allthough that always comes easy to him around you) and bringing you coffee and yet it somehow gets worse he's just stumped.
Once, he mentions how you must be scared of him offhandidly and you get so confused. Blinking up at him, with a questioning look. When he finally explains his thought process, you start blushing so hard!! "Oh! ehm... I actually- I kinda have a crush on you... That's why- Nevermind. Just- I'm not scared of you." And now he's looking at you like :O??? This cute girl, constantly blushing and getting nervous has a crush on him???
Next thing you know, you're making out and he's caging you against the door with his huge frame in the way you have been fantasizing about for months and it's even better than you imagined.
I need to kiss him all over until he realizes that he's worthy of love
What do AKOTSK men do when they’re down or privately struggling? What’s their tells? Like does the laughing storm not eat, is baelor Breakspear fidgeting with his rings obsessively?
How Do They Struggle?
Summary: How do the akotsk men struggle? How do you know? What can you do to help them?
AN: Sometimes I see an ask and it immediately rockets to the top of my list, I was so excited for this one!! I hope you enjoy, please send in more ideas this format is so fun! I have another one on the way soon <3
Warnings: Angst, suggestive stuff, fem(ish) reader a little
2.6k Words
Daeron:
This one is a little obvious of course, Daeron throws himself down the neck of a bottle when his dreaming becomes too much for him. There's no shortage of times where he’s passed out in a ditch, or even the middle of the road, purse stolen and eyes unfocussed as he begs the gods for reprieve. There's another aspect to this that I don’t see people talking about quite so much, and that's the sex. Daeron is a drunk, but he also spends long nights in brothels, intent to stay up as long as possible. He’s addicted to the small joy of having someone close; often he;s drunk enough that he’s not embarrassed to ask the poor girl to stroke his hair or tell him he’s going to be alright.
The immediate tell that he’s fallen into old habits is that he looks awful. Dark, sunken eyes, filthy clothes, stubble grown out, a bruise or two from some drunken brawl he cannot remember. He stumbles, slurring his words and reeking of wine and the incense burned in the pleasure houses. If you’re married or together, it's possible he refrains from his unsavory visits, but it means he tries to seek it with you. Daeron is honestly kind of disgusting when it gets real bad, but it's hard to be angry when you see the tormented look in his eye, and the way he falls to his knees at your feet, clutching your skirts and begging you to touch him.
He needs you to yell at him, honestly. Make him stand, drag him back to his rooms with a firm hand gripping his surcoat roughly and telling him to pull his fucking shit together. It works because he knows that it only comes from a place of love, your fear of losing him pushes him to at least try. You send for a hot bath, the glare in your eye enough to keep him from asking if you’ll join him. He’s perfectly content to listen to you berate him for his behavior; he agrees with what you say, he just doesn’t know how to stop it. The thing that really helps him calm himself is the combination of the harsh reality of your words, and the tenderness in which you help the still half-drunk Daeron wash his hair. Even when you’re finally abed, continuing to chide him for frightening you, for the state you found him in, his eyes are falling shut without complaint for the first time in days. His head on your chest, damp hair seeping into your nightgown, he’s sleeping soundly.
Maekar:
When Maekar is struggling, he becomes a monster. It's a defense mechanism; he’d rather hurt others and push people away than let them see something’s wrong. Yelling, shoving, cutting words said in anger but remembered. The servants know to give him a wide berth, and any lord or knight caught in the crossfire learns quickly how he gained his reputation. Even with you, he’s grumbling, snappy and trite. He won’t insult you, it goes against the oaths he’s sworn, but he’s grinding his teeth and glaring with a fiercer intensity than usual. There’s a coldness to him, when he cannot fix a problem or there's too much work for hours in a day. He needs to get the anger out, that crushing feeling of not being able to meet the mark.
You find him in the training yard, hours after he’d usually be done and sharing a bath with you. Hacking at opponents, squires and trainers who can only gape and try to dodge hits that definitely look like they mean to kill. You can see the sweat trickling down the linen of his shirt and dampening the chest, the fabric clinging to his musculature. His arms shake with a tremor so slight only someone who’s spent hours memorizing his body could recognize. Maekar is fully aware he’s being a dick, that the literal child squiring for him did not mean to drop the shield, but he shouted at him for a good half hour about it anyway. It's not that he feels particularly bad about scaring people (other than you and some of his children), but he thinks it unprincely to go around intentionally rubbing people the wrong way.
When he gets like this, he needs you to (very gently) take his sword arm, lowering the blade. Lead him away from the smell of steel and blood and smoke, up to your chambers. He sighs when you peel the damp material of his shirt away, pushing him down into the chair by the hearth. All he really wants is comfort, someone to listen without thinking him weak for being strained. His groan echoes through the room when you press your fingers to his shoulders, rubbing the hard knots built up around his neck and spine. (He is certainly the most tightly wound man ever like imagine the aching). Slowly you coax him to tell you what happened, listening to him rant. He doesn’t even mind when you disagree with him, listening to your opinions and going back and forth about the problem. Nothing calms him more than ending up in your bed, chin tucked against your bare shoulder with his arms around your waist. He grumbles when you make him apologize to the squire the next day.
Aerion:
There is nothing private about Aerion struggling. He’s bitchy, snide, cruel to a point where it's almost fearsome. We see in the show where he snaps, hurting people because he can, because he’s made up a fault of theirs he must punish. It's not like his father, who’s angry and vicious but still disciplined, the Brightflame is a wild thing, striking anything in his path. It’s an immediate tell that he’s feeling insecure when he proclaims himself blood of the dragon, dragging on about how he’s closer to the creatures than anyone. It's his way of protecting himself, a barrier between his deep feelings of self-doubt, and the people around him he knows don’t respect him. Uncles, cousins, even his own brothers don’t have the love for him most family members would, and if they won’t care for him, they must fear him.
Another tell is him vying for attention, especially from people he looks up to or cares about. Ridiculous armor, taunting words, tricks with the sword or lance; he’ll even try to impress you with his brutality and swagger. Attempting to make you see him for what he thinks he is by showing off his strength or violence. Despite how many times you tell him to stop, that you already care about him, and don’t want to see him hurt anyone, he continues to try and use his power to clear his conscience of any apprehension. He is unsure of his own abilities, so when he starts to show behaviors that he’s trying to impress himself, you know something deeper is getting at him.
What he really needs is a good slap in the face. Seriously though, something that can tether him back into the real world, but contains elements of the barbarism he is so accustomed to. It's not until Dunk beats the shit out of him (and I’ll admit, he does the same back) that he’s begging for mercy, the red-hot dragon gone and only a young Prince in his place. He doesn’t respond well to coddling, immediately thinking it shows that he’s weak, that you think he’s weak for needing it. Instead, meeting him where he is, matching his harshness, his cutting words, his bloodthirstiness, is the only thing that shakes him out of his own head.
Dunk:
Dunk immediately becomes closed off when he’s upset or struggling. Him being capable, strong, and resilient is all he has, and when he cannot complete a task or he fails at something, it creates a moment where he sees himself as a man who cannot provide, who cannot protect the people around him who need it. What is a knight if not one who can keep his loved ones safe? His shoulders round, and he tries to make his extremely large body seem smaller. He does this any time he feels unworthy of being somewhere, or like he’s doing something a poor hedge knight ought not to. We see this when he’s addressing Lyonel for the first time; the Stormlord questions him, and accuses him of breaking into his party. Dunk tries to make himself less of a target (which Lyonel points out of course), and pulls himself close.
He’ll throw himself into working, spending hours chopping wood for fires he won’t build, back slick and teeth clenched as he swings the axe. It would almost be erotic if not for the pained look in his eye, and the air of a kicked puppy that radiates off of him. He has a deep urge to provide, thinking it's the only reason people keep him around.
Sometimes you have to come stop him, telling him something silly like you’re trying to save the tree he’s mercilessly hacking into. To get him to listen, to actually believe your words, you have to be casual about them. You cannot go singing his praises all willy nilly when he’s upset; he won’t actually believe a word, convinced you’re saying things just because you’re kind. Instead, you have to praise him subtly. Instead of saying he’s a good hunter, announcing to him and Egg “Wow, this dinner is lovely,” while seated around the fire. He knows that you know he is responsible for the meal, but his ears go red all the same. You have to work him up to bigger affections throughout the evening; mentioning how strong he looked with an axe in hand, how nice it was of him to teach Egg a new game, how gentle he is with the horses. Eventually you can cover his face in kisses, squeezing his shoulders as he blushes and half-heartedly tells you it's too much. Dunk’s mood finally turns back to his usual self when he laughs heartily at Egg loudly feigning disgust at your affection for his Ser.
Baelor:
As the heir, Baelor can get really, really, really into work. It comes from a place of striving for perfection, needing to live up to the standards of all the great Kings who came before him. In reality, he’s just working himself to the bone in an effort to meet impossible standards he’s made for himself. You won’t see him for days sometimes; he stays tucked away in his solar in the tower of the Hand, scribbling away at messages, ledgers, long lines of numbers that make his head spin after staring for too long. It's not that he doesn’t want to see you, but he becomes so wound up in the affairs of the Realm, he would not want to burden you with the responsibility of knowing the Kingdom's troubles. Instead, he remains locked in council meetings, battle plans, or negotiations, because he believes he must be the one to do it.
He’s stoic, rigid in a way only a Prince is, and the only real tell is the fidgeting.
You can spot it right away.
Twisting his rings around his long fingers, spinning the metal warmed by constant wear. He does it subconsciously now, able to speak with lords and deliver speeches, the only thing betraying his nerves is the careful movement of his fingertips. To most onlookers, it seems like a trivial matter. Boredom, maybe, or a Prince showing off his wealth. Many are too focused on the finery, his handsome face, or his moving words, to even recall he’s wearing them. But you always seem to spot it.
It helps him when you give him something else to fiddle with. You’ll slide into the seat next to him, and immediately he’s tugging at the loose string of your gown or the ribbon tied around your hips. The best remedy is to give him your own hand, sliding your fingers between his to let him squeeze. If you wear rings, rest assured he’s twisting those too. He’s not one to be easily convinced to leave his work aside, but he is always so touched when you insist on joining him while in his solar. Sending for meals so you can eat together, bringing your sketchbook or stitching to take up space near him, reading aloud when he needs a moment of hearing your clear voice echo out through the room. Baelor is well aware that his work can be incredibly boring, and the mere fact that you want to spend time with him warms his heart and invigorates him to continue on. Someone needs to make the Realm a good place for you to live in.
