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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 8 months

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Comet Donati [Chapter 10: Through The Dark] [Series Finale]

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

Chapter Warnings: Language, references to sexual content (+18), drugs, alcohol, smoking, mental health struggles, pregnancy, bodily injury, death, miscarriage, AND NO OTHER CLUES, HAPPY READING!!! 🥰

Selected Chapter Quote: “What made you want to be a therapist?”

Word count: 6.4k.

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

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

Thank you for loving the insane and incomparable Comet fam. I hope you enjoy the series finale. 💜

Night sky, string lights, reverberating bass, warm wet verdant air like the earth the dinosaurs knew, swampy and thick with beasts. With his lazy, dreamlike smile—a kind contagious glow, pink sunburned cheeks that match the clinking Salty Dog in his hand—Aegon says: “What made you want to be a therapist?”

You won’t tell him the whole truth. But you’ll tell him part of it. “Sigmund Freud.”

Aegon is intrigued, raised eyebrows and a crooked grin. “The guy who thinks everyone wants to fuck their mom?”

“You would have liked him. He did a lot of coke.” You take a swig of your Salty Dog: rosemary, grapefruit, the singeing bite of gin. “He was the founder of talk therapy. And, yeah, some of the things he wanted to talk about were…unorthodox. Misguided. But still…”

“He just wanted to talk,” Aegon says softly, understanding now.

“This was the turn of the century, okay? This was back in the days when they were pulling people’s teeth out, locking them up in asylums, injecting them with diseases, cutting off parts of women that made them unruly, ungovernable, immoral.” You shudder. “And Freud said no, just talk to them. Just figure out what demons they have chained up in their skulls, dark dusty corners buried way down deep, and help them figure out how to move forward. It’s not about having a cure, a pill or a scalpel. I mean, how ludicrous would that be, thinking I was walking around with some failproof silver bullet to make all the pain of existence vanish? That’s insane. It’s about listening to people, and caring about people, and shining a light on what part of them already knew was there. I don’t have a cure for anybody. Not a single goddamn person on this planet. But I can help them find their own.”

Aegon watches you, contemplates you, studies you like something rare and fleeting. “You are going to be one hell of a therapist.”

“I don’t know about that. But I hope so.”

“I’ll find you. Maybe when you’re done with school you can work on me. I’d keep you busy, I guarantee it. I’m like Disney’s Haunted Mansion. Ghosts everywhere you look.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You are never going to remember me.” He is never going to remember this place, this time, the way he shared his light with me like a long-lost comet clipping by Earth.

“I might,” Aegon says. He sips his Salty Dog with his elbows propped on the table, his blond hair whipping in the indigo wind, grains of salt on his lips, reflections of string lights like stars in his eyes. “I really think I might.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Your arms thrown around his neck, your face buried in his black t-shirt, inhaling smoke and dust and the coppery sharpness of his spilled blood. You are sobbing uncontrollably, gasping, shivering, wild prideless tears and clawing fingers. Jace’s words circle in your skull like a moon around its planet: Nobody escapes the indignity of becoming a regret. Aemond is trying to calm you, to quiet you. His hands—large and dangerous and bloodstained and careful—are on your back, in your hair. You have to explain, to repent. You have to make him understand.

“I didn’t get pregnant on purpose,” you moan into him, a jagged rush like a hemorrhage. “I swear to God I didn’t. I wouldn’t do that to you. I wasn’t trying to trap you or fix you or use you. I’m in love with you, Aemond, I wanted you, and I still want you, and I thought you would hate me and I was terrified and I didn’t know how to tell you—”

“I don’t hate you, I could never hate you,” he’s saying, and more that you can’t catch; his words are a tide, flowing in and fading out. Now there is pain, deep and sharp and collapsing. Aegon is standing a few yards away, tears flooding down his sunburned face; they clear tracks in the dust that coats him, that coats everyone, that sticks to the blood on your legs. Cregan has pushed the others back, but still, you can hear their incorporeal voices: Jace asking what’s going on, Rhaena explaining, Baela shrieking, Criston shouting orders. Now Aegon has a rough hand on Aemond’s shoulder and is telling him something—insisting upon something—but you don’t know what. Language escapes you; language abandons you.

There are sirens and flashing lights the color of rubies, roses, tangled arteries. Aemond scoops you up and carries you towards them. There is only enough room for one person to ride in the ambulance with you; there is no discussion of who it will be. The rest of Comet has to wait for the Escalades to arrive at your parents’ farm. You do not try to steal a glimpse of the damage, felled trees and scattered fence posts, dead cattle and pillaged earth. You are filled with enough wreckage already; you are built of it, bones made out of bent nails, nerves of barbed wire.

Needles into your arms, chemicals into your bloodstream: something that deadens the pain and muddies your thoughts, makes them slow and heavy and unpanicked, like you are watching this happen to somebody else. In an exam room, nurses strip your clothes away and wipe the red from your skin, routinely, absentmindedly, as if it is of no consequence, as if the future you had taken for granted has not just been drowned, immolated, eradicated from existence like a dying star. They give you underwear fitted with a bulky postpartum pad—the same used by mothers of living children—and a hospital gown that Aemond marks with bloody fingerprints when he touches you. Then the nurses leave you to wait for the doctor with your IVs and your fogbank mind and your glazed eyes that stare blankly at the sterile white walls.

Aemond is smoothing back your hair from your face, and you are reminded of how he held Aegon when he was dying on your bedroom floor in the MGM Grand. You remember once thinking that Aemond is like storms and rogue waves, and that’s true; he turns lethal and then goes kind again, strikes and then soothes. He says once you are alone, each word painstakingly chosen: “I’m sorry that because of how I’ve acted, you felt you couldn’t tell me.”

“I’m sorry I lost the baby.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. I must have. I’m bleeding too much.” You can feel it, blood and clots that ooze, gush, drain away leaving you cold and hollow.

The exam room door opens, not a nurse or a doctor but a man in khaki cargo shorts and a filthy neon green tank top and matching Crocs, clop clop clop. “Hey, Stargirl,” Aegon says, sad and gentle. He holds up a venti-sized plastic cup. “I brought you a Double Chocolatey Chip Frappuccino.”

You blink groggily, not knowing what to do with it. Aegon puts the clear cup in your hands, the green straw between your lips. It’s sugary, cold, rich, topped with a swirl of whipped cream and chocolate syrup. It brings you back a little bit, a few unsteady steps towards the real world.

“Where the fuck is the doctor?” Aemond asks him.

“The nurse said she’s on her way. They’re understaffed.” Aegon shrugs apologetically: Missouri bullshit.

“You get somebody in here, right now.”

“What do you want me to do, threaten to stab medical professionals?! How about you punch some of their teeth out, I bet that would help.” Then Aegon sighs shakily and covers his own face with his hands. “It wasn’t…it wasn’t mine, you know?” Wasn’t, isn’t, will never be. “We haven’t…not since…it’s not…” He looks at Aemond with large, shining, ocean-blue eyes. “It’s not possible. You have to know that. You can’t be the way that you are sometimes. You don’t get a few weeks to come around to doing the decent thing. You have to believe her.”

And Aemond says softly: “I do.”

The door opens again and a doctor steps through it, mid-forties, thick black-rimmed glasses, dark hair secured in a businesslike low bun. Aegon ducks out of the room; the doctor gives him a brief quizzical glance before introducing herself to you. You can’t seem to latch onto her name. You answer the questions she asks you as she readies the ultrasound machine: ten weeks along, blunt force trauma to your back, where and how it hurt before the pain was drugged out of you. She unfastens a tie on the side of your hospital gown and opens it just enough to spread the cool gel across your belly and then glide the transducer through it. She peers at the grainy screen. She’s checking for a heartbeat; she’s checking to see if you’ll need a D&C to help expel a partial miscarriage so you don’t go septic.

“I lost it,” you sob, breaking down again. “Aemond, I’m so sorry—”

“Don’t. Please don’t.” He kisses your temple and then rests his forehead against yours, tears glittering in his river-clear right eye.

“Well,” the doctor says with practiced, vaguely sympathetic composure. “You lost one of them.”

You look to her, not understanding. “One of…?”

She angles the monitor so you and Aemond can see. “Fraternal twins often have separate amniotic sacs and placentas. So depending on the positioning of the fetuses, it is possible to miscarry one but not the other. This one on the left here…” She indicates it with her index finger. “It’s…it’s no longer viable, unfortunately. You’ve already passed most of it. But this one on the right…” She squints at the screen, repositioning the transducer. “From what I can tell, it seems to be holding on. Let me see if I can…” She moves the transducer around, pressing it into the yielding flesh of your belly. And then you hear it: a fierce defiant drumming, a whistling like wind through leaves. “I thought so,” the doctor pronounces, smiling. “There’s the heartbeat. The pulse is approximately 155 beats per minute, which is typical.”

One of them? I didn’t lose one of them? “Aemond…?”

When you turn back to him, he’s staring at the flickering black-and-white whirls of bones and blood flow on the ultrasound screen. And the expression on his face is one that you’ve never seen from him before, serene like when he’s with animals, awed like when he studies the galaxy, and something else too, a great shifting, a clicking into place, tectonic plates and ocean currents and storm clouds unraveling into clear skies. “It’s alright?” he says, not taking his eye from the screen.

“It is,” the doctor confirms. “Measuring a little bit small for ten weeks, but that’s to be expected for a twin. I don’t think you’ll be able to tell the sex for another month, but it’s alive and well.” She freezes the image on the screen, sets the transducer aside, and cleans the gel from your belly. “Based on my experience, in cases like this, I’d say there’s a better than 50/50 chance the surviving fetus can be carried to term.”

You say: “What can I do…? I mean…there must be something I can do to help it…to help it live…”

“We’ll give you medication to stop any residual uterine contractions and antibiotics to prevent infection. I’d like to admit you for observation, just for a day or two. And I would recommend bed rest for several weeks. Until you’ve reached your second trimester, at least.”