Lyonel:
Oh Lyonel, what a man. When something does get to him, when a problem or fault wiggles down past his carefree, blasé exterior, he throws himself into his entertainments and delights. Hunting and sailing, dancing and drinking, kissing pretty girls and boys alike, there is no end to the pleasures he seeks. He’ll throw lavish parties nights in a row, outdrinking each of his guests and starting fights. It's always, “What’s next?” what new excitement can entice him, distract him enough so that he cannot even form a thought around his responsibilities. If he’s not burning every synapse in his head and taking up every second with carnality, he will spiral. The wilder he gets, the worse he feels after, mentally and physically.
It's kind of gross, similar to Daeron in that he’s so distracted he doesn’t really take care of himself. A lavish feast is prepared for his soirees, but he touches nothing because he’s too busy drinking ale and arm wrestling sell-swords. He won’t change his tunic after he spills a cup of wine down the side, because someone suggested a midnight ride and that sounded more pleasing than spending five minutes alone to switch garments.
He needs someone headstrong enough to make him stop. Someone who will grab him by the face, force him to listen, and order him back to his keep this instant, or there will be hell to pay. The first time you pulled him from his frivolity, tugging at his arm and waving your hands around, he swore he fell in love with you, and popped a pretty sizable boner. You snap him back into reality, without shame. Well, maybe a little shame, but it comes from a good place. He’ll argue for the sake of it as you drag him away, pretending like he doesn’t absolutely adore when you try to shove his large frame up the stairs, or when you tell him he stinks of wine and needs a bath.
Lyonel’s still drunk enough that you can plop him down in a chair and he won’t move, watching you call for a hot meal to be sent. You stand over him while he eats, maybe for the first time in a day or two, with your arms crossed and your brow furrowed. There's a smug satisfaction on your lips when you mention how very ill he will feel come morning, the turning of his stomach and the ache in his head. The ache all over, really, from silly brawling and throwing his body around like it's expendable. He doesn’t fight your berating. After all, deep down he knows you’re right, and he knows you’ll be beside him when he wakes, hand rubbing his back and lips against his forehead as he suffers the fate of his own actions.
would u do sfw alphabets for dunk and lyonel, too? 😩🙏
Lyonel Baratheon SFW Alphabet
18+ MDNI
AN: okay Lyonel first and then I’ll post Dunk’s soon! If you're interested in Maekar’s SFW alphabet or Lyonel’s NSFW alphabet you can find them here and here. This is kind of chaotic but like it’s Lyonel what do you expect lol. These are sooooo fun might fuck around and do a Daeron NSFW one next
Warnings: a tiny bit suggestive at times, sort of wife!reader but I tried to keep it neutral as possible, no descriptions of how reader looks
2.9k words
A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)
Lyonel is soooo affectionate like he physically cannot keep his hands off. Arms are constantly wrapping around you from behind, a pat on the ass, a kiss on the head, pulling you into his lap. He uses his body to show how much he loves you. He will also make grand gestures, declarations of love down on one knee, clutching your hands and going on and on about your beauty and grace until your face is hot and you're playfully slapping his shoulder. It's so over the top that it almost seems insincere, but he truly is just loud and crazy. Why shouldn’t the whole court and the stormlands and the realm be aware of his affections?
B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)
He is the most fun a friend can be. Truly a dedicated bestie like the second he considers you a friend he is both inviting you to every party and keeping your cup full while you sit close, and also ready to brandish fist or sword if someone looks at you wrong. He knew Dunk for like one day and was ready to die for him. Lyonel is also a very handsy, physical friend. Like the line between friends and more is very thin with him. Definitely the type to drunk kiss his friends.
C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)
All encompassing, will lay full body weight on top of you and will not let you go. Those big arms come around your waist, and he will only laugh and tug you closer to his chest if you try to wiggle away from the oppressing warmth. His favorite cuddling position is either lying completely on top of you, face in your neck, or you on top of him, sprawled on his chest with a hand in your hair (or on your butt).
D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)
Lyonel isn’t one to dream of settling down, always ready for the next excitement or pretty face, but then he gets married and immediately is like “Oh alright I get it now I would die for my wife.”
He is also a pretty rich lord, and I see him as a messy type of man. Not dirty, but definitely leaves his sword belt on the floor where you could trip over it. He does love to hunt, however, and seems very capable in that regard. It's not like Maekar who likes to be good at things and to provide for you, it's more like hunting your dinner and cooking it over a fire “like a man.”
E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)
Ohhhhh yeah no he's crazy there's no way he’s just letting you go? Obviously if you're married there's not a lot of wiggle room there, but if you try to avoid him he will do anything to win your affections back. Following you around like a puppy, waiting on you hand and foot, whatever it takes to get back into your good graces. If you're just hooking up/not married and you try to end things, he's standing in front of the door with his arms crossed like nonononono and refusing to let you go without making up.
F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)
Lyonel was very much not interested in being tied to a wife. He was ready to do his duty, give the expected pleasantries of a lord husband, and take lovers like he always did. There's no way THE Lyonel Baratheon would be interested in some prissy lady. Then of course he meets you and literally the first sentence you say to him, a clever retort or a sharp jibe, and he's instantly obsessed. You are his, no question.
At first, even if you're already betrothed and it's out of your hands, you think he’s just kidding. He has a reputation of a Westerosi playboy, never settling, always flitting to the next thrill, as wild as the storms for which his home is named. You don’t think he really means any of his dramatic declarations, how you’re more beautiful than lightning striking the sea, so sweet you make the Arbor gold jealous, you get the picture. He will be on to the next delight as soon as he has you, what's the point in getting attached? Over time, you realize he is showing- in his own strange way- that he is actually serious.
Maybe you accuse him of lying, visiting a pleasure house, doing all this so you’ll fall into his bed. He’s angry and red in the face at the claim, stomping and shouting. You begin to realize that this is the only way he knows how to show you how much he wants you, not as a prize to win, but as a wife and lover.
G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)
He is so big and unwieldy he sometimes forgets to be gentle. He’ll say and do unrestrained, feral things, but he's pretty soft and squishy deep down. Like he of course will toss you over a broad shoulder and slap your butt, and then immediately after he's got you in his lap, arms around you, pressing kisses to your forehead. He’ll tear your gown from your body only to caress you like you're delicate. The combo gives you whiplash, the rough and the gentle.
H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)
BIG hugger and does not dive a damn about propriety. Will lift you right off your feet like a feather, all encompassing. It doesn’t matter if you’ve only been apart for fifteen minutes, he’s got his arms around you, tugging you to his chest in a warm embrace, OR laying you down on a bed or sofa and pressing his face to your chest ;). Either way, it's his way of showing how much he misses you, and how much happier he is when you’re together.
I = I love you (How fast o they say the L-word?)
The first time he says it is the night you meet, but he’s gotten himself drunk- needing the courage- and doesn’t really mean it yet. You brush it off as just part of his weird theatrics but he is already addicted. When he says it later, holding you close in your marriage bed, it's more sincere than anything you’ve ever heard leave his lips. After that, he’ll say it a thousand times a day, loudly shouting, exaggerated whispers, lips pressed to the shell of your ear. He can’t keep himself from telling you every chance he gets.
J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)
If you ask Lyonel if he’s ever jealous, he will say no. Why would a man like him ever be? He’s big and strong, a great lord, why are you laughing this is a serious matter!
Sometimes, however, he cannot help it. A knight bows low to you, giving you a soft compliment or- gods forbid- a kiss on the hand. Lyonel is fuming, boasting, seconds away from an all-out brawl. He pulls you away, claiming he MUST show you some feat of strength or, more commonly, sexual prowess. He’ll never ask for it, but absolutely beams when you reassure him, puffing his chest when you tell him you love only him, that he’s so handsome and good to you. He then of course gets all huffy and feral when you tease him for his craziness.
K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)
The Laughing Storm kisses like he’s trying to get into your mouth. Desperate, wet, crushing, spit connecting your lips when you finally pull away. He’s grabbing you like he’ll never see you again when you leave your chambers to take a turn in the garden. He will also do it in front of literally anyone if you let him. Full on tongue and groping, picking you up and pressing you to the wall. He is a wild thing, and the servants of Storm’s End know when to leave a room when the two of you see each other.
L = Little ones (How are they around children?)
The man wants a small army of dark haired Baratheon babes. He is obsessed with them if you have them; swings them up into his arms, sits them on his knee or shoulders, dotes on them, teaches them to ride and hunt. He’s not picky about boys or girls, he is involved and boastful about all of his children.
M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)
He is lazy af he does not want to get up and he especially doesn’t want you to get up. Skin to skin, lips on your neck, will definitely try to instigate sex or at least be sliding a hand down to grab at your chest or palm your ass. He’s super large and heavy so there's no way to get him to move if he’s on top of you short of hitting or ticking him (both of which work but be prepared for retaliation). It's one of the only times the two of you are truly alone, and he can savor the sweetness of having you in his arms.
N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)
Dream night for Lyonel:
He’s pleasantly drunk, fully belly, head between your thighs, lazy makeout, fall asleep with your head on his chest. He’s a simple man, what better pleasure is there than spending the evening with the person you love?
O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)
Lyonel is generally open but is weirdly closed off about certain things. Some things he’ll literally shout from the rooftops but some things are behind 10 walls and requires the softest touch to get into. It's not that he doesn’t want you to know, he just doesn't know how to say it. Sometimes he will randomly tell you things, big or small, always totally random. He is extremely fascinated about you, however, and will constantly try to discover every minute detail.
P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)
He has no patience whatsoever he is a lord and an easily distracted one at that. He wants what he wants and he wants it now. A hot-head, quick to rage and back again. Lyonel never turns it on you, however. Not physically anyway. He’s loud, sometimes says things he doesn’t mean in fits, but he is not one to hurt his woman.
Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)
Lyonel forgets some things and remembers others, there's no better way to say it. He’s pretty dedicated to you, worming his way into your life and taking hold in the roots. He wants to know everything, but doesn’t always retain it. He’ll randomly remember super detailed stuff you don't even remember telling him, however, and he always remembers certain experiences the two of you have together.
R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)
There was a moment Lyonel knew he was done for.
That you could ask him for anything, jewels, horses, castles. You could tell him to skewer a Prince, or fall down on his sword, and he would do it for you. He’d thrown a feast, the likes of which were sure to be spoken about for a generation. Loud music, graceful dancing, good Dornish wine, warm food, and a pretty little lady wife in his lap.