“Yes. Anything. I’ll do anything.”

“And sir, you’re…” The doctor peers at Aemond through her glasses, really scrutinizing him for the first time, his brutal scar and his blind left eye and his stillness and his wonder. “You’re the father?”

Aemond nods, still gazing at the screen like a constellation in the night sky, like a comet only glimpsed once in a lifetime. “I am.”

The doctor beams. “Congratulations,” she tells both of you. And then she leaves to arrange for you to be admitted to the hospital.

“I’ll stay,” Aemond says. “When the band flies to New Orleans tomorrow, I’ll stay here with you.”

“No, Aemond.”

“I’m staying. I’m not going to leave you. You need me, the baby needs me.”

“No,” you say again. “What we have now is wrong. It’s painful and volatile and doomed.” You lay your palm against his scarred face, and he doesn’t finch away. “You have to figure out who you are after Comet. And so do I.” Tears in your eyes, tears on your cheeks; but on your lips is a soft, patient smile. “Aemond, I don’t want me and the baby to be a distraction from the work that you still desperately need to do. I don’t want to be a temporary fix. I don’t want to be your life raft. I want to be…if I’m going to be anything to you…” Your thumbprint ghosts across his cheekbone, tender, reverent. “I want to be your home.”

He shakes his head, but he doesn’t speak; drops like rain spill down his right cheek, dyed pink by blood from the fresh lacerations that riddle him, new scars and ancient pain.

“What are you thinking?” you say.

“I’m thinking that you’re right. I fucking hate it, but you are.” He swipes away tears with one bloodstained hand, then he settles it on your not-yet-showing belly, a place of ruin, a place of hope. “When can I come back?”

“When you’re ready. And only you’ll know when that is.”

The exam room door opens again, and your parents rush in like water through a cracked dam. They are frantic and fretting, peering around bewilderedly.

“Lord almighty, what the hell happened?!” your dad booms; and your mom doesn’t even think to chastise him.

“I’m okay, Daddy.”

“You got hit by somethin’? Are they gonna do an x-ray? Your mother and I finally made it back home from church, trees and power lines down all over the place, and that boy was waitin’ on the front porch to tell us where you were. You know, the big one. The one with the godawful ponytail.”

“Cregan,” your mom offers.

“Cregan,” your dad says.

“It’s a man bun, Daddy. How’s the farm?”

“We ain’t too bad off. A couple cows dead, half the herd out wanderin’ since the pasture fence blew away. Me and the dogs gotta bring ‘em on back, but your mother and I had to see you first. Did they check you over good? Can you come home today?”

“Sweetheart, there’s…” Your mom’s voice is alarmed. “There’s blood on your gown, on your face, what happened?”

“Well, I, um, the thing is…” You try to tell them. You begin crying again instead. As you sniffle and avert your eyes—afraid, ashamed—Aemond stands and extends one large, scarlet-streaked hand. Your dad shakes it tentatively. And then Aemond explains for you: the child you’ve lost, the child you’ve kept, what has to happen next.

“I am responsible,” Aemond says as they gape at him, half-ecstatic and half-horrified. “And I know that this didn’t exactly happen in the traditional way, and I know that there is a lot of work left for me to do to prove myself worthy of your daughter. But I hope in time you’ll be able to forgive me. Because it seems that we’re going to be family.”

Your mom squeals and hugs Aemond. Your dad hugs you. They stay until you are settled in your own private room—small bed and clean sheets, drugs trickling into your veins—and only then do they listen to your insistence that you’ll be okay until morning, that they need to go home to take care of the farm. They leave with their arms around each other, exchanging murmurs like vows. Then Aemond asks if you feel well enough to see the band. They want to say goodbye.

“You’ll miss me,” Jace says confidently, then swoops in to smack a kiss on your forehead before anyone can stop him, bouncing dark curls and smirking mouth. Aegon jabs him in the ribs, Criston rolls his eyes, Aemond glowers like he’d enjoy putting Jace in need of another 28 dental implants. “If you ever get sick of mentally ill blonds, just let me know. The kid doesn’t change anything. I dig MILFs.”

“Thanks, Jace. I guess.”

“We’ll still see you around, right? You’ll visit us, we’ll visit you?”

“Yeah. I won’t disappear.”

“Good.” And then again, more somberly: “Good.”

Rhaena is dabbing at her gentle, doe-like eyes with a Kleenex, leaning into Luke for support. Criston is gallant. Daeron is optimistic. Baela is exasperated that you told Rhaena you were pregnant but not her.

“I didn’t tell Rhaena,” you counter. “She just happened to be the person who accompanied me on my ill-fated adventure to procure Plan B in Tokyo at like 2 a.m.”

“Which did not work,” Rhaena adds, sniffling into her Kleenex.

“A cautionary tale,” Jace says to everyone. “You hear that, fellas? When in doubt, wrap it before you tap it.”

Baela nods at you. “Luckily, she doesn’t seem too disappointed.” Her eyes flick reticently to Aemond where he sits in the chair closest to your bed, a presence in the room like skies that could turn in an instant, quiet, preoccupied, protective, dazed. “And neither does he.”

“I’m not,” Aemond confesses. He laces one hand through yours and brings his lips to your knuckles, willing the baby to live, willing himself to be better for you both.

“We’re going to talk later,” Cregan tells him sternly. Talk about what it means to be a father.

“Yes,” Aemond agrees.

And then Cregan says goodbye to you too, his cool greyish eyes growing peculiarly warm, his steely exterior chipping away like flecks of old paint.

Aegon is last, the only person left in the room with you and Aemond. Grinning beneath sad eyes, he presses a hand to his heart, and then to yours, and then to your belly. Starboy, Stargirl, Starbaby. Then he says: “Do you want me to hide under your bed so they can’t kick me out when visiting hours end?”

You smile tiredly, exhausted and in pain, pain of the body and pain of the soul. “You have to go, Aegon. Thousands of screaming fangirls will be waiting for you at Arrowhead Stadium.”

He is stunned. “I can’t perform tonight, obviously.”

“Yes you can.”

“No, I definitely can’t.”

“You can,” you say. “You have to. And more than that, you want to. You’ll regret it if you don’t. You live for being Comet’s disaster playboy. I’m not going to take that away from you.”

And then Aegon whimpers: “You can’t leave me.”

“You’re leaving me first.” You beam up at him, caressing his sunburned face, threading your fingers through his disheveled hair. Aemond observes this with curiosity but no suspicion. “This isn’t goodbye, Aegon. I’ll see you again. You can add me to the long list of girls you FaceTime.”

He laughs. “Okay, Stargirl. Okay. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“For more than a day, right?”

“For all of them. Forever.”

And then he’s gone, riding that elliptical orbit out into all the corners of the world that he will glow for: New Orleans, Miami, Rio de Janeiro, Sao Paulo, Bogota, Buenos Ares, Lima, Santiago.

Aemond swears to you: “I’m coming back.”

“I hope so.”

And he tilts up your chin and kisses you, tasting like smoke and dust and blood and desire, and it takes every atom of you, every string of muscle and rusty speck of bone marrow, not to crumble and beg him to stay. You are still at war with the part of you that wants to surrender as he stands and walks out of the room. He does not look back; he can’t without losing his nerve.

In the night, he returns to you, long after visiting hours have ended. Perhaps hundreds of millions of dollars have a way of making formalities disappear. He is only a silhouette in shadows like dawn, dusk, midnight. Aemond climbs into the hospital bed and catches you as you fold into him, whispering to you that everything will be alright, telling you how sorry he is, lulling you into a fitful sleep against his chest, his warmth, his heartbeat. And in the morning when you wake up alone, you wonder if any of it was real.

Did I dream that he was here? Did I dream that I ever met him at all?

But no, he has left you proof, something tangible, permanent. On the nightstand is Aemond’s small square vintage lighter; Targaryen is etched into one side. And there is something else too, a single piece of black paper with two sentences of starlight-colored ink:

I’m coming back.

I love you.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s October, and the leaves are turning from emerald to topaz, garnet, tiger’s eye. You carve pumpkins with your parents on their front porch. You bake apple crisps and sweet potato pies. You feed the pigs, brush the Australian cattle dogs, buy baby supplies with Aegon’s Amex Black Card. You decide to let the grad student and her Giant Flemish rabbit keep your apartment downtown until your lease is up in the spring. You’d rather be here on the farm, even when you’re not on bed rest anymore. You’d rather be home.

You listen to Comet Donati, The Script, Coldplay, One Direction. Rhaena and Baela mail you boxes of crochet comets and stars and planets for the baby’s room. Aegon mails you boxes of Comet’s new donut-themed merch. Now your dad sometimes tends to the beef cattle in boy band t-shirts. Aegon FaceTimes you two or three times a week, sends WhatsApp messages nearly every day. But you rarely talk about Aemond. It’s too painful, it’s too much of a temptation. You cannot imagine others seeing him, hearing him, speaking to him without needing to do it yourself in the same way that you need oxygen and gravity.

The week before Halloween, you begin spotting. You sob hysterically as your mom drives you to the hospital, convinced that you’re losing this baby too, that everything you touch is damaged and defenseless and doomed. You’re fine, as it turns out, and the baby’s fine too, but even after you’re back at the farm you can’t stop shaking, can’t stop imaging the wet heat of blood on your thighs.

You break down and call Aemond. And you talk for five hours until the sun rises, you in a rocking chair on your parents’ front porch, Aemond on a hotel balcony in Santiago, Chile in the shadow of the Andes Mountains. He says he’s working on something, but he’ll come back now if you ask him to, he’ll board the jet and land in Kansas City in time for supper at the farm, and you can hear the backsliding desperation in his voice: Please ask me to come back. Please just fucking ask me.

But it’s not time yet. He’s not ready, and you both know it. You agree not to call each other again until Aemond returns to you. If he returns to me. Neither of you can sleep for days afterwards. Neither of you can open the door a crack without the other rushing through.

One morning you shuffle downstairs in your Cookie Monster pajama pants and oversized NSYNC t-shirt to find your dad eating a heap of homemade pumpkin waffles in front of the television in the den. All five Australian cattle dogs are perched expectantly at his feet. “Them boys of yours are on Good Morning America.”

“What? Really?”

Yes, they are; they’re celebrating the conclusion of their record-breaking world tour and teasing a new album with an interview and two songs. You catch the end of the first one, their new single called Magic, during which the boys run haphazardly around the neon-lit studio, Jace tears off his donut-themed tank top in protest, and Aegon flubs no less than three lyrics.

Robin Roberts is saying: “Now stay tuned for a very special performance coming up next after a commercial break. We’ll be moving to our outdoor stage in Times Square where a sizeable crowd has formed, and we’ve been told that Comet has a surprise in store for us! What do you think it could be, George?”

“I don’t know, Robin,” George Stephanopoulos replies gamely. “But no matter what it is, I’m sure it will have all those young ladies out there screaming!”

Lara Spencer chuckles. “And not just the young ladies either. I’ve been known to attend Comet concerts on occasion.”

Robin says: “Oh no, Lara, are you a Cregan girlie?”

“Okay, yes, I confess, I am kind of a Cregan girlie…”

You get yourself a plate of pumpkin waffles and return just in time to see the camera panning over the crowd outside: shouting, cheering, waving posters and showcasing their homemade t-shirts.

Robin Roberts announces: “And now, with a cover of One Direction’s Through The Dark, here is the illustrious, incomparable, incredible Comet Donati!”

“No way,” you murmur, staring rapturously at the screen.

“You like that one?” your dad asks, tossing pieces of waffles to the dogs.

“It’s my favorite.” And Aemond knows that. I told him in Singapore.

The stage is empty as the first acoustic notes ring out. Then Daeron trots into view—radiant and cheerful in his donut merch—to sing the first lines:

“You tell me that you’re sad and lost your way

You tell me that your tears are here to stay,

But I know you’re only hiding

And I just wanna see you…”

Aegon appears next, clopping in his sparkly pink Crocs. He flips his hair around and winks mischieviously into the camera as he sings:

“You tell me that you’re hurt and you’re in pain

And I can see your head is held in shame,

But I just wanna see you smile again

See you smile again…”

And now the crowd is not just loud but deafening, and you’re so shocked the plate of pumpkin waffles tumbles out of your hands and onto the floor for the Australian cattle dogs to devour, because who bolts out onto the stage next is not Cregan or Luke or Jace but Aemond Targaryen, wearing Aegon’s beloved donut merch and his Adidas sneakers and his scar and blind eye bare for the world to witness. They don’t seem to take any notice of his maiming at all. They screech and hyperventilate and reach for him, awed, ecstatic, touching his outstretched fingertips and his sneakers like the relics of a saint. He is focused, perhaps nervous, but he is smiling. His voice is velvet-smooth and pitch-perfect.

“But don’t burn out

Even if you scream and shout,

It’ll come back to you

And I’ll be here for you…”

The others arrive, and now all six of them are singing the chorus in harmony as they traverse the stage, dodging each other’s chaotic spins and leaps, waving to the crowd, checking on Aemond with encouraging furtive grins and squeezes of his shoulders. Luke is beaming. Jace shoves Aemond playfully and almost gets flung off the stage in return.

“Oh I will carry you over

Fire and water for your love,

And I will hold you closer

Hope your heart is strong enough,

When the night is coming down on you

We will find a way through the dark.”

“Huh,” your dad says. “They ain’t no Johnny Cash, but they’re pretty good, I reckon. I thought Aemond wasn’t on stage much anymore.”

“He’s not.” And you smile wistfully as you watch him, right here with you and yet a world away, real and yet intangible, facts and myths and faith. “But now he knows he has a choice.”

On warm nights, you sit on the wraparound front porch and flick Aemond’s square metal lighter to life, shut it, ignite it again, a lonely golden spark in an ocean of darkness, a star in the night sky. And voices circle in your mind like satellites:

I think history is important.

Whoever you are when you’re in high school…that’s sort of who you are forever, you know?

I’ve never met anyone like you.

Aemond would want to be involved.

What the hell do I know about being a decent father?

Our father never cared about us.

It’s not just for me. It’s never been just for me.

“Please come back,” you whisper to the infinite emptiness of the universe, so softly you can barely hear yourself.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s November, and you are finally showing more than you can hide beneath hoodies and sweaters. The attendees of your parents’ Southern Baptist church—who glimpse you at Walmart or McDonald’s or Freddy’s Frozen Custard or 7-Eleven—gossip about you ceaselessly, venomously, with pity but no compassion. And your parents, who have been politely ignoring jibes about you for a decade, do more than just ignore it this time. They clear out their church mailbox and walk out the front door together and never go back. They’ve been shopping around for a new place of worship. Your mom says they might get really experimental and try out the Methodists.

Rhaena sends you pictures from her and Luke’s trip to the Mammoth Site in South Dakota. Baela has you on speakerphone when she tells Jace she wants to take a break. She’s completed two ballet school auditions already, and has scheduled two more; at least one acceptance seems imminent. You call Cregan to ask him how to prepare for parenthood. You call Criston to ask if he’d be willing to serve as a reference. He writes you a five-page recommendation letter and tells you prospective employers can contact him any time, day or night. You are hired as a therapist by the University of Missouri. For now, to accommodate your high-risk pregnancy and copious doctor’s appointments, it is a part-time remote position. Your parents are at last forced to get internet for the farmhouse. Your dad starts watching beef cattle raising tutorials on YouTube. And oddly, when you begin taking appointments with college students struggling with breakups or parental pressure or substance abuse, you don’t feel nervous at all. You feel like you’re doing exactly what you were made for.

One morning, you receive a WhatsApp message from Aegon: I wonder if bumblefuck Kansas has the Rolling Stone…

Missouri, you reply, and then you go to Walmart to check. Sure enough, there are numerous copies in the magazine aisle, and that’s a good thing, because a plethora of teenage girls are scrambling for them. Aemond is on the front cover, smiling faintly; his scar and cloudy blind eye are neither centered nor hidden. And he isn’t wearing black. His suit is a deep, lush green like jade, summer grass, ivy. The title reads: Aemond Targaryen is Out of Hiding.

You begin reading. He talks about exactly what happened at the Budokan. He talks about the label’s unilateral decision to excise him from the band. He talks about feeling lost, humiliated, pitied, ignored, unlovable. And then he shares what changed him. He says that he met with other survivors of facial trauma: soldiers, professional athletes, people involved in car and motorcycle accidents. He says that he sat down with half a dozen different therapists until he found one that he really liked. He chronicles the process of finding purpose again in a way that is truthful and inspirational and yet—to you, anyway—conspicuously vague. He is still somewhat involved with Comet’s songwriting and will likely perform with them once or twice per year, he wants to advocate for people living with disabilities like his…but what else? What else?

I think what I want people to know is that progress isn’t instant, and that nobody can do it alone, Aemond writes. I’m only where I am today because of the support of a lot of extraordinary people. I want to thank Comet Donati—Luke, Cregan, Aegon, Daeron, and Jace—as well as our tour manager Criston Cole, who is like a father us. I am immensely grateful to my mother Alicent and my sister Helaena. I am indebted to the fans for the unconditional love they have shown me.

But most of all, I owe my recovery to a therapist from the American Midwest. She can be a little pretentious sometimes, but we don’t fault her for that. She’s earned it. Thank you, Stargirl. I hope this planet is treating you well.

Smiling, glowing, you close the magazine, take it to the checkout counter, purchase it along with five KitKat bars. The baby can’t seem to get enough of them.

Two days later, you have another ultrasound done—your fourth—and at last you are able to give Aegon the answer he’s been zealously hounding you for. You message him on WhatsApp: You’re going to have a niece!

!!!!! he replies almost immediately. And then: Name her Aegonella.

Probably not!

As if you have any better ideas??

You share a few from your list: Celeste, Luna, Aurora, Halley…

Aemond literally just said Halley, Aegon types back. Like right before you did. And then: He’s very excited, omg, omggggggg it’s so cute. Thirty seconds later: Wish you were here :(

“Me too, Starboy,” you murmur as you sit on the couch in the den with Belmont sprawled across your lap. Then you send: I’m scared he’s not coming back.

He is, Aegon replies. He’s working on something. You’ll like it.

And you have to believe this, blindly, faithfully, trusting that something is real even when you can’t see it. You have no other choice.

You beg your dad not to slaughter any of the pigs for ham, and he reluctantly agrees. At Thanksgiving dinner, half the dishes on the table are vegan. You’re trying out new recipes. You jot down the ones you like best in a notebook Luke sent you: black pages, white ink.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s December, and there are stockings hung by the fireplace and a blanket of snow on the ground. You and your parents pick out a Christmas tree at a local farm, and your dad chops it down and throws it in the back of the Ford F-150. Inside your mom’s CD player in the kitchen spins David Archuleta’s Christmas album. As your bump grows, you keep running out of clothes that fit; Aegon is always happy to mail you more donut-themed merch. Thanks to his persistence, they stock nearly every size known to humans. Baela gets her acceptance letters. Aegon gets to make out with Taylor Swift in the Colosseum. They are photographed together in Rome by paparazzi one day and then never again. A week later he’s with Selena Gomez in Ibiza. A week after that he’s spotted with Camila Cabello in New York City. The wheel keeps turning, his route through the solar system long and meandering.

Emergency! Aegon texts you one afternoon as you’re sipping hot apple cider at the dining room table and assembling a 500-piece puzzle depicting the sinking of the Titanic.