You’d spent the evening getting pleasantly drunk from his cup, leaning against him, whispering jokes he was sure your mother would be scandalized if she heard. You then begged him for a dance, practically dragging him to the floor. All he could do was follow, mesmerized by the thrill of you. You danced close that night, hours of twirling around each other, chest to chest, stealing kisses and hands sliding over bare skin. If it was any place but Storm’s End, there may have been talk of impropriety, but Lyonel would silence every courtier in the castle if it meant you’d stand up with him every night.
S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)
Lyonel would easily kill and die for you. Remember this is the man who entered the Trial of Seven for a hedge knight he’d known for like a day. There is seriously nothing he wouldn’t do, and it borders on arrogant. He absolutely adores hearing that you feel safe with him, that he is capable of protecting you, how brawny and strapping he is. If you try to protect him, he is charmed but he’s like “babe get out of the way this is my job.” Not that you can’t do it, but that you don’t have to.
T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)
Lyonel doesn’t half-ass anything especially when it comes to celebrating someone he loves. He pulls out all the stops, bright and loud, decadent and lavish, he desperately needs you to know how he feels. Nothing is too much. He doesn't really know how to show you he loves you otherwise (he thinks he needs to do all this to show his affections but in fact he shows them all the time in smaller ways.) You’re appreciative all the same, no Baratheon party is a dull affair, but you have to tell him you know he loves you back.
U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)
Some days, he’s a tightly-wound thunderstorm, ready to flatten anything in his way. He’ll yell, shoulder people out of the way, say things he doesn't mean, his attitude can turn on a dime. Other times he's far too blasé about things. A deep gash from a reckless duel, paperwork he claims he can finish another day, one more glass of wine, causing him to take a tumble. He’s hard to control, stubborn and hard-headed, and will get defensive when you bring it up. He tries, but it's hard for him to reign in his emotions.
V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)
He is and he isn't concerned with his own vanity. He certainly pretends not to be, but you’ve definitely caught him fluffing his hair in a mirror. He’s always in finery, but there's usually a wine (or blood) stain on it. Lyonel certainly loves to hear about his looks. In varying levels of teasing, you love to shower him with, “Oh look at the muscles on my husband,” or “How handsome you are.” He agrees, but he loves to hear it too.
Where he really thrives is complimenting you. Odes to your beauty, falling to his knees to pledge his fealty when you outwit him, making up songs about your grace and gentle nature, he’s crazy but he loves telling you he loves you.
W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)
This man cannot go two minutes without thinking about you or wondering what you’re doing or asking where you are or hoping you’re thinking of him. He does not like being away from you, where’s the fun in that? You’re his best friend, you make him laugh, there's no one he would rather spend his time with than his wife.
X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)
I think he’s a really good strategist, but chooses when to let on about it and when not to. You think you’ll easily beat the distracted and silly lord at cards, and then all the sudden he’s winning and you hadn’t even noticed he’d done it. It makes him a formidable opponent too, hard to read due to his unruly nature.
Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)
Lyonel hates suck-ups and men who are too cocky with nothing to show for it. He also doesn't appreciate when you pretend to like something just because he does. When you met, regardless of how you really felt, you understood what was expected of a noblewoman and performed your duties carefully. Sometimes you would go along with things just because you knew it excited him. Eventually he comes to the realization and is furious, both at you for lying, but more so at himself for making you feel like you have to do that.
Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habits of theirs?)
The Stormlord sleeps hard, snoring like thunder to the point you swear it shakes the bed. Very hard to wake, and loves using you as his personal teddy bear. His vicelike grip keeps you against him all night as he happily snores directly in your ear. It's almost cute how sweet and cuddly he gets in bed, flopping down on you and insisting that the safest place for you to be is under him with your hands in his hair.
My fav aesthetics described in just a few pics [and words]
coastal granddaughter 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚
featuring the outdoors as well as navy blue, seafoam green, sandy taupe and off-white, loose-fitting clothing, relaxed but refined looks.
pilates pink princess 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚
categorized by soft pastel hues, well-put together athleisure, wellness, pilates, self-care and sometimes even yoga. features elements of coquette, clean girl and dollette.
igari 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚
a japanese makeup style known as 'hangover makeup,' featuring a youthful, glowy, flushed look, blush applied under the eyes and across the cheeks to give the 'drunk' appearance, rosy eyeshadow, and shiny lips.
coquette 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚
often described as sweet, romantic, flirty and playful. featuring vintage charm, lace, bounce and flounces.
y2k 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚
based around products, styles, and fashion of the late 1990s and early 2000s. featuring cyber-futurism, bright bold colors, shiny and metallic textures, low-rise and flared jeans, crop tops, visible g-strings, pumps and ballet flat, etc.
cottagecore 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚
romanticizes rural life. features lots of nature, slow living, country houses and cottages, soft colors, traditional crafts and skills. filled with lace or embroidered detailing, flowing skirts, bodice tops
dollette 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚
appreciating hyperfemininity, featuring florals, ruffles, lace pink and ballet and often contains vintage elements with a modern twist.
island/coconut/beach girl 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚
associated with youth, vacation and summertime. key points are bright colors, loose/casual tees, beachy vibes, flowy tops, floral patterns, bead-and-shell jewelry, bucket hats, crochet bags and colorful bikinis
── .✦ instead of imagining possible future conversations and scenarios that don't align with what you want, do the opposite. Spot it. Change it.
── .✦ create a playlist and only imagine and think of things that align with your dream world, and listen to them over and over so your mind automatically links them
── .✦ manifestating doesn't require use of any physical sense (vision, taste, touch, etc); it requires acceptance and lack of story change/persistence in a story/state. Use that.
── .✦ literally tell yourself what you want to hear, what you want to be true, as long as it makes you feel good.
── .✦ BE DELUSIONALLLL (you can come off delusional to maybe anyone else, but make sure you're always true to you)
you don't have to earn the right to be loved. you don't have to achieve enough to be worthy.
you don't have to fix everything about yourself before you're allowed to feel successful.
just start seeing yourself that way right now. not after the glow up. not after the goal. now.
the way you perceive yourself is the blueprint reality uses to build your life. so choose the most generous, loving, worthy version of how you see yourself — and watch everything around you start to match it. 🤍✨
Warnings: mentions of NON-CON (+mentions of loss of virginity), DUB-CON, abusive relationship, domestic violence, mentions of violence (+ gun violence), gun kink, dacryphilia, attempted murder, blood, semi public sex, jealousy, manipulation, infidelity, underage drinking, drug use, canon ages, kook!reader
➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies | ➥ divider by @firefly-graphics
➥ series masterlist
summary: You’re charmingly spoiled. You’re too kind for your own good. You’re the princess of Figure 8 …and you’re way out of JJ Maybank’s league, but when he realizes that Rafe Cameron’s pride and joy is actually a bruised and battered damsel, he’s determined to save you.
Your rescue just comes with a price.
⭑
It wasn’t the feeling of familiar lips on your face that woke you up…
It was the pain.
It was a dull persistent ache that you were sure you’d felt even in your sleep. You’d never felt anything like it before, and in the back of your mind, you wondered if you should be worried. At what point does lingering pain warrant a visit to the hospital? It wasn’t like you had any experience with this kind of pain.
You’d never been raped before.
Your chest ached heavily as you thought that, and you felt your throat tighten as the memories of last night assaulted your mind over and over again. You’d been drunk, but yet you remembered everything so clearly as if you hadn’t had a sip, at all. You didn’t know if you thought that was cruel or not. After all, wasn’t it better to remember everything to tell the police?
…were you going to tell the police?
The thought made your eyes burn, and you realized that you weren’t so confident that you were. But why wouldn’t you? You remembered the sight of bloody water swirling down the drain, the pain every time you walked, and you were still feeling the effects of Rafe’s violent assault. Why on earth wouldn’t you go to the cops?
“Y/N…”
The sound of your boyfriend’s voice reminded you that you had to rejoin the land of the living at some point, and considering the nightmare that was the previous night, you didn’t want to see what would happen should you feign sleep any longer. So, with a deep breath, you opened your eyes…and met the soft gaze of the man who terrified you more than anyone ever had.
“Hey,” Rafe softly whispered, his thumb brushing over your swollen lips. “Good morning, baby.”
You didn’t respond to him, opting to stare at him, and not because you just wanted to, but because you didn’t know what to say.
You stared at the face of your beautiful boyfriend and thought to yourself that that face belonged to the same man who’d held you down and raped you. The same hair, the same eyes, the same lips. It was all the same because it was the same man, and you had the hardest time wrapping your head around that.
When Rafe hit you a month ago, you’d forgiven him. In your heart, you genuinely believed that he was sorry and that it wouldn’t happen again. After all, he’d been drinking and you’d been drinking and you’d gone out of your way to make him mad. You didn’t think it was fair that you were the one to be angry on your birthday, and so you’d said what you said—provoking him.
…but last night was different.
You hadn’t done anything to warrant what he’d done. Besides, it wasn’t like there was ever anything that could be done to warrant that. You hadn’t done anything to Rafe, at all, and the revelation that he could do that to you—had done that to you—made your eyes water.
You watched Rafe swallow at the sight, sitting up a bit.
“Y/N…”
Your tears spilled over as he said your name again, and he hurriedly wiped them away.
“Hey…hey,” he gently cooed, expression troubled as he watched you cry. “Last night…”
You sniffed.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, okay?” he quietly apologized. “I’d had a few drinks and my mind was making a big deal out of nothing and… Not that that’s an excuse…”
His words died in the air between you as you covered your face, sobbing into your hands. It took him a while to pull one away, whispering your name repeatedly as he tried to get you to stop crying.
“I’m sorry,” he stressed, his face so close to yours as he held one of your hands. “That wasn’t right. Especially not…”
Rafe’s thoughts seemed to be all over the place, and it seemed like once your tears started, they just couldn’t stop. No matter how much you tried not to, you could only remember him screaming at you and shoving you and holding you down despite how much you tried to get him off of you. It made your chest hurt almost as much as the pain between your thighs.
“I fucked that up for you, and I’m sorry,” he told you, leaning in to press his lips to your forehead. “I’m sorry, baby, I’m so sorry.”
Rafe was saying all of the ‘right’ things, but there wasn’t anything to be said that could undo this or even make this right. It was something that should’ve never happened, and if you weren’t so overwhelmed with fear and confusion and hurt, you would’ve told him that. You would’ve told Rafe every single thing that you were thinking, but at the moment, you could only try and grapple with what happened last night.