You know better than to take him too seriously. You reply, in no hurry: ?

Aemond says I can’t hang out with Starbaby unless I stop taking so many drugs?!!?! Fascist?!??!?!?!

Hang out. Like they’ll be going to clubs and Crocs stores together. You grin and reply: I mean yeah, that sounds accurate.

Well fuck, Aegon says. Guess I better start doing those substance abuse education modules again!

On Christmas Eve morning, your parents are at their slightly-less-judgmental replacement church. You are trying out a new recipe in the kitchen: vegan snickerdoodles. The whole house smells like cinnamon and vanilla. Beyond the window over the sink, snow falls in fluffy white bundles like rumpled bedsheets, like clouds. The Australian cattle dogs follow you around hoping for dropped cookies, their claws clicking on the hardwood floor. David Archuleta is singing O Come, All Ye Faithful. You keep bumping into things; you forget how big you are. Your belly seems to grow by the day.

Your iPhone buzzes. It’s a WhatsApp message from Aegon that puzzles you: Hey, I promised I wouldn’t bother you guys for the first few days but I really need the Netflix password and he’s not answering my texts, rude, so could you ask him for it please??? And then a few seconds later: Please. I just really want to watch Grey’s Anatomy.

You stare at his message, not understanding. You reply: Ask who…?

After a moment, Aegon sends back: …Never mind :)

“Really?” you gasp to yourself in the hushed peace of the kitchen, not wanting to believe, not wanting to be disappointed. You peek out the window. Nothing.

You open Google and search Aemond Targaryen. One of the first results is an article from the Kansas City Star published one hour ago. The headline reads: Comet Donati Heartthrob Opens Farm Animal Rescue Outside of Kansas City.

“Oh my God.” You scroll madly, skimming the text. “Oh my God, oh my God.”

One of Aemond’s quotes reads: I wanted to go where the need is. A sanctuary like this in San Francisco or Boston wouldn’t be anything special, wouldn’t be as necessary. But here in Missouri, at the epicenter of industrial animal agriculture in the United States? There’s a lot of important work to be done here. There are a lot of lives I hope to be able to save. We’ve been purchasing animals from auctions and taking in others that have been seized from situations where they were abused or neglected. In addition to our own efforts, I’d like to help launch similar rescues throughout the Midwest, and increase public access to vegan alternatives…

There are photos of him posing with animals: a towering, scarred, ancient mule named Vhagar, a three-legged goat called Sunfyre. In all the pictures, Aemond is smiling. And here in the kitchen of your parents’ farmhouse, so are you. Without thinking, you reach back to touch your fingertips to the black-ink words beneath your Comet Donati crewneck sweatshirt. You hear the lyrics— I’ll come back for you if it kills me, Comets clip by again after eons and so can I—and you know them to be true like space, time, gravity, love.

You look out the window again and he’s here, speeding down the winding path of the driveway, snow dust streaming out behind his Gold Star like the tail of a comet.

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

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ellethespaceunicorn · 10 months

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Daddy Knows Best, Part I

Title: Daddy Knows Best, Part I

Rating: Explicit, 18+, Minors - DNI

Pairing: StepDad!August Walker x StepDaughter!Reader

Fandom: Mission: Impossible - Fallout

Word Count: 2.4K

Summary: August Walker and your father were once friends. One mission, a single decision, made them enemies. August decides he needs to get his revenge. And what better way, than to become your new Daddy?

Chapter Summary: You get acquainted with your body with the help of August.

Warnings: age gap (the reader is 18, August is in his late-30s), pet names (Princess, Little One, Babydoll), Daddy kink, innocence lost, corruption kink, praise kink, dub-con, dumbification, dacryphilia, oral sex (f receiving), fingering (vaginal), dead dove: do not eat

A/N: This is different from my usual fics. I do believe that this would be considered dark!fic in every way possible. If you read the warnings and still chose to read, you are making your own decision. No one is forcing you to read this. This is a completely self-indulgent therapeutic fic. Unbeta’d, we die like people who tried their best.

Dividers by: @saradika

Support/Reblog banner by me

Spotify Playlist is here.

Series Masterlist

My Masterlist

To say you grew up unconventionally would be an accurate description. Your dad was in the CIA, although you had no clue about this. Your mom was a government attache, she mostly acted as a liaison between the CIA and other branches of the government.

That was how they met. On a mission, the whole one-bed trope. It would be cute if the future weren’t so tragic for them.

You were homeschooled from the time you were 5 years old. Your Nanny only took you out to meet children your age on the weekends. And that ended when you started puberty. Your parents thought it would be too compromising to have you out with boys your age.

When you were 16 and a half, your Dad was sent on a mission in Prague with a recruit, August Walker. Your Dad was hesitant to try and get close as he had a wife and daughter at home that he wanted to keep safe. And getting close meant sharing personal details, and that always spelled trouble.

And wouldn’t you know? Soon enough, lines were drawn and so was a gun. Drawn on your father. By Agent Walker. It seemed your father had intercepted what he thought was intel on his partner, but it ended up being proof that Walker was a sleeper agent.

Your Dad, of course, promised he wouldn’t say a word. That no one would ever hear of this. But in Walker’s world? Someone’s word was only as good as the collateral they had against you. And your Dad had some good collateral waiting for him at home. A doting wife whom he would do anything for.

And you. Daddy’s little girl.

He was instructed to leave his wife and daughter and never look back. They belonged to August now. And he would be in charge of their safety. And if your Dad ever got out of line, then someone was going to pay.

You had just turned 18 when you met Mommy’s new boyfriend, August. She had been divorced from your Dad for less than a year and is already bringing her new boyfriend around. You weren’t a fan of his at first but he won you over with his charisma and his pretty smile.

Mommy had told you that Dad had to go away for a while and that August was going to move in and help out around the house. You missed your Dad, but it was nice to have August around too. He would sneak little treats to you and he called you Princess. And best of all, he made Mommy happy.

One day, you noticed Nanny didn’t come around anymore. When you asked about her, Mommy said you were too old for a Nanny. And since you were past high school, you wouldn’t need your tutor anymore either. At first, you felt lonely without the company of Nanny or your tutor. But after a while, you liked the freedom of trying to fill your free time with activities.

When Mommy went to work, you stayed home and August kept an eye out for you. You spent most days in the summer laying around the pool and you couldn’t help feeling as if someone was watching you. But every time you looked at the windows on the back of the house, you could never see anyone. And it was only August home with you, why would he want to watch?

One afternoon, you forgot your towel when you came into the kitchen to get something to drink. Your wet feet left behind little puddles on the tile floor and almost caused you to slip as you were heading back out onto the patio. If it weren’t for two strong arms around your waist, you would have gone down easily.

“Princess, how many times have I told you to wipe off with a towel before you come back in the house? I don’t want you to hurt yourself, Little One,” His warm and calloused hands slide down your waist to your hips, steadying you to walk. He shakes his head at you and smiles, reaching a wet finger to boop your nose, “Go have fun, Princess. I’ll clean this up. And don’t stay in the water too long or you’ll get all pruney.” He pats your butt and you go back outside and lay on your lounger with your bottle of apple juice.

You woke up on your lounger a couple of hours later and your skin burned, the sun was still high in the sky and you fell asleep in it. You manage to walk into the house and make it to the medicine cabinet in the kitchen before you’re wincing and calling for August. You can’t reach the aloe and you’ll need help applying it.

“Oh, look at you. Stayed in the sun all day and now you’ve gotten burned. I assume you didn’t put on any sunscreen either? Princess, just because you have this pretty olive skin, it doesn’t mean you can’t burn,” He took pity on you, your hunched form indicating you felt stupid for falling asleep in the sun, “Let’s get the aloe on you and get you upstairs and in bed, Princess.”

August took great care in spreading the cool gel over your skin. You laid on your back in the sun so your front took the worst of the heat. As the gel cooled you, goosebumps formed on your skin. Your nipples grew hard under your bikini top and you got embarrassed when you realized August noticed.

You tried to hide your face and he took your chin between his thumb and forefinger, guiding you to look up at him. With a sweet smile, he caressed your chin with his thumb.

“Princess, that is a completely normal response. It just means you like the feel of my hands on your skin. And that is never a bad thing, ok? After all, I am Daddy. And Daddy would never hurt you, would he?”

You hesitate when he calls himself Daddy. You don’t even call your father Daddy. But August cared about you. He wouldn’t hurt you.

“D-Daddy would never hurt me.” You said, not knowing the gravity of the step you just took.

“That’s my good girl. Come on, let’s get you upstairs and into bed.” Grabbing the aloe, August led you up the stairs and to your bedroom.

“Alright. You sit down and Daddy will be right back, okay?” August left the room but was soon back holding one of his t-shirts and boxer briefs, “I got these for you to change into. Let’s get you out of this tight bathing suit. That can’t be comfy on your skin, Babydoll.”

He had you turn around in front of him while he untied your bikini top. It fell to the ground, the cool air of the room hit your nipples and you felt them tighten and harden. When he untied your bikini bottoms, his hand lingered on your hip and he turned you around to face him. Your left arm went to cover your breasts while your right hand cupped your netherlips.

He bent over to pick up the discarded clothing and threw it into your hamper. “Now, look at my beautiful Little One. You know, you don’t need to cover up in front of Daddy,” He removes both of your arms and you swear you hear his breath hitch in his throat, “Daddy needs to see if the sun hurt you anywhere else.”

His hands glided over your breasts with the backs of his knuckles, slowly turning his hands so his palms make contact with your nipples. At your strangled moan, he pinches both nipples and you yelp.

“Oh, Babydoll, did that hurt? I am so sorry. Want Daddy to kiss it better?” He was already leaning in when you nodded.

His tongue swirled around one nipple while his thumb played with the other. When he switched his attention to the other, he moved a hand to the tuft of hair that covered your mound. Twirling a hand through your bush, he let a finger dip further and further until your thighs squeezed shut over him.

“Princess, open your legs right now.” He kneeled in front of you with his hand caged between your thighs.

“But Aug–”

“I’m Daddy, Little One. Did my silly little girl forget so easily? Maybe she needs some reminding of who’s in charge,” He stood, forcibly removed his hand, and grabbed you by the waist to put you over his lap as he sat on your bed, “Stop wiggling and we can get this over and done with. I think you’ve earned three swats for your bad behavior. And after each one, I want you to count it and say my name. Am I making myself clear, Princess?”

“Yes, Daddy.” You sniffled, upset that you didn’t just let his hand explore.

The first spank is barely anything.

“One, Daddy.”

The second spank made your toes curl, but you barely moved in his lap.

“Two, Daddy.”

On the third spank, you heard the wind move before his hand connected with your plump behind. You jolted forward and felt as if white-hot fire exploded across your bum. You almost forgot your words, but the need to please Daddy was high.

“Three, Daddy!”

Only after you finished speaking did the urge to cry reveal itself. You tried to stifle it but when you sniffed and cleared your throat, you gave in. You began to sob and strong hands lifted you to lay across Daddy’s lap. He cradled your body with one arm while the other wiped away your tears. As he rocked back and forth, he spoke up.

“Oh Babydoll, Daddy doesn’t want to hurt you. Daddy wants the best for his Princess. She just has to listen to and obey Daddy when he tells her what to do,” He turned your face to look at him and he smiled down at you, “Daddy doesn’t want to make you cry but you are so beautiful when you do,” He wiped a tear with his thumb and then put it in his mouth, “Do you forgive me, Babydoll?”

“Yes, Daddy, I forgive you. I just never had anybody touch my…um, my–” You didn’t even know what to call it, but Daddy knew what you meant.

“No one ever touched your princess parts before?”

You shook your head and attempted to hide your face in his neck but a strong hand cupped your chin and tilted it upward.

“That’s because it is a very special place. Only you and Daddy can touch your princess parts, ok?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“I think Princess has earned special kisses for being such a good girl during her punishment,” He picked you up as he stood and placed you on your bed with your head on the pillow. He climbed onto the bed and settled himself between your legs, “Daddy is gonna take care of you, Babydoll.”

He opened your legs and placed a kiss on the fuzz on your mound. You felt his hands open you before Daddy placed another kiss. It felt so sensitive but so good and you wriggled under his touch. He smiled up at you and stuck his tongue out before he licked that sensitive spot. He held your legs open when they threatened to shut tight over his face.

“Does my sweet little girl like it when Daddy licks her clitty? It feels really good, doesn’t it, Babydoll?”

“Yes, Daddy. I like it when you lick my…clitty. Um, can you do it again? Please?”

“Look at you, begging Daddy like a good girl. Yes, baby, I’ll take such good care of you.” He delved back in between your legs, he swirled his tongue around your sensitive bud before he started to flick his tongue up and down.

Your breathing picked up, you felt so good and that’s when he changed his tactics. He placed little kitten licks on your nub and you moaned out his name.

“Daddy…”

He kissed your inner thigh before he spoke, “That’s it, Babydoll. I bet you feel like you’re going to explode. That’s exactly what Daddy wants.” He dove back in, and this time he sucked on your bud. Your breathing picked up again and you felt his finger in the slick wetness of your princess parts.

“Daddy, I’m–” Your words were cut off as you let out a string of moans. Daddy’s finger was inside you and you could feel yourself explode around it before it moved back and forth inside you. For a moment, it felt like it would never stop.

But soon, Daddy’s finger slipped out of you, and when Daddy lifted his hand, you could see it was shiny with wetness. He reached up and spread a bit of it on your bottom lip. Your tongue slipped out to taste the liquid and you were surprised when it wasn’t terrible. Daddy slipped his finger between his lips and savored the taste of you as he closed his eyes.

“My Babydoll is so delicious. How are you feeling, baby?”

“I feel tired, Daddy.” You yawned as a testament to your exhaustion.

“You’ve earned a nap, Princess. You did so well.”

“Thank you, Daddy. Will you take a nap with me?”

“Of course I will, Babydoll. How does your sunburn feel?” He sat up and you followed suit.

“It feels better, Daddy. But can I have some more aloe?”

He nodded and grabbed the aloe from your bedside table. It felt heavenly to feel the cool gel on your skin. It felt even better when Daddy put a bit of gel on your sensitive bum. He helped you get dressed in his old t-shirt and boxer briefs.

You had laid down on your side and Daddy got in behind you, his arm snaked around your waist and pulled you closer to him. You hadn’t noticed how good he smelled until now. You tried to calm yourself but you were excited to be held so close. You wiggled to get comfortable and you felt something pressing against your lower back. When you squirmed against it, Daddy put his hand on your hip to still you.

“Stay still and take your nap, Princess. Daddy will have a special treat for you when you wake up, ok? But you have to be a good girl and sleep for now.”

“Yes, Daddy.” You calmed your mind before you pulled Daddy’s arm back around you.

You felt safe and cared for in his arms. You wanted to please him. And you liked the way he touched you. You felt his breathing even out behind you. You closed your eyes and snuggled into Daddy as you fell asleep.

A/N: Um, well, who wants more? 👉🏾👈🏾 Cuz I do.

Part II

**Tag List**

@raccoon-eyed-rebel @brattymum96 @ambinxe @avengersfan25 @kebabgirl67 @astheskycries @enchantedbytomandhenry @rebelangel1102 @mrs-solo-walker [Let me know if you wanna be added (or removed) 😁]

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picnokinesis · 4 months

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thirteenth doctor and spymaster fic recs

all clear by wreckageofstars (8k, 1 chapter, thoschei/gen) summary: London’s on fire, the Doctor’s trapped in her own head, and only her worst enemy can save her. //I know I literally always rec this author in these lists, I know, but like if you've read these fics, you'll know I'm justified because they are all just brilliant. This one is no exception. The doctor and the master are so wonderfully on point, with this antagonistic push and pull between them both, whilst they both desperately try and avoid the fact that they actually still care deeply for one another - but they also hate each other's guts at the same time! And the master is there to cause problems on purpose whilst the doctor is an absolute mess post-Orphan 55 and making everything worse. An absolute joy of a fic.

the gardener by riptheh (6k, 1 chapter, thoschei/gen) summary: The Master kills because it's all he has left. Until it's not. //I had a reaaaally hard time picking fics for this post, because there are so many fics with thirteen and spymaster that I absolutely adore - but I knew from the get go that this one had to be on here, come what may. It's much more of a character study focused on the master than anything else, but of course anything about the master is also about the doctor - and it's such a beautiful exploration of the master and his relationship with death (and then, life). Just absolutely gorgeous - and surprisingly uplifting by the end? Anyway. This fic got me good, so definitely make sure you check it out.

the art of dying by lupescx (10k, 4 chapters, thoschei) summary: The Master resurfaces into the Doctor's life only to die—one burst of regeneration energy and he's back on his feet. And then he dies again. And again. She can't keep doing this. //The title might have clued you in, but this one is angsty. Extremely angsty. But, wow, it's absolutely brilliant! What a fantastic exploration of the doctor and the master pushed to their absolute limits and unable to escape from an awful, inevitable cycle. It is pretty dark in places (actually a lot of these fics are, so always heed the tags!) but if that's your jive then this story is just such a treat. Highly recommend!

The Frayed by luchia (90k, 16 chapters, thoschei, wip) summary: The TARDIS recruits a rescue team for the Doctor after the Judoon take her away, and the Master really shouldn't go. Particularly if it includes having to hang around a freakish temporal monstrosity like Jack Harkness. Then again, what does he have to lose? He could die, sure, but that means nothing when he always (always always always) comes back, whether he wants to or not. //Okay so, in my humble opinion, this fic is some of the best spymaster characterisation that I've ever seen across the entire fandom. It's exceptional - the prose is just so full of character, brilliantly unreliable and just so SO fascinating and painful in equal measure (can you tell that I like angst? I love angst so much). And also just the imaginativeness of the story itself is absolutely incredible? There's some fantastic things in there about gallifreyan as a language and Time Lord culture and TARDISes - and, of course, the doctor and the master are completely awful in the best kind of way. And if the word count looks too much for you - consider just reading chapter 16. Yep. Just that one. Like, that rewrote my brain. I read it three times the day that it posted, and I've lost count of how many times I've read it since then. So, like, please. But also you should really really read the entire thing because it's brilliant

Ust-Kut by yonderdarling (1k, 1 chapter, thoschei) summary: Unfortunately, the Master survived. Unfortunately, he finds her TARDIS. Unfortunately, he wants to talk. //Okay. So, this fic? Is possibly one of my favourite spydoc fics ever. And you might be thinking "but, taka, it's only 1k, how can it be?" - well, trust me, it just can. Short but sweet but an absolute gut-punch at the same time. Such a fascinating look at the relationship between these two, the push and pull and the knife edge that they're both on all the time - and it's so tactile? I think that's what gets me about it, if I'm honest. Anyway, absolutely beautiful writing - succinct, but boy, does every word count. It's just so so good, guys.

and without you (is how i disappear) by empty_of_dust (4k, 1 chapter, thoschei) summary: “It’s simple,” she says, impassive, like she’s not holding their very history at knife-point. “Start talking, or I start cutting.” //So, funny story, this author only started posting spydoc fic about a year ago, but oh my word, my guys, they are insanely good. They just get these two in a way that drives me absolutely feral, and their writing style is such a joy to read. I was extremely torn on which fic of theirs to rec, but I settled on this one in the end. The sheer concept of it is absolutely brilliant and gut-wrenching in the most spydoc way ever: a mid-s12 doctor uses the history between her and the master as a bargaining tool to get him to tell her what he discovered in the matrix, blood and biting including. But, yknow. just do yourself a favour and read this author's entire body of work because it is extremely worth it. You won't regret it, I'm sure.