…and the fact that your boyfriend was the one to do it.
“It shouldn’t have been like that,” the blond whispered, quickly pressing his lips to yours. “That’s not how I wanted it to be.”
He kissed you again, slower this time, and when his hand rested on your cheek just as he started to deepen the kiss, you shook your head.
“Rafe…no-.”
You abruptly cut yourself off, taken aback by how quickly your heart started to race. You moved away from him a bit, but Rafe followed, pleas on his lips as he reached for you again.
“It wasn’t supposed to be like that,” he repeated, his fingers pressing into your arm as his lips brushed against yours again. “Please, let me make this right.”
“Why,” you cried. “So, you can feel better?”
You hated that you hated the way Rafe’s face fell a bit at your words, and more tears fell against your will. He wiped some of them away, and his eyes traced your face. The house sounded so quiet, and you wondered what the rest of his family was doing while you and Rafe argued about what he did to you last night.
“I don’t want you to think about that when you think about your first time,” Rafe eventually whispered. “I don’t because…that makes me feel like shit. Okay? That makes me feel like the worst boyfriend in the world.”
You looked away from him, staring at the wall behind him for a while. You didn’t want that memory either, but it was too late, and there was no doubt in your mind that you’d never forget it. More than anything at the moment, you just wanted to be home and in your own bed and thinking about what you were going to do.
There was no way you could stay with Rafe. That couldn’t be an option and yet…he terrified you. In the span of two months, he became someone you were struggling to recognize. The incident on your birthday was one thing, but last night was something else entirely. You didn’t know what to expect from him anymore…and that was terrifying.
You were terrified of him.
Right now.
His hand was on your arm and you were in his bed and he was so close. It was obvious you didn’t want this, but it had also been obvious last night, and look what happened? What if Rafe hurt you again? You’d been so sure before that he wouldn’t, that your birthday was the last time, but now…you didn’t know.
You didn’t know anything anymore.
…and so when Rafe misconstrued your silence and leaned in again, you let him.
“No, I know-.”
Rafe seemed to be once again cut off by Ward who was on the other end of the phone. They’d been going back and forth for all of thirty minutes, and it wasn’t hard to tell that Ward was angry with Rafe about something. It sounded work related, and you chose to keep your eyes on the bridal magazine in your lap while he paced by the pool. It was one of the many that your mother bought and subscribed to for you.
Topper and Kelce were inside—rolling a blunt or two no doubt—and you and your boyfriend had been lounging by the pool together until his phone rang. He’d told you that Ward was giving him more responsibility now, seeing if he could really prove himself, and more responsibility came with the possibility of bigger disappointments. You didn’t know what Rafe had screwed up exactly, but it didn’t seem pretty.
When he gave out one loud and angry huff, you knew that Ward had hung up on him.You kept your gaze on the picture of the impressive dress before you, idly wondering if you could picture yourself on a dress like that. You’d told your mother that you wanted to keep it simple—elegant—but the truth was that you weren’t pressed at all about the kind of dress you’d wear.
Truthfully, you were more concerned with how you’d stomach walking down the aisle.
“Where’s your ring?”
Rafe’s question pulled you from your thoughts, and you looked at him with a slight frown. Funnily enough, he was frowning back. One of his hands was in his pocket, the other tossing his phone aside onto the table as he waited for you to answer him. You stared at his face for a moment, and your heart sank at the obvious.
Swallowing down a sigh, you answered him.
“At home. On my nightstand…”
“Why?” Rafe scoffed.
This time you did sigh, looking back down at the magazine.
“It’s huge, Rafe. It hits up against and gets caught on so many things. Not to mention, I’d feel like crap if I lost it,” you told him. “It’s…a lot.”
It wasn’t a complete lie. However, what you failed to mention was that the sight of it made you sick.
“You’re the one who made so much fuss about that ring…”
You chose not to remind him that not only was that years ago, but that was also before he’d started slapping you around.
“Besides, if you lost it I’d just get you another one,” he haughtily added. “Granted, I’d be fucking pissed, yeah, but I’d still replace it.”
“That’s not the point,” you sighed.
There was a brief pause.
“Then what is the point? I mean, is that really why you don’t want to wear it?”
You turned to look at him, now, and you didn’t like the way he was staring you down.
“...meaning…?”
You watched Rafe glance away, swiping his tongue between his lips.
“Meaning you don’t seem as excited as I thought you’d be about this engagement.”
You frowned at him.
“You’re never the one to bring up the wedding and when you’d like it to be, that’s always me. Rose is more excited than you seem to be, and…” he threw his hand up. “You’re not wearing your ring.”
“I told you why.”
“...and I don’t believe you.”
You didn’t know how to respond to that, but Rafe continued before you could figure it out.
“I know you and Sarah like to talk and gossip like a bunch of old ladies, and I know for a fact she’s not happy about it.”
At that, you became a tad more alert.
“...and what would make you say that?”
“She’s been treating me like shit for days now,” he elaborated, making your heart sink. “I’m talking more than usual. Ignoring me, bumping into me, spilling shit on me. If looks could kill, I would’ve been dead days ago.”
You pressed your lips together at that, unable to tell Rafe that Sarah’s behavior had nothing to do with the engagement.
Not solely, anyway.
Time seemed to fly when your life was full of nothing but turmoil because it’d already been a week since that day at the Camerons’ when Sarah saw the bruises on your back and the truth came out. JJ had reassured you that he would make her understand, and while you weren’t sure just how well he succeeded, you did know that Rafe nor Ward were aware of what happened.
Every time you thought about that day, you wanted to crawl into a hole.
You had long resigned yourself to your bleak future with Rafe, and so you had never anticipated anyone finding out. JJ had been bad enough, but Sarah was a whole other kind of problem. Sarah was never supposed to find out, and sometimes you had the urge to seek her out like she’d been trying to do with you, but you just weren’t in the right headspace to handle anyone other than JJ knowing.
You knew that you and Sarah needed to talk—really talk—but one person breathing down your neck about your tumultuous relationship was bad enough. You knew that the moment you let Sarah in, she’d be relentless. Nevermind the fact that you didn’t know how to look her in the face and be open about the abuse you’d been facing at the hands of her brother, but you knew that it was inevitable she’d learn the truth about Ward too.
You were trying to put it off for as long as possible.
“Maybe you pissed her off for a completely unrelated reason, and you just can’t remember what,” you told him.
Rafe let out a light laugh, but it was humorless.
“Or…you’ve been complaining to her about me and this wedding.”
You and Rafe stared at each other for a while before you finally conceded with a sigh.
“This,” you emphasized, gesturing between you two. “You fucked up at work, pissed off Ward, and now you’re pissed, and well…here I am.”
You threw your hands up.
“Go smoke some weed or get drunk, but I’m not going to sit here and just let you pick a fight with me because your dad is mad at you.”
“Did you ever think that maybe I’m picking a fight because I’m genuinely irritated with you?” he spat, sneering at you. “What–what you think I just noticed you don’t wear your ring? You don’t think I’ve been nice about it for days? Tried to give you some grace? Some understanding?”
You leaned away a bit as he leaned in, swallowing.
“I told you why I’m not wearing it.”
Rafe looked down his nose at you, dirty blond hair brushing his forehead.
“...and I told you that I don’t fucking believe you.”
You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest.
“What do you want from me, Rafe? You want me to go get it?”
The crooked smile he gave you was mocking, and he nodded at you.
“Yeah, actually, I want you to go get it,” he said, jerking his head towards the door.
He may have been a sardonic asshole about it, but you could see in his blue eyes that he was dead serious. Pulling your gaze away from his, you brushed by him with a huff, in search of your keys.
“Hurry up,” he said, slightly shoving you.
“Don’t touch me,” you spat, slapping his hand away.
“Or what? Huh?” he wondered, shoving you again.
Deep down, you knew that you were giving Rafe the fight he wanted, but in the back of your mind, all you could hear was JJ telling you that Rafe was proving him right. It made you want to cry, and in some weak effort to prove JJ wrong, you couldn’t stomach just sitting back and acting like a victim at the moment.
You turned to face Rafe—silent and angry—and you just stared at him as he stared at you, the blond fiending for you to give him a reason. His blue gaze was hard and his jaw was clenched and all you could think was that this was happening because he couldn’t take his anger out on Ward like he wanted to.
He was such a coward when it came to that man, always seeking his approval and never quite measuring up. It made you pity Rafe at times, and it was that thought that had you turning away, refusing to give him the satisfaction.
“What? Not so bold, anymore?”
When he pushed you again, you turned around and returned the favor, albeit not as successfully.
“I said don’t touch me!”
The slap was equally as painful as it was loud, and by the way your lip stung, you knew it’d hit your tooth in a way that drew blood. You eventually tasted it, but before you could linger on that, Rafe’s hand was on your throat.
“Just who the fuck do you think you are? Huh? Since when do you tell me what I can and can’t do?”
His nose was touching yours, and he’d just opened his mouth to speak again when he was interrupted.
“Rafe! Rafe, come on, man,” Kelce told him, trying to pull him away.
Topper was getting his hands in between you two, helping Kelce separate Rafe from you.
“Rafe, what the hell,” the younger blond said. “Come on, let her go.”
When Kelce got your boyfriend to let go, your relief was short-lived.
“Rafe, stop!”
He didn’t actually listen to his friend, but Rafe didn’t hit you a third time because he got what he wanted. Your eye watered from the second hit, and you felt Topper’s hands on your arms as you stumbled. You could see Kelce pushing Rafe away out of the corner of your eye, and you wondered if the dark-skinned guy realized that Rafe was letting him.
You roughly pulled yourself out of Topper’s hold, stumbling inside despite how shaky your vision was. Your feet threatened to trip you as you made your way to the bathroom, sniffling as you hurriedly turned the water on in the sink. You couldn't even focus on the fact that Rafe had crossed the invisible line he’d drawn and hit you in front of his friends.
You’d expected it eventually, and with the ring now on your finger—not at the moment of course—he not only felt more secure, but more bold as well.
One glance into the mirror had you wincing, and you were quick to wet a rag and wipe your face. It stung, but it wasn’t unfamiliar, and you found yourself more annoyed with the fact that you’d have to spend however much time in your car putting on some makeup. You sniffed again, cleaning the rag before pressing it to your face again.
You weren’t fazed at all by the sound of nearing footsteps.
“Are you okay?”