i only speak in silences by daring_elm (2k, 1 chapter, gen) summary: The Doctor can't just leave the Master behind, so she sends him a hologram. //do you ever get a fic that you forget exists, and then you find it again and go OHHHH THIS ONE??? That was me with this fic (and, honestly, this author, who has a ton of great stuff that you should all check out). We all know that the doctor and the master are awful at communicating, but this fic is such a wonderful exploration of it - of the ways that they refuse to be vulnerable with each other, the ways that they are so angry with each other, but also can't help but be drawn back to each other all at the same time. An absolute cracker!

awake and unafraid (asleep or dead) by SleepyMaddy (5k, 1 chapter, thoschei) summary: The Doctor has trouble sleeping. The Master, in typical fashion, makes it worse. //There are so many fics by this author that I could recommend on a post like this, but a spydoc rec post has got to have at least one fic on there that plays with O/13, because it's just such brilliant, painful angst in the softest way. And there are a great many fics that explore it, but this one just takes the cake. Impeccable s12 angst wrapped up in o/13 softness, complete with thirteen making terrible decisions for literally the entire thing. Absolutely astounding writing, beautifully in character and just so painful in the best kind of way. This one killed me, guys. It killed me.

chaos theory by BlueLillyBlue (61k, 11 chapters, gen, wip) summary: The TARDIS has crash-landed in England, 2019, and the Doctor is acting cagey. Also, spacetime might be collapsing. So... Yaz's week isn't off to a great start. //Ohhhh man ok ok. This fic. Is a goldmine. This author is just absolutely SPOT ON with how they write thirteen, and their plots are just an absolute delight and tick soooo many boxes for me. They always make the world they're writing in feel so rich and real, whether that's a starving community on a frozen moon or a hotel in Cornwall. But this one is just so up my street because the master is in it, and oh my GOODNESS guys, it's just - it's just so, so good. If you haven't been following this one along already, then get going on that, stat!

together, we average out to dry land by hawkeishest (1k, 1 chapter, thoschei) summary: If she thought about it, really, this was all Ryan’s fault. He was the one who’d touched the statue. Though, to be fair to him, she should have known the temple would have some kind of psychic defence system. And now her head felt like it was cracking open. //I feel like most people have read this one because it's such a classic, but for anyone who missed it or is new to the fandom - this one is a must read. Absolutely fantastic exploration of the doctor and the master's psychic abilities and the connection between them, written with the most gorgeous descriptions. Just brilliant. Go check it out!

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hungermakesmonsters · 5 months

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Catch Me If You Can

Chapter Eight

Plot summary : When your friend interviews for a position at Anvil, you have a chance encounter with Billy Russo. He takes you for coffee and, by the time you’re done, Billy decides he’s anything but done with you.

Pairing : Billy Russo x Reader

Story Rating : R

Chapter Rating : PGish

Warnings : [This is a fic for 18+ only, minors DNI] Reader is kind of mean to Billy. Random guy gets grope-y and doesn't want to take no for an answer. There's a little bit of violence. And reader has far too much to drink. Please check the warnings on each chapter if you choose to follow this story.

Word Count : ~4.3k

A/N : This follows on directly from the last part! Thanks to everyone still following this and for all the likes, comments and reblogs, y'all are awesome!!

Chapter Eight

The club was packed, the dance floor a sea of bodies in costumes and faces in masks. You regretted deciding to go the moment you saw how full it was, but Tammy had hold of your wrist, leading you towards the bar. It was your round and, suddenly, you were very glad of the two hundred dollars Billy had tipped you for his bogus delivery. Eventually you all ended up at a table, more shots were put in front of you and, honestly, you couldn’t remember the last time you’d had so much to drink

Michelle and her friend made a point of loudly letting everyone (you) know when Billy arrived. The newer Anvil recruits seemed just as uncomfortable as you at his presence and you made a point of heading to the bar before he reached your table, escaping his notice, but you found yourself glancing over your shoulder, drinking in the sight of him in one of his dark suits, matched with a red shirt, and a devil mask that covered half his face. At least he’d be easy to avoid, looking like that.

You stayed at the bar, slowly making your way through a couple of drinks, doing everything you could not to look back. And, for a time, that worked out perfectly.

Until it didn’t

You felt him behind you, standing too close, towering over you. A shiver ran up your spine as he placed his hand on the bar next to yours, so close that his thumb was almost pressed against your pinkie. The seconds ticked by; you didn’t speak and he didn’t move. You were the first to break, glancing over your shoulder, finding his dark eyes beneath the devil mask. He didn’t smile that playful smile, didn’t look happy that you’d finally decided to pay attention to him; his jaw was clenched and he just seemed lost.

Unfortunately for him, you’d had enough to drink to loosen your tongue.

“Did you tell Michelle that she’s a rebound?” Not caring about the jealousy and anger in your voice.

“I’m not here with Michelle.”

“Not what I heard,” you answered back and watched as his shoulder twitched in annoyance, “tonight’s the night she finally gets you into bed.”

“I’m not fucking Michelle - tonight or any other night.” Barely managing to hold back his irritation, but you couldn’t tell if it was aimed at you or her.

“No, that’s right - you can’t fuck anyone, can you?” A laugh bubbled up and you hated how cruel you felt the moment it left your lips.

“You know why I’m here.”

“Yeah because she sent you a thirst trap and you were thirsty enough to fall for it. Don’t act like this has anything to do with me.”

Billy didn’t answer, he just reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, opening the picture Michelle had sent, zooming in on the background; it was you, talking to Tammy. He’d come to the club for you, to stop you taking anyone home, just like he said he would.

“So you’re stalking me now?” You demanded but the only answer he gave was a shrug. “I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt, but your ex was right about you; you’re a fucking psycho, Billy.”

It was enough to draw a reaction from him, one that you weren’t expecting. There was a visceral flicker of pain across his face, followed by something that almost looked like fear. He looked away from you and your stomach dropped, remembering what Karen and Frank had told you about his relationship with Krista. It felt like you’d genuinely hurt him, like you’d finally managed to strike a nerve.

“You spoke to Krista.” It wasn’t a question, wasn’t even a demand, he just sounded resigned.

“She spoke to me,” you explained, not wanting him to think you’d gone looking for dirt on him.

“When?”

“At the gala. Why? What does it matter?”

“And she told you - what? - that I’m a psychopath, that I can’t feel real emotions? Did she tell you I’m dangerous? That I hurt people?” There was pain in his voice, the kind you hadn’t meant to cause, his composure seeming to break a little more as his shoulder ticked again. “She told you all that but you still went home with me?”

“I didn’t believe her -”

“But you do now?” He didn’t let you finish. “You think I’d hurt you? That I’m capable of hurting you?” He was standing close enough that you heard his breath catch over the thrum of the music, and saw his chest shudder, like he couldn’t breathe. His hand twitched on the bar, inadvertently grazing yours as he pulled it back.

Before you could think of an answer, or say anything at all, he was turning away from you and disappearing into the crowd. You’d managed to get rid of him, but the cost felt far too high.

The next few hours passed in a blur of tequila shots and increasingly sloppy dancing with Tammy and her friends. From time to time, you caught sight of him through the crowd, Michelle permanently attached to his side, putting her hands on him at any chance she got, but every time you looked his way, it was you that held his attention.

You kept drinking, trying to wash away the sickening feeling in your stomach, the part of you that regretted what you’d said to Billy - you’d wanted him to leave you alone, you hadn’t wanted to hurt him. And it had been low bringing Krista into it. But, the more you drank, the harder it became to really focus on any of that. You just wanted to dance, but none of the Anvil guys seemed to want to dance with you or pay you any attention, and you didn’t know if it was because of Billy or just because of you.

With your self-esteem in the toilet, you went looking for validation elsewhere, and it wasn’t long before you found yourself a dance partner (though you really should have realised he was bad news purely because he was dressed as Jared Leto’s Joker).

You danced for a couple of songs before everything started to go wrong.

His hand found your hip, low enough that his fingers could slip into the gaps in your fishnets. You tensed, but you didn’t pull away. If he noticed your discomfort, it didn’t stop him from putting his hand on your other hip, his fingertips roughly pressing into your skin. You danced like that for another song before he got a little bolder, letting one of his hands grab your ass and pull you closer, grinding his body against yours. You managed to squirm out of his grip, hoping he’d take the hint.

He didn’t.

“C’mon, babe, don’t tease. You’re gettin’ me hard.” He smirked, pulling you close again, grinding against you. You tried to push him away, hands on his chest, trying to struggle out of his hold. Instead of letting you go, he leaned in to kiss you. You felt his lips brush yours before -

Suddenly he was gone, pulled away from you, and someone was standing between you and him. Billy.

“What the fuck?” He threw a clumsy fist Billy's way, but Billy was too fast (and sober). Billy stepped aside, catching him by the collar, holding him in place as he threw a punch of his own. Even over the music you heard the sickening thud of Billy's fist connecting with his face. Blood started to pour from his nose, but Billy didn't stop, hitting him again and again.

He didn't stop until a couple of the Anvil guys pulled him off, one of them telling the bloodied guy to walk away.

By the time Billy thought to turn back to you, you were already heading for the door, not even bothering to stop to get your jacket. He followed after, forcing his way through the crowd and calling out your name, discarding the stupid devil mask as he went. You didn’t stop, didn’t even turn; you just wanted to get out of there.

You were fighting back tears by the time you made it outside and into the pouring rain. It didn’t take long for Billy to catch up, lightly grabbing your wrist so you’d at least turn to look at him.

“Leave me alone, Billy.”