You didn’t answer him right away, only continuing to stare into the mirror and wipe the blood away. You wet the rag again, cleaning it with some soap and rinsing it out in the sink. You were in absolutely no rush to acknowledge Topper, but when you did, you held no punches.
“Like you care…”
There was a beat of silence.
“Of course, I care.”
When you finally met his gaze in the mirror, you actually chuckled at the frown on his face.
“Well…I would really hate to see how you treat someone you don’t give a damn about.”
Topper opened his mouth to respond to that, but you beat him to it.
“Come on, Topper…” you whispered, turning around to face him. “You hear how he talks to me…”
You watched the blond press his lips together.
“You see the way he treats me—all of you do! He treats me like his goddamn property, and all of you just go along with it,” you cried. “You barely acknowledge me when he’s there, and you talk about me like I’m not even there, and you only give something to me or say something to me through him like he’s my fucking handler or something.”
Topper at least had the sense to look ashamed, and you watched him swallow.
“None of you are stupid,” you quietly said. “You all see it. You all know it, but you don’t say anything or do anything because he’s your bro…”
You hated the way your voice cracked because this wasn’t some new revelation for you. Topper and Kelce and all of Rafe’s buddies may not have known he was hitting you, but Rafe was more bold in how he treated you around them than anyone else, and it was because he knew they weren’t going to do shit about it. He could always talk to you any kind of way he wanted, and they wouldn’t do a thing.
Midsummers came to mind, and you blinked back tears.
“You and Kelce only decided to be heroes today because God forbid something horrible goes down in your house, and how would you ever explain that to mommy and the cops,” you sneered.
When Topper’s gaze met yours, he looked like he wanted to say something, but you didn’t have the patience to wait around for him to grow the balls to say it. With a tearful scoff, you tossed the rag at his chest before roughly pushing past him in search of your keys.
You could tell that Sarah was wearing Rose down by the way the older woman huffed, and despite the fact that they were just on the other side of the room, you kept your gaze on the magazine in your lap.
“You act like I'm trying to throw a party or something,” Sarah said, an edge in her tone. “It’s getting late and we have like two guest rooms. We can’t spare one of them so my friend can have a comfortable place to sleep?”
You couldn’t recall the excuse Sarah gave when she first approached Rose, but you didn’t have to look at JJ’s face to know that it was a lie. You didn’t know what was going on with him and Luke—although it wasn’t hard to guess—but it clearly wasn’t safe for him to be at home.
Sarah had been pleading his case for minutes…and JJ hadn’t taken his eyes off of you the entire time.
“Fine,” Rose eventually gave in, voice shrill as she held her hands up. “Anything is broken or conveniently ‘lost’, I’m telling your father I had no knowledge of this.”
You rolled your eyes, glancing up just in time to see JJ and Sarah doing the same. When Rose exited the room, you became all too aware that it was just you three, and you shut the flimsy book in your lap. The air was tense and awkward for more reasons than one, and you suddenly wanted to be at your house despite the fact that Rafe was out of town with Ward.
“It is getting late,” you mumbled, standing. “I should probably head home.”
You avoided both of their gazes as you made your way towards the stairs to get your purse from Rafe’s room. You were halfway up them when you heard hurried footsteps heading towards you. You weren’t surprised to hear Sarah call your name. You were slow to face her, and you hated the look on her face.
Like she didn’t know if she wanted to hug you or cry for you.
“You can stay…if you want…”
She sighed.
“You’re always staying over even when Rafe isn’t here, and I want you to know that I’m not going to…”
The blonde girl trailed off, struggling to voice her thoughts.
“JJ talked to me,” she slowly said, her palms hovering over her chest. “He talked to all of us and…did what he could without saying anything you might not want us to know.”
Your shoulders sagged a bit.
“I don’t like it,” she said, voice cracking and eyes watering. “I really don’t like it, but it’s not about me.”
Sarah took a deep breath.
“I have to prioritize your safety over my feelings,” she whispered, looking like that was really hard for her to say. “...and…I can’t push you. I can’t force everything I want to know out of you. You tell me what you want to when you’re ready. That’s how it has to be.”
While Sarah sounded like she was regurgitating whatever someone else might’ve said, you appreciated that she was trying to handle this in a way that was best. You couldn’t lie, you did relax a bit at hearing that, feeling more inclined to stay. It was relieving to know that Sarah was going to do her best to let this happen on your terms.
After all, it wasn’t like you told her about Rafe of your own volition.
The truth was forced out into the open, made worse by Sarah’s expected panic.
“Okay,” you eventually told her, nodding. “Thanks, Sarah.”
You gave her a strained smile, one that she returned, and when you looked past her, your eyes briefly met familiar blue ones.
Your gaze didn’t linger, and you were quick to retreat to Rafe’s room.
A part of you still considered going home, anyway, slightly uncomfortable with the knowledge that JJ was under the same roof. The last time you’d talked, yes, he promised that he’d talk to Sarah—to which you were grateful—but he’d also conveniently ignored so much of what you said. It felt less cruel to tell him about your engagement yourself, and your eyes fell to the ring on your finger, the piece of jewelry having a permanent place there ever since that day at Topper’s.
JJ’s reaction hadn’t exactly been shocking, but because you were so used to Rafe and the horror that was your relationship, the reminders of it hardly affected you anymore. Yes, Rafe was your abuser and rapist, and yes you were marrying him. Such a statement felt like recalling the color of the sky or grass to you because it was inevitable.
Kie was completely right when she said you were never leaving him.
Of course, she hadn't known the reason why then, and you were sure she was just as horrified as JJ about the whole thing, but she hadn't lied. JJ might not care about what was technically fair to him, but you did, and your life was already ruined—future set in stone. That didn’t mean you had to drag JJ’s down with you.
It was hours later when you had long put the younger blond out of your mind and sought out sleep when you heard it.
You thought that you almost imagined the small tap, but then you heard it again, and you stared at the door. The moon was outside of Rafe’s window, bathing his room in a soft glow, and the silence between the second and third tap stretched for a long time, but when you heard it again, you knew.
It wasn’t Sarah.
You considered ignoring it and him, but almost as if he could read your mind, JJ spoke.
“Y/N.”
He whispered your name, but you heard it loud and clear, and you turned over on your back to stare at the ceiling with a frown. You didn’t know what he wanted, what he could possibly want to talk about, but a small part of you wondered just whose idea it was for JJ to crash at Sarah’s.
When you heard your name again, you finally pushed yourself to your feet.
You stood at the door, your shoulder pressed to the wall as you stared at the wood.
“It’s late, JJ…and we have nothing to talk about,” you whispered.
Your voice was low, but you knew that he could hear you.
“I know what it looks like when you’re wearing more makeup than usual…”
You swallowed at that.
“...and why.”
Your eye and lip was still bruised from what happened at Topper’s the other day, and you sighed. It was silent for a few more moments.
“Are you okay…?” he finally asked.
You gave a bitter chuckle.
“Are you?”
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” he said, tone light and teasing despite the topic.
With a resigned sigh, you parted the door just a bit, turning on the light in the process.
JJ’s hair wasn’t nearly as messy as you expected it to be, making you wonder if he’d even gone to sleep, at all. You weren’t sure where Sarah found the old shirt and plaid pajama pants, but you had your suspicions that they’d belonged to Rafe once upon a time.
It wasn’t as bad as it was the day after, and you knew that JJ had to have known that, but he still drank in the sight of your face as if it’d happened only hours ago. His blue eyes trailed along your bruised eye and then to your busted lip, and you watched the way his jaw ticked.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to voluntarily show any of this to Sarah…” you sadly told him. “I don’t think she’ll ever be ready for it.”
He leaned against the doorjamb.
“She thinks she wants to know everything, but…”
JJ didn’t have to elaborate. Sarah was used to witnessing JJ’s abuse at the hands of his father, but witnessing her friend’s abuse at the hands of her brother was going to be completely new and difficult territory. Doubly so if she ever knew the truth about Ward and just what that man chose to turn a blind eye to.
When JJ gently touched the bruise next to your eye, you softly exhaled.
“JJ…”
He dropped his hand, and you watched as his nostrils flared.
“It’s not fair,” he murmured, staring at you. “How does he get everything?”
It felt like JJ was speaking to himself instead of you.
“...even things he doesn’t deserve.”
You knew he was talking about Rafe.
“Even before he started treating you like this, he didn’t deserve you,” he whispered. “I know that for a fact.”
“...and who does deserve me? You?”
A bitter smirk danced across his pink lips.
“I think I’m more deserving of you than he is.”
You looked away from him, unable to respond to that because you didn’t entirely disagree. The silence between you stretched, and you were just about to call it and tell JJ goodnight when he spoke again.
“What do I have to say—do—to get you to give him that ring back?”
When your gaze met his, JJ was entirely serious. Your lips parted, wholly unprepared to rehash this tonight, and you shook your head.
“We’ve talked about this-.”
“...and we’re talking about it again.”
You resisted the urge to sigh.
“JJ…please…”
“Do I have to kill him?” he wondered with a shrug, making your eyes widen.
Your lips opened and closed, and you blinked.
“That’s not funny…”
“I’m not trying to be funny,” JJ told you, a deep frown on his face as he stared at you. “...but what else can I possibly suggest? I’m not just going to stand around and wait for the day Sarah tells me he finally did it.”
Your heart clenched at what he was insinuating.
“For the day he shoves you down the stairs, and you don’t make it or the day he strangles you for too long-.”
“JJ, stop.”
“Why? Am I scaring you?” he harshly asked. “Good.”
You crossed your arms over your chest, looking away from him.
“You want me to just stand back and wait for that…and I can't do it.”
“Goodnight, JJ,” you told him, pushing the door, but JJ pushed back.
“Look at your face,” he harshly hissed. “What happened to keeping him happy, huh? That plan fall through so soon?”
“Fuck you,” you tearfully whispered, your hold faltering on the door.
JJ used the opportunity to push his way past the threshold, and your eyes widened. You looked at him like he was crazy as he shut the door behind him, and you stumbled back.
“Are you crazy?”
JJ raised his brows at you.
“Probably, but you definitely must be if you actually expect me to listen to you,” he sneered. “Would you?”
His question stumped you, and you froze.
“If you were in my shoes, and it was me, would you listen to the bullshit you’re trying to feed me?”
The answer was obvious, and it was no, and you didn’t need to voice that for JJ to know it. You tearfully shook your head at him.
“It’s not fair to you, JJ,” you choked out.
JJ nodded at that, but you didn’t feel like he was agreeing with you.
“...and you know what? None of this is fair to you, but the difference is that you didn’t choose any of this,” he said to you, taking your arms.
“JJ-.”
“I knew what I was getting into when I kissed you,” he interrupted. “I knew that you might never leave that asshole, but then I found out what he was doing to you…”
You pulled on your arms, but JJ’s hold was firm.
“...and I knew that I had to get you away from that asshole.”
You knew it was coming, but you were somehow still completely unprepared for the kiss that JJ gave you.
The rest of the house was quiet—everyone asleep—and so you tried to keep your own voice down as you pushed JJ away.
“JJ, no. Especially not here…”
Your words died in your throat as he covered your lips with his again, the kiss making your lashes flutter. His hands were on your wrists, now, holding your own hands against his chest. When he walked forward, you stumbled back, and your heart fell to your stomach as the realization of what was very likely to happen started to creep up on you.
“Ask me if I care,” JJ murmured into the kiss.
His hands were tight on your wrist as he forced you back and back until the back of your legs grazed the bed—Rafe’s bed. Your stomach turned from a mix of things, mostly at how much of a new low this was. Granted, you were still sporting the physical evidence of Rafe’s abuse, but you couldn’t help it. He was awful and treated you like worse than dirt, but he was still your boyfriend.
JJ had never cared about that technicality though, evident in the way he moved his mouth against yours. When one of his hands fell to your waist, you followed suit in the hopes to pull his hand away, but you ended up using it to press into the bed to keep JJ from laying you down completely.
“JJ…”
The warning in your tone was weak, and it was apparent by the way the blond smiled against your lips.
He wouldn’t stop kissing you and touching you, and the only time his lips weren’t on yours was when he was ridding you of the shirt you’d been sleeping in, his quickly following suit. Your palms against his chest did nothing to stop him or even slow him down, JJ eager to feel your skin against his after literal weeks.
Somewhere along the way your protests became less and less frequent until they stopped altogether. Your hands were no longer pushing against him, but instead sliding along his skin as he tasted the inside of your mouth. All the reasons as to why this was technically wrong eluded you, and when JJ slowly pushed his cock into you—stretching you out in a way that you hadn’t felt for too long—it took everything to swallow down the moan that threatened to climb out of your throat.
His hips repeatedly curved into yours, every inch of him stroking you in a way that made you twist your fingers into the sheets. His teeth grazed the skin of your neck as he pressed open mouthed kisses to it, and you couldn’t stop the soft whimper that escaped your lips. You tried so hard not to miss him—and this—but it turned out to be in vain.
As if he read your mind, JJ spoke.
“Fuck, I missed you,” he whispered into the crook of your neck.
You could only nod, wrapping your legs around his waist as you pressed your nails into his back. One of his forearms was resting beside your head, and a shudder traveled down your spine as he pressed kisses across your collarbone. Your chest was heaving, and you lifted your hips to meet his thrusts halfway.
It felt good to have sex again with someone who didn’t terrify you, and you felt like JJ couldn’t get close enough. His blond hair was sticking to his forehead from sweat, and you pulled his face closer, kissing him. JJ hummed into your mouth as you breathed him in, missing him so much despite how much you didn’t want to.
“You’re so wet for me,” he quietly said against your lips. “You’re dripping for me, princess.”
He wasn’t wrong, and you had multiple reasons to be embarrassed by the fact—namely whose bed you were currently in—but you weren't able to focus on it as JJ continued to thrust into you. The bed jostled beneath his movements, and so lost in the ecstasy that he was giving you, your legs fell from around his waist. A few soft moans slipped out here and there, but you were always aware in the back of your mind that Sarah and Rose and Wheezie were just down the hall.
One of JJ’s hands dug into your waist, holding you down as his hips repeatedly met yours, and you watched him look between you, no doubt watching himself disappear into you. The sight turned you on even more, and you shakily exhaled.
You lost track of how long you were wrapped up in each other, but you ended the night on top of him, his hands on your breasts, and your own hands covering his as you slid yourself down onto his cock over and over again. Your lashes were fluttering and your eyes were rolling at the feeling of him inside of you. You had come once already, but JJ wasn’t done with you, attempting to make up for lost time.
…and when he finally spilled into you, you pressed your teeth into his shoulder to hide the sound of you coming around him too.
Summary: After practice alone time with your boyfriend Nathan Scott.
Word Count: 1824
Tags/Warnings: (18+) MDNI. smut, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, p in v + fluff
Nathan took his basketball practices very seriously. Normally, his shots were almost as good as the ones he made in the middle of an electrifying and heated game. But today, none of the shots he took seemed to want to go into the hoop.
The cheerleading practices were at the same time as his, so you couldn't help but notice the frustration on his face, how his jaw tightened and the way he clenched his fists.
Throughout practice, Nathan ignored your gaze, thinking it might distract him even more. But even when Coach Whitey ended practice, Nathan stayed in the gym, shooting basket after basket, without making a single one.
You stayed there, sitting on the bleachers, trying to finish a book while he kept trying to shoot some baskets, completely oblivious of your presence there. You'd have sworn he didn't even know practice was over and everyone else had left.
After what felt like nearly an hour of agonizing miss after miss, you decided it was enough. You closed your book and walked over to him.
“Hey, Nate.” You whispered, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I think it's time for you to take a break.”
Nathan let the ball bounce away, jaw still tight. He dragged a hand down his sweaty face, finally looking at you.
“I can’t miss like this.” He muttered, voice low, frustration dripping from every word.
You gave him a small smile, fingers still resting on his shoulder. “You’ve been at it for more than an hour. You need to relax.”
His eyes softened, the tension in them flickering into something else as he looked at you. “Yeah, I know. You’re right.”
“Why don't you take a shower?” You suggested, tilting your head. “I'll wait for you here and we can go home.”
“I don't think a shower is what I need.” He answered, turning completely toward you.
“Oh, believe me, you need it.” You assured him, running your hand down his sweaty arm.
Nathan let out a small laugh, finding the curve of your waist with his hand. “What's wrong? Don't you like me all sweaty?”
The heat rose to your cheeks at his response, turning your ears a shy red as you tried to look away from his deep blue eyes. Which roamed your body with hunger and desire.
Before you could answer, he stepped closer, close enough that the heat radiating off his body made your breath hitch. The grip of his hand tightened on your waist, as the corner of his mouth curved into a smirk.
“I think I know exactly what’ll take my mind off missing shots.”
His lips were on yours before you could say anything, rough and desperate, tasting of sweat and frustration.
With your book forgotten on the gym floor, your hands went to his shoulders, nails biting into his skin as he guided you toward the locker room doors.
The cool metal clicked shut behind you, the empty space echoing with the sound of your uneven breaths. Nathan’s kiss deepened, his tongue sweeping into your mouth like he was starving for you, every bit of pent-up energy pouring out in the way he held you—possessive, unrelenting.
Your back pressed against the cold lockers, the chill of the metal contrasting sharply with the feverish heat of his body against yours. His hands drifted without hesitation, knowing the way perfectly, sliding down your sides until he reached the curve of your ass, gripping you like he was afraid you might slip away.
“God, you have no idea what you do to me.” He muttered against your lips before trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw and down the column of your neck.
You gasped, tilting your head back. “Nathan—”
“Mm?” His teeth grazed your skin, then soothed the spot with his tongue. His hands slid lower, bunching the hem of your skirt up.
Your pulse quickened, anticipation pooling low in your stomach. When his fingers grazed the waistband of your panties, you let out a sharp breath.
“Tell me to stop.” He whispered, voice rough, though his touch was anything but hesitant.
You shook your head quickly, breathless. “Don’t you dare.”
That was all he needed. Nathan dropped to his knees in front of you, his hands spreading your thighs apart with ease while you looked down at him, amazed. He tugged your panties to the side, eyes dark as they lingered on the sight of you.
“Fuck.” He groaned, licking his lips. “Do you even know how pretty you are?”
You smiled at his words as he pressed soft, loving kisses on your thighs. Showing that his words were much more than just words. He truly believed that you were the most beautiful thing his eyes had ever laid upon.
And then his mouth was on you, tongue flicking against your clit in deliberate strokes.
The sudden jolt of pleasure made your knees buckle, your fingers instantly finding his hair.
The empty locker room filled with the obscene wet sounds of his mouth and your moans echoing off the walls. He devoured you like he hadn’t eaten in days, groaning against your soaked folds, tongue circling your clit before sucking hard enough to make your hips jerk.
“Na-Nathan.” You gasped, pulling on his hair as he buried his face deeper.
The vibration of his low growl sent another shiver racing through you. He gripped your thighs tighter, locking you in place while his tongue moved faster, relentless.
Your vision blurred as the tension snapped, pleasure ripping through you so hard you cried out, legs trembling against his shoulders. He didn’t stop, licking you through every wave until you were slumping weakly back against the lockers.
When he finally pulled back, his mouth was glistening, his smirk infuriatingly smug. “Taste so fucking good.”
He stood up in one smooth motion. His hands gripping your waist as your body lurched forward. The weight of your body falling onto his chest.
Nathan had eaten your pussy before. But for some reason, this time had been different. You were pretty sure you were seeing stars from the pleasure he had given you and the powerful orgasm that had rocked your body.
Nathan didn’t give you time to recover. He pressed you harder against the lockers, his breath hot against your ear.
“Think you can take me, baby?” He asked, voice hoarse but sweet while his hands were already sliding down to tug your panties the rest of the way off.
Your legs still shook, but the desperate nod you gave him made his grin widen.
In one swift motion, he shoved his shorts down just enough to free himself, his cock hard and heavy against your thigh. That, and the heat radiating of him made you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders as he lined himself up.
The first thrust was deep and unrelenting, pushing into you all at once. Your cry echoed through the empty locker room, the stretch overwhelming after the orgasm he’d just got out of you.
“Fuck, you’re so tight.” He groaned, forehead pressed against yours as he pulled back only to slam into you again. “So perfect.”
Each thrust echoed with a sharp clap of skin against skin, his pace fast and hungry, like he couldn’t get deep enough.
Nathan grinned against your skin, holding your thighs tight to lift you off the ground. A small cry of pleasure escaped your lips at the movement as your legs wrapped around his waist, dragging him closer, every stroke hitting right where you needed.
Loud moans fell from your lips with every thrust. Nathan swallowed some of them in messy kisses, his tongue claiming your mouth just as completely as his body claimed yours.