“Are you okay?” He asked, letting you pull away from his grip.

“What do you think?” You half-snapped, half-sobbed. “Are you happy now?”

“Why would I be happy?” He was confused, hurt by the implication.

“You were right; I can’t do this.”

“Oh, sweetheart, I didn’t want to be right like this.” He replied softly. Too softly. The care and tenderness in his voice were just too much to process.

You shook your head and turned to keep walking, and Billy started after you. For a few steps you tried to ignore it, hoping he’d get bored or decide it wasn’t worth getting soaked to the bone. Of course, he didn’t.

“Stop following me, Billy.”

“I just want to make sure you get in a taxi and make it safely to your front door,” which, to you, made it sound like he wanted to follow you all the way home.

“I’m not getting a taxi.” You kept walking, trying to ignore the rain and the cold. Billy fell a few steps behind before realising just what you were doing.

“You’re gonna walk home in the pissing down rain just to prove a point?” He called after you, still following.

“Yeah, Billy. The point is that I’m not going to fuck you.” You snapped back, almost losing your footing as you glanced back at him.

“I get it, you don’t want me, you’ve made that painfully fucking clear.” And you really could hear that pain in his voice.

“Then why are you still following me?”

“‘cause this is a scary neighbourhood and I don’t think a good looking guy like me would make it to the end of the block on his own?” You didn’t want to laugh at his stupid joke, and you did your best to stifle it, but it hurt. You didn’t want to laugh with him, didn’t want to think about the sweet and playful guy you went for coffee with all those weeks ago, it just made walking away from him harder.

Billy kept following as you crossed the street, watching as you shivered and tried to push your wet hair from your eyes. He stayed silent, giving you space and waiting for you to speak again. And, of course, a few minutes later, you did.

“Why did you have to ruin it?” You asked, stopping beneath a flickering street light and turning to face him. He was drenched just like you, but it didn’t seem to bother him; perks of being an ex-Marine, you supposed. “We had a perfect night, why couldn’t you just let me keep that?”

“Because I don’t want a perfect night with you, I want every night; the perfect ones and the bad ones.”

“Don’t you realise how insane that sounds? You hardly know me, Billy.”

“I know enough. I know how I feel whenever I’m around you.”

“And how’s that?” You rolled your eyes.

“Happy,” he answered uncomfortably, like he didn’t want to admit it. “I feel like I can just be myself with you, and you’ve got no idea how difficult that is for me..."

“Why would that be hard for you?”

“Seriously?” You didn’t say anything. “You’ve seen Michelle, right? You’ve seen how she is with me?”

“Yeah, she wants to fuck you, like pretty much every other woman above the age of consent in New York...” You rolled your eyes, oblivious to the point he was trying to make.

“And you think any of them would give a shit if I didn’t have money, or if I didn’t look like this?” Again, you didn’t say anything, finally starting to understand what Billy was trying to say. “Every time someone like Michelle wants to talk to me, it’s to get something. I spent my whole childhood trying to get anyone to care about me, and now people just see me for what I am, not who I am, but not you...”

The vulnerability in his voice, written all over his face, was enough to soften your expression.

“Don’t,” he told you softly, “don’t you dare pity me.”

You stayed silent, letting your eyes linger for a moment more before continuing your miserable walk in the rain. It felt strange to suddenly have a new perspective on everything, on Billy. It hadn’t crossed your mind how it must feel to have people only interested in his status and looks - honestly, with the way he acted sometimes, you’d just assumed that Billy was perfectly happy with it.

Soaked to the bone and freezing cold, you pulled your arms across your chest, shivering and regretting your childish decision to walk home. Before you knew it, Billy was at your side, draping his jacket over your shoulders, it was wet through, but it helped block the cold wind.

“Billy -”

“I don’t want you freezing to death out here.”

You didn’t argue, you already knew that it would be pointless to try. He kept walking like the cold and rain didn’t bother him, like the only one being punished on this slow walk home was you. And, by the time you reached your street, you were close to tears again, the wind was biting and you felt like a child for putting Billy through it.

Once you were finally outside your building, you turned to face him. There were roughly a thousand and one things you wanted to say to him, and only about half of them were nice. You were still angry, still frustrated beyond belief that he wouldn’t just let you go, but having heard him out, you couldn’t help but think you had to take some of the blame; you’d let things get out of hand because you’d enjoyed your time with him and, in doing so, you’d given him reason to hope for something you couldn’t give him.

A heavy sigh slipped out.

“I’m home. You can go now, Billy.”

“I said I was going to make sure you made it to your front door.”

“I’m not gonna change my mind between now and the third floor.”

It was his turn to sigh. “I’m not expecting you to. I just need to know that you’re home safe.”

“And then you’ll give up and leave me alone?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Again - again, you knew that there was no point fighting him, that he’d follow you up regardless of what you had to say. So, you pulled his jacket tighter around your shoulders and made your way inside, taking the stairs at an awkward pace, almost stumbling a couple of times (probably why Billy had wanted to make sure you actually made it to your front door, because the walk in the scold had done little to help you sober up). And, by the time you reached your door, you felt worse than ever.

Under the flickering hallway light, you could finally see him, see the state he was in; soaked to the bone, hair dripping, shirt clinging to his body. And it was your fault - of course he wasn’t going to let you walk the New York streets on your own at two in the morning. And you could have changed your mind at any time and ordered an Uber, but you hadn’t because you’d wanted to put him through that.

As if you hadn’t already put him through enough.

“Can I get my jacket back?” He asked, breaking a silence that you had allowed to linger a touch too long.

“Why did you have to do this, Billy?” Still clinging to his jacket, knowing that he couldn’t leave without it.

“Which part?” He asked, like he thought everything that he’d done had been perfectly reasonable.

“Any of it.” Because you weren’t sure why he was fighting so hard to keep you. No one had ever fought to keep you before.

“You flinched - every time that prick put his hands on you, you flinched. And it made me so fucking angry that anyone could touch you in a way that made you uncomfortable.” His voice turned low, barely masking his anger, but it wasn’t directed at you. “He didn’t even notice - what d’you think he would have done if you’d gone home with him, if you’d asked him to stop?”

You didn’t have an answer for that. All you could think about was how Billy had always stopped when you asked, how he’d noticed every little flicker of discomfort - how he’d noticed your discomfort even when he wasn’t the one causing it.

“I don’t care what you think about me, I’d never let anyone hurt you.” He didn’t have to go on because you were sure his reasons for following you home were exactly the same. “And I - I know I hurt you earlier, and I’m so fucking sorry, but seeing him grabbing you like that...”

He didn’t have to finish the thought. And you were glad that he didn’t. The rage in his voice said more than words ever could.

It was then, when your gaze dropped to your feet, that you noticed the puddles you were both making on the tiled floor. Billy was drenched and probably cold - would he even be able to get a taxi in that state? His penthouse was so far away, and -

“Do you want to come in?” You asked in little more than mumble. “Just - just to dry off a little?”

“Are you sure?”

“Just to get dry, nothing else, I’m not going to fu-”

“I wouldn’t even if you threw yourself at me.” He interrupted. It stung to hear, though you weren’t sure why; you’d just spent the last twenty minutes telling him to leave you alone. His hand on your cheek urged you to look up so he could see you. “Only because you’re drunk and I’d never take advantage of you,” he explained, a ghost of a smile on his lips, “you’re never going to regret a night that you spend with me.

“Why do you have to say things like that?” You practically whined, hating that he was suddenly being the perfect gentleman despite every shitty thing you’d said to him in the last twenty-four hours.

“I’m not gonna make it easy for you to get over me,” he shrugged.

Turning, you fumbled with your keys, missing the lock a couple of times before Billy took over. He unlocked the door and let you into your dark apartment. Obviously Tammy hadn’t come home yet. Finding the light switch took more effort than you would have liked and you were pretty sure Billy was trying to keep himself from laughing, especially when you almost fell over pulling your boots off. But, all the while, he stood behind you, ready to catch you if you fell.

“Go sit down,” you told him, waving towards the den before heading off to the bathroom to grab some towels, not even noticing that you still had his jacket pulled tightly around you.

Catching sight of yourself in the mirror, you realised just how bad you looked; hair dripping, eyes red, and make-up running down your face. (If that hadn’t been enough to scare Billy off, what would be?) You spent a moment at the sink, trying to clean yourself up a little, scrubbing away the make-up with enough force to leave your skin feeling raw, before towel drying your hair.

There was no noise in the apartment and you almost dared to hope that Billy had let himself out but, when you finally left the bathroom, a towel in hand, you found him in the den, sitting on the edge of the coffee table. He gave you a smile as you edged closer, holding out a hand like he was expecting you to offer him the towel. But you didn’t - that had been the plan, to let him dry himself off so he could leave - instead you stopped in front of him, standing far closer than you knew you should.

Billy didn’t say anything, he didn’t even move. Looking down you noticed the way he was gripping the edge of the table at his sides, holding tight, obviously not trusting himself not to reach for you.

Even though you knew he was still fighting for you, he was respecting your boundaries.

Slowly, you pressed the towel to one side of his face, then the other, before towelling his hair. His eyes stayed on yours, letting you do what you wanted. Your attention moved to his neck, one hand drying his skin with the towel while the other slowly started to undo his shirt. Little by little you exposed his torso, running the towel across his chest and stomach, while you pushed the shirt off his shoulders. And Billy let you, he went along with everything until your fingers found his belt.

He took hold of your hand gently before standing slowly. When he reached for you, your breath caught and, despite every time you’d said no to him, you found yourself thinking yes. But Billy didn’t kiss you, didn’t even pull you into his arms. No, he gently pulled his wet jacket from around your shoulders and dropped it onto the table.

“You should get out of those wet clothes,” he told you softly and, despite the tenderness in his tone, it felt like a rejection.