“Come for me again, baby.” He growled, one hand sliding between your bodies to circle your clit.
A small plea of his name left your lips as you felt the shots and waves of pleasure run through every nerve in your body.
Just then your body clenched around him as another orgasm ripped through you, your voice raw as you cried out his name. The way you tightened on him made his rhythm falter, a low curse slipping from his lips.
“Fuck.” He looked down to where your bodies connected.
Nathan buried himself deep one last time, groaning into your neck as he came, hot and unrestrained. His hips thrust against yours, every muscle in his body tensing before finally giving in to a shuddering release, spilling hot inside you.
The two of you stayed tangled against the lockers, his weight pressing into you, both of you catching your breath. After a moment, he pulled back just enough to kiss you softly.
Nathan’s lips lingered on yours, the kiss slower now, almost reverent compared to the fire that had consumed you both moments ago. His forehead rested against yours, eyes fluttering shut as if he just wanted to stay like this forever.
“You okay?” He whispered, voice low and hoarse, but his hand was gentle as it brushed damp strands of hair away from your face.
You nodded, still breathless, your lips curling into a small, satisfied smile. “More than okay.”
He let out a quiet laugh, pressing another kiss to your cheek, then your jaw, then the tip of your nose. “Good. Because I don’t think I’ve ever needed you more than I did just now.”
Your heart squeezed at the honesty in his tone. The boy who was usually so wrapped up in competition, in winning, in proving himself—right now he was just Nathan. Vulnerable. Yours.
You tightened your arms around him, not caring about the sweat clinging to his skin. “You’re impossible, you know that?” You teased softly.
“Yeah, but you love me anyway.” He shot back with a smirk, though the way his thumb caressed your hip betrayed just how much he craved the closeness.
The two of you stood there in the quiet locker room, tangled together, letting the world outside fade away. Nathan finally pressed one last kiss to your lips before slipping out of you.
You growled at the overstimulation and the emptiness he left inside you as he set you back down on the floor.
“Come on.” He murmured, tugging your skirt gently back down into place. “Let’s get out of here before Whitey comes looking for us.”
You laughed against his chest, the sound light, your body still buzzing from everything he’d given you. “Only if you promise to stop beating yourself up about missing shots.”
Nathan pulled back enough to look at you, his grin softening into something sincere. “If I’ve got you waiting for me after practice, I think I’ll be just fine.”
Hand in hand, you walked out of the locker room together, his arm slung protectively around your shoulders, both of you smiling like nothing else in the world mattered.
✧ ˚ . welcome to my side blog ˚ . ᵎᵎ by @maybanksbaby
🍬 here you'll find:
re-blogs of my fav one shots, one shots of my own, graphics of my readers, shitty just-a-girl-reposts, graphics that remind me of my fav characters, miserable thoughts, and more. . .
percy being afraid of thalia and them not getting along really well makes much more sense now because now thalia actually has more incentive to hate the gods, especially her father. imagine your father turns you into a tree to punish you, when it's his decisions that led to your existence, you lose 6 years of your life, you don't get to see your friends grow up, and when you wake up you find one of your friends is actively fighting against the gods AND there's a prophecy which says that you might have to decide the fate of the world in less than a year, by either choosing to go against your father - which would mean going against most of your friends, destroying the only safe places for people like you, and letting your textbook evil grandfather become ruler of the universe, OR choosing to stay on the side of your father - which would mean going up against your oldest, closest friend who was the first person to treat you as a person and not an otherworldly being or a mistake, and it would also mean supporting your father WHO LITERALLY TURNED YOU INTO A TREE AND TOOK AWAY YOUR LIFE AND YOUR AUTONOMY JUST BECAUSE HE HAD YOU. AND YOU DIDN'T WANT TO BE A VESSEL IN HIS WAR. thalia's life is so tragic, any decision she would make was bound to hurt many people in the process, and genuinely nobody could hold it against her that she joined the huntress and took herself out of the situation entirely. i think they knew the prophecy was never going to be about thalia from the second she said no to zeus that day on the hill, and choosing to join the huntress was her way of not having to choose between a bad and a worse option. good for her that she finally found peace in something.
Maekar watched as you rode back into the camp with a smile on your face. Baelor helped you down from your horse and removed his gloves, his face pink from the adrenaline rush of riding. Your braids had remained well enough, but some of your hair was sticking out loose, your cheeks flushed pink also. Ser Roland stepped back to let you move around and you caught Maekar's eye. He had not joined this ride, you had mistakenly believed he was busy being entertained by a Lannister.
"You have put me to shame, Princess." Baelor exhaled with a broad smile on his face.
You began walking to your tent, keen to remove your boots and riding gear. Your skin felt hot with perspiration and as you looked to your side, through a crowd of celebrators, Maekar was marching to the same destination. You entered your tent and exhaled, a bowl of water and a cloth were waiting for you.
The tent was cool, sheltered from the early summer sun, and you smiled at your maid, Pia, who had been most excited to leave the castle grounds. A gown was laid out ready for you near your bed; summer-gold with maroon embroidery.
You heard the front of the tent open, quickly, and Maekar's voice cut through the peace in your tent.
"You are excused." He was telling your maids, Pia looked behind you but you did not turn. "You too." Maekar said brusquely and Pia nodded, following his orders.
The two of you were alone now in your tent, and as you turned, Maekar stepped closer towards you. His gait was heavy, loud. You had started to undress from your riding gear but paused, deciding to unbraid your hair.
"Did you enjoy your ride with Baelor?" Maekar almost spat.
"He is a slow rider." You shrugged your shoulder as your fingers loosened the braid, though it had been entertaining ride and a nice way to start your day.
"And you did not wish to invite me on this excursion?" Maekar said and as you turned to face him he took your hair with his hands, ensuring you were facing away from him. "Don't look at me."
"Baelor asked me. I assumed you were also joining." You felt his hands pull you gently, and you realised then he was unbraiding your hair, rather heavy-handedly.
"You assumed." Maekar repeated, lowering his voice. "And at what point did you realise I was not?"
You didn't answer, because you had quite enjoyed some time alone with Baelor. You were never alone with Baelor. Only his personal guard had joined you on this ride. Maekar noted your silence and pulled your hair until you were looking up at the tent ceiling.
"You stink of horse." He said, his lips pressed against your cheek.
Your hands held the lace at the front of your riding tunic, and slowly you loosened it until you could shake it off from your body. Maekar looked down at you, watching you undress. Once you were down to your underclothes, he twisted your hair around his fist and put his other hand down your body, between your breasts and across your stomach. You flinched from the ticklishing sensation and Maekar moved you, shuffling towards the bed.
Maekar moved his hand to your face, squeezing you by the cheeks, as he leaned his groin into your backside. It hurt only slightly, though the sensation of him pulling you turned you on. Now your arse was pushing back into his groin, all you wanted was for him to free himself and fuck you mad.
"Did you enjoy making me jealous?" Maekar mumbled, releasing some of your hair slowly, but just as you thought he was going to let you go, he tugged harder - you hadn't answered fast enough for him. "Hm?"
"Only a little." You confessed and Maekar bent forward, his hand moved to the top of your legs. Upward, his finger teased you, circling your clit. "Let me wash-"
"No, you're dirty. How I want you." He panted.
"Maekar, let me-" You insisted but so did his finger, entering you slowly, as he pulled your hair. You moaned softly it was almost inaudible.
Maekar kept a tight hold onto your hair as he fucked you from behind. With your legs tightly together, his fat cock felt thicker and deeper. Your moans of pleasure grew louder and he put his free hand to cover your mouth. Maeker groaned as he fucked you hard, his body slapping against your backside. He let go of your mouth and pushed deeper until you cried out, squeezing your eyes shut. The moment Maekar pulled away you moved, your back resting against the side of your bed. You looked at him, red faced, hair messed.
Before you could stop yourself you slapped him across the face and panted. Maekar took it and licked his lips, he stepped toward you, pinning you into the bed. As you raised your hand again to push him away he took you by the elbows.
"Get on the fucking bed." Maekar told you.
aerion
Your chamber had been peaceful, quiet, until Aerion came to bed. You watched as he undressed, wiping his wet mouth on the back of his hand. He flexed it as if he had hurt it, and came towards you, the bed.
Aerion climbed on top you, straddling you, with his knees either side of your torso. In the candlelight he looked menacing, his platinum hair almost glowing.
"You enjoyed yourself tonight, little lamb?" Aerion asked you calmly, then you knew instantly. "Dancing with those rats?" He stroked the side of your face, twirling a long strand of your hair around his index finger.
"Dancing with them because you wouldn't." You answered sweetly and softly, lifting your chin slightly.
Aerion released your hair from his finger and traced your collar bone with it.
"I don't dance, my Princess." Aerion muttered.
"And I must." You felt his hands at your breasts, squeezing them tenderly until you hummed underneath him. "I would be most judged for refusing all offers to dance."
"Hm." Aerion studied your face and gazed downward, his eyes drifting to your neck, your shoulders. He put his hands to your neck, but he did not squeeze. His thumbs grazed over your hyoid.
"Even your father danced." You spoke as his hands moved down again, down your body, to your waist, he began massaging you hard and squeezed you. Aerion lifted your dress upward, revealing your nude body underneath, your waist, your stomach, your breasts. He pulled it from your arms as you lifted them, and tossed it away from the bed. Aerion pinned your arms into the bed, by your wrists, completely at his mercy.
"I'm surprised you did not dance with my father." He muttered and you laughed underneath him.
Aerion's eyes trained on you, lingered down, squinting in thought; you could only wonder what was rolling through his devilish mind. Your chest heaved as you panted in anticipation. He began to kiss you intensely, tongue first, angling his head to push his tongue as far into your mouth as he could. You moaned and lifted your hips into him as much as he would allow, still straddling you hard.
He pulled back with a groan and kept his mouth open slightly, he squinted. Aerion shuffled his waist and you could feel him hard, rubbing against your groin.
"Why do you not dance with me?" You asked and he squeezed your wrists. "Is it so you can watch me with others?"
A smile crept on Aerion's face, and you had your answer. In that moment you had expected him to release you, and leave you. He had not slept with you for some days and you had gotten used to it once again.
Aerion pushed his hands to interlink his fingers with yours as he kissed you again, his tongue rapid and energetic, you were desperate to keep up. He dragged his nails across your palms, running his hands down the inside of your arms, to your shoulders, then at your neck.
Aerion pushed his fingers up into your hair across your scalp, down to the sides of your neck messily. He held you, then squeezing enough to make you arch your back. Aerion resisted his urge and caressed your face. He came back to your face, his tongue energetic and hot, rolling into your mouth against your tongue. You moaned and lifted your hips underneath him. You wanted him to choke you again, only if he fucked you whilst doing it.
You helped Aerion undress, almost tearing his clothes from him. A faded scar on his chest had fully healed from play-fighting with Valarr just weeks ago. Each time you kissed it, he became ravenous. You went to put your hands to his bare chest but he stopped you, with both of his hands at yours, Aerion guided you down to his fat erection sat just on top of your pussy. He didn't want to fuck you just yet. Not while he was having his foreplay fun with you.
valarr
You arrived to your chamber after Valarr. He was already sat in his chair by the fire, his legs spread lazily wide. Some of his clothes were strewn on the floor; his boots tossed, his unbuttoned jacket.
Valarr shifted in his chair as you closed the door behind you, locking it tentatively. He huffed and curiously you looked towards him.
"You are too beautiful tonight. Which makes it all the harder for me to be mad with you." Valarr looked like a wounded puppy, as his soft eyes looked from you, down your body, then to the fire at his side. You were dressed in your favourite light blue gown, lined with pearl-white stitching. It was Valarr's favourite gown too.
"I misspoke." You lowered your head and he nodded. "I only meant to help."
"It made me feel weak. My own wife could not side with me." He clenched his jaw; you hated when he did that because you only wanted to kiss and bite his jawline.
"I'm sorry." You bit at the inside of your bottom lip and decided it was not worth arguing... "Though I was asked."
"You were asked?" Valarr rested his hands flat on his thighs. His tunic was long, but his black velvet breeches were still visible. He had gotten bigger over the months, his body had become strong, his muscles defined.
"Baelor- your father-" You began and he smiled, tilting his head in thought.
"Of course."
"I thought agreeing with him would, would-" You paused in thought, no matter what you said you were trapped now. You had wanted to agree with your life, your Prince, your husband. You wanted to agree with Baelor, because you agreed with him and his stance on the Battle for Morley.
"Would what?" Valarr almost sat up but he leant back against his chair, making it creak.
"Might improve my relationship with your father." You were being only partly honest.
"And what of ours?"
You knew he was more upset over Daeron's reaction than anything. How he had chuckled at Valarr because his wife of all did not agree with him. The entire situation annoyed you to no end, and they were discussing a battle that would likely end many lives, with the attitude that it was some tedious joke, a game.
"You are right." You nodded and ran your clammy hands flat across your front.
"What am I to do with you, hm?" He raised his eyebrow suggestively and waited for your reaction. Your eyes met and he glanced to the bed, drumming his fingers quietly on his thigh.
"Do with me?" You repeated, following his gaze to your bed. You looked back to Valarr and played with your hands. You couldn't help but smile, though you tried hard not to.
"Go to our bed. Lean over the edge." Valarr spoke softly and lifted his chin towards the bed.
Slowly you stepped towards it and removed your shoes. It was the perfect height, with the top half of your body bent over, you rested your elbows into the bed. Valarr got up from his chair and came to you, his hand caressing your backside. The satin material was soft, as was your plump backside sticking out, ready and waiting for him. Valarr caressed you, then you felt the smack. You looked over your shoulder at his face. His cheeks were pink from the fire, hair somewhat ruffled. He had caught the base of your backside, where it almost met the top of your thigh. It tingled.
Valarr's lips parted just a little and for a moment you thought he was going to speak. Instead he spanked you again, a little harder this time. You turned away, looking ahead, across the bed, as you took in the sensation. It rippled through you and you looked down, pressing your lips together. Valarr lifted up your gown to expose your lower half. Another spank. You groaned and bit your top lip, wondering if he had been waiting to do this since you had opened your mouth to Baelor earlier. Valarr exhaled and spanked you again, much harder this time. You gasped and kept your legs tightly together, you could feel yourself becoming wetter with each spank.
"You take it well. Like you know you deserve it." Valarr sighed as he raised his hand.
daeron
Daeron had not spoken to you in two days. It didn't sound long, but by the hour it felt heavier, and his determination to ignore you hurt more and more.
Until you started crying. The notion of him denying you communication was overwhelming, Daeron had succeeded. It was more than unfair. You were not home, but guests at Lord Danbridge's horrifyingly dark and twisting castle. Daeron had not cared that you were lost the night previous, and you were left to your own devices tonight. Until he found you first.
Daeron looked most-handsome, his hair washed and styled well, dressed in navy velvet with gold stitching. You both were. The hallway was empty, and you stepped back, knowing that's where he was heading. Your chamber had to be in that direction. Since he was ignoring you, you decided to ignore him twice as hard. Holding your gown up from the floor, which was several inches too long, you were able to march quickly away. Around the corner, and up the stairs you went, and you heard his quick steps following after you. Where was everyone in this castle hidden? You wondered, angered, that even your personal guard was nowhere to be found.
At the top of the stairs you hesitated; you hadn't been up this staircase before, and Daeron was close behind you. You turned left, hoping you were correct, though how were you to tell which chamber was even yours?
"You're going the wrong way." Daeron spoke to you, his voice carried along the hollow hallway, but you persisted until you heard his steps get closer to you, and then his hand at your elbow.
Daeron guided you to your chamber and slammed the door behind you both.
"Do you have any idea how long I've been looking for you?" He said but you ignored him, relieved you were safe in your chamber. You began to ready for bed, ignoring him now. "Ah, I see."
You faced him as you undressed, keen to see his expression. His intensely blue eyes watched your every move. Daeron took a slow, deep breath, as you remained in only your underskirt, your chest bare. He began to undress but you stepped back, climbing onto the ludicrously large bed Lord Danbridge had afforded you and Daeron. On your knees, you watched Daeron undress messily, frantically, and as he pulled his undershirt over his head he joined you on the bed.
"You're not ignoring me anymore." You spoke quietly, and Daeron nodded, his fingers immediately going to your waist. He shook his head and tore at your underskirt, desperate to have you completely nude.
Daeron threw your skirt away to the floor and you pushed him onto his back, climbing on top of him. His pink mouth salivated at the sight of you entirely, as he watched you move your long dark hair from your face. Daeron squeezed your waist and felt you massage him, though he was already hard and throbbing. As you sat down slowly on top of his never-ending length, he opened his wet mouth, watching your face erupt in sensual pleasure. Daeron's size always sent ripples through your body, like fireworks, and the slightest of moves made you moan. You adored that he knew moving slowly for you turned you on most, the tenderest of actions could soon make you come.
baelor
Baelor summoned you to his study late in the evening. Ser Roland had knocked on your chamber door sheepishly and walked with you, not saying a word the entire walk. You rubbed your eyes, and cleared your throat as you stepped in, only the room was empty.
You exhaled and closed your eyes, squeezing hard, and opened them again. It was a blur of a night previous. As you paced the room you tried to recall it, and you had not seen Baelor all day to confirm the events, shake it off. Maybe apologise, but what for? You wanted to vomit but instead you paced and followed the bookshelf along the perimeter of the room. The door opened and you flinched, turning to see if it was Baelor. He turned as he shut it behind him and faced you again. Silent.
All you could hear was your own heartbeat. Your shaky breathing through your nose. Finally, you swallowed and cleared your throat again. Baelor kept his hands at his sides, his eyes never breaking from yours. You remained as you were, your hands behind your back, and watched as Baelor took several steps closer to you. Still no words came to your tongue, you couldn't think of a thing. Your mouth opened but, silence.
"I know why you called for me." You managed, but as he tilted his head at you, you questioned yourself. "Though not, specifically."
Baelor stepped towards you again and you began playing with your hands, twirling your wedding ring. Your back was against the wall, or rather the corner of the room. Until Baelor was two steps from you, he spoke.
"You outdrank Daeron. To my surprise." He raised his eyebrows for a moment then put his hands behind his back. You couldn't tell if he was somewhat impressed or deeply troubled by it. "You sang, then vomited on the King."
Baelor stepped closer to you, cornering you in the room. You couldn't possibly get away from him.
You pressed your lips together and squeezed your eyes shut, shaking your head gently. Baelor took your chin and you opened your eyes immediately. It was difficult to maintain eye contact with him, but you persevered.
"I am deeply sorry." You whispered. "And embarrassed."
"You did share some surprising knowledge on King Jaehaerys I, just before." Baelor looked down at your body and raised his eyebrow as he recalled the anecdote.
"I can never show my face again." You felt your face scrunch slightly as if you were about to cry but you turned away from Baelor, into the corner, putting your hands to your face.
"My love," Baelor spoke softly. "I have spoken with the King, he is understanding."
"I shall never forgive myself. You will never forgive me." You huffed, you had seen the look of disappointment in his eyes.
"That is not true." Baelor exhaled. "Turn. Face me." He sounded stern now.
You did as he asked and gradually moved your hands away from your face so Baelor could see you.
"Mayhaps, you apologise to him, in person. Tomorrow. But all is forgiven." Baelor tilted his head as he gazed at you.
You nodded in the silence and rubbed your lips together, your eyes darting from Baelor's eyes to his mouth, then his eyes again.
"I will go first thing." You whispered, and he nodded.
"I shall make it up to you now."
Baelor watched you curiously, your bright eyes glossy and looking at him endearingly. Almost like a puppy. Your hands found his crotch, untying his breeches slowly, analysing his face, his eyes locked on to yours. In your hands you felt him, not so soft, but neither hard. Until you began massaging him, he slowly grew, and hardened. You slowly lowered to your knees and gladly put his tip against your lips to kiss him. Baelor gazed down at you as you kissed him, slowly taking more of him against your tongue, towards your throat. You wanted to show him how much you loved him. How sorry you were. Baelor lifted his chin as he slowly inhaled; your mouth was magic to him. You choked against him, his thickness, and ran your hand up his thigh, caressing him as you sucked him felicitously, moaning. Baelor rested his hand on the bookshelf to his left, attempting to keep himself stable as he felt your warm mouth around his cock, your tongue reaching the base of his shaft. Your hand crept around his firm balls and squeezed enough to make him moan. Baelor heard you choke against him again, a pleasured hum escaped your mouth uncontrollably. He didn't want to come, not just yet.
"You are forgiven." Baelor exhaled shakily as his fingertips brushed your head, your long hair, gently pulling you up. "Now kiss me."
Me for the rest of the day now
Empire Royals @empireroyals - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