“Right,” you huffed, letting the towel drop from your hand. You weren’t even sure why you were upset - or what you’d even been planning to do when you got his pants off. As much as you’d been trying to convince him that you didn’t want him, some part of you obviously did.

You turned from him, but instead of heading towards your bedroom you made a beeline towards the kitchen.

“What are you doing?” He asked, getting to his feet and following after.

You didn’t need to answer, it became more than obvious once you’d fished a bottle of Jack Daniels from a cupboard and found yourself a mug. Billy let out a sigh, obviously biting back what he wanted to say; haven’t you had enough? For a second you just looked at him, expectant, but when it didn’t come, you decided to pour him a drink too (managing to splash the counter in the process).

Billy looked at the mug; a bright pink thing with the words Queen Bitch painted on in silver glitter. The corners of his lips turned up at the ridiculousness of it, eyes then rolling when he noticed that yours similarly was painted silver with the words Ray of Fucking Sunshine in gold.

When you took a drink, he did too. He let the silence linger for a few long moments, waiting to see if you had anything to say, but you were waiting for him to speak first.

“What are we doing?”

“Drinking.” You answered, taking another sip from your mug and grimacing at the taste.

“Why?”

“Because what else are we going to do?” You offered. Billy held up his hand in a confused half-shrug, needing you to be more specific. “You’re half naked in my apartment but you don’t want to fuck me, so what else are we supposed to do?”

Even though you were being completely serious, Billy started to laugh but it wasn’t that playful that you’d come to enjoy pulling from him, it was something far darker. Still, you glared at him, silently demanding that he explained himself.

“There hasn’t been a single moment where I haven’t wanted to fuck you, sweetheart,” there was that sharp, barely restrained tone in his voice again. He placed his mug down and stepped towards you, your head tilting back the closer he got to keep your eyes on his. “You’ve got no idea the things I want to do to you - the things I will do to you once you admit that you’re mine.”

“I’m not yours,” you answered breathlessly, not sure which of you you were really trying to convince.

He reached for you and you let him, his hand finding your cheek and, despite your verbal protests, you leaned into the touch, letting your eyes fall shut for a few sweet seconds. You didn’t open them until Billy spoke again.

“I want you in the worst ways, I’m out of control when I’m with you, but I can’t stay away. I’m bad news, just like Krista said, and you’re right to try and tell me no. But, eventually, you’re gonna give in and then I’ll show you exactly how much I want you.” It felt like he was barely holding back again and you shivered. “Once you’re mine, I’m gonna ruin you.”

You struggled to swallow down the lump that had stuck itself in your throat, heart pounding in your chest, again struck by the notion that Billy was dangerous. But you still didn’t pull away, the heat of his palm on your cheek stoked a heat between your thighs and, although he’d already said no, you wanted him. Dangerous or not, some part of you still knew that Billy would never hurt you.

“I’m not yours,” you said again, lifting the mug to your lips and draining the rest of the Jack Daniels.

“Not yet,” he answered back.

“Maybe I’m the one who’s dangerous, maybe I’ll ruin you. You don’t know me, you don’t know what I’ve done. You think you want me but if you knew…” The mug was placed on the side and you made to move, half-thinking about throwing yourself at Billy, and half-wanting to grab his discarded drink, instead the floor seemed to shift and you fell forward. Billy caught you, holding you tight against his chest.

“Okay, time for bed, sweetheart.” And you were in no state to argue with him as he scooped you up into his arms.

CHAPTER NINE

END NOTES : I don't really have much to say about this one. I just enjoy the angst. Next chapter will take place more or less directly after this one, and we're finally going to learn a little bit more about reader (though please check the warnings on the next one because there's a few things that will probably come up that are potentially triggering). And, as always thank you so much for engaging with this story, I'm speechless how many followers I've gotten and the fact that the first chapter of this story now has over 100 notes!

Thanks for reading!!

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fizzyxcustard · 2 months

Text

Covert Eyes (23)

Masterlist of fan fiction

Fandom: Spooks

Pairings: Lucas North x OC (Amy Holland)

Warnings: Stalking behaviour, anxiety, language, sexual references, angst, smut, heartbreak, gunshot wounds and recovery, abduction, hostage situation.

Summary: Lucas takes notice of a young woman, Amy, but his obsession and want to get to know her begin to spiral out of control. Amy is now working for MI-5, after being recruited by Ros. But will her involvement with Lucas cause even more problems and heartbreak?

When Amy's parents get involved, how will things pan out for Amy and Lucas?

Official soundtrack list: here

Comments/Notes: If you wish to be tagged in any of my tag lists for fics or characters, please let me know, and stipulate what you want to be tagged in.

People who don't interact with my fics over a few months will be removed from tag lists.

Bright light burst into the room and the familiar voices of Ros and Jo broke through the shroud of silence that had formed in the room. Halos around their heads. Amy winced against the light….

As Amy lay in bed, waking, she saw Lucas’ outline, his form haloed by a bright light. He was in the doorway. Every time he stood in the doorway, the room dark, with only light from the hallway behind him, it took her back. It felt as if she were time travelling back to her time locked away with nothing by Simon Caulfield’s slimy words for company.

Lucas limped into the room. She could hear his shouts in her mind as Simon Caulfield had put a bullet in his thigh merely seconds before Ros and Jo saved them. Then once they had both been released, Amy and Lucas had been in hospital overnight. They had been given their own private room due to the nature of their reasoning for being in hospital.

Harry had given them both time off to recuperate, and offered counselling. Lucas, as he had done many times, politely rejected Harry’s offer. However, Amy knew that she would probably find herself fighting against the memories for some time.

Lucas got into bed beside Amy, and studied her for a moment. There were dark circles beneath her eyes, but gradually they had begun to fade and the light in her eyes was starting to reappear.

Amy curled her arm around his head, her fingers sifting through his short hair. He was literally her everything.

***

Richard Holland held a small package in his hand, thinking back on the postman’s words that it had been sent first class but accidentally got lost at the depot, so was a week late. He ripped open the thick envelope finding a small stack of papers inside. On the top was a note, written in capital letters.

RICHARD AND SHARON HOLLAND,

THE ENCLOSED PHOTOGRAPHS ARE PROOF THAT LUCAS NORTH IS NOT WHO HE APPEARS TO BE. YOUR DAUGHTER IS IN DANGER.

Richard felt his whole body grow cold at the sight of photos of Amy bound to a chair and blindfolded. Then further photographs showed Amy lying on the pavement in a pool of her own blood, next to another woman also shot. With Lucas standing over both of them, a gun in his hand.

***

Amy and Lucas were still off work when the phone call came. Lucas was sat on the sofa with a mug of coffee, flicking through the channels, rolling his eyes at how shit day time TV was. Amy had been cleaning the kitchen; mundane tasks were enough to take her mind away from the thoughts of Simon Caulfield. The pain in her neck and back was fading day by day, but still enough to cause her grief and keep up a steady dose of painkillers.

“Dad?” Amy asked. “Everything okay?” Amy sat down at the kitchen table and sighed, wincing at sharp stab of pain which shot through her neck.

“I’m coming to fetch you, Amy. You’re not to stay with that bastard any longer!” Richard Holland demanded. “Your mum knew there was something behind the shooter; I know she was involved with Lucas. And I know you were took hostage last week.”

A rod of ice shot down Amy’s back and her heart raced in her chest. “D…Dad….what’s happened?”

“I’m coming to London to get you. He better not be there when I come because I’ll kill the bastard!” Richard seethed.

“Dad, please, stop it.”

“No, I won’t stop it, Amy. I am not prepared to let him do this to you. It’s a good job your mum is at work and hasn’t seen the photos. I won’t let her see them.”

“Who sent you the photos?”

“It doesn’t matter who sent them. I’m coming to get you. Pack some things.”

“Dad…please….”

Lucas could hear Amy’s pleas and hobbled into the kitchen. “Aim, what’s going on?”

Richard growled down the phone line. “Trying to play the protector now, is he? He can fuck himself. He’d better not be there when I come and get you because I really will kill him…”

Amy was weeping as her father disconnected the call. She held the phone in her shaking hand, until it finally fell from her grasp and hit the floor. “Dad knows!” she sobbed. “He’s got photos of me from last week and when I was shot. He’s coming to take me back to Coventry. I can’t leave.”

Lucas’ breath caught in his throat. Everything he loved was slipping away, and for a few seconds he tried to grapple with some kind of rational thought. He knew he couldn’t fight this one; Amy’s father was right. Despite having not heard Richard’s side of the conversation, Lucas knew he was doing the right thing. Amy had to be safe.

Amy dashed at Lucas, grabbing his shirt. She could see in his face that he was admitting defeat.

“You need to go with him, Aim. They can keep you safe: I can’t,” Lucas said, his voice breaking. “I love you too much to let you keep being hurt. He’s doing this because he loves you, Amy. He fucking loves you…and so do I.” His voice finally broke. Tears fell down Lucas’ cheeks and he took Amy into his arms, holding her tight. “Go with him, angel. I can’t keep you safe anymore.”

“You can,” Amy wept, looking up at him. “I want to be with you, Lucas. More than anything. Don’t push me away.”

“I’m not pushing you away because I want to. Fuck. Can’t you see that? It’s because I love you more than anything that I’m doing this.”

“If I do go, I’ll come back,” Amy argued. “They can’t make me stay.”

Lucas smiled through the tears. “You are the bravest person I’ve ever met.”

The next two hours were crippling as Amy packed two suitcases full of clothing. Lucas watched her from the doorway, knowing that letting her go was the only way to keep her safe. Amy belonged with her family who could be the stability she needed. “I am coming back,” Amy said defiantly, stopping for a second with a pile of underclothes in her hands. “I don’t intend on staying there for long.”

“You’ll stay as long as you need to.”

“I’m only doing this to please you and Dad for now, but I’ll be coming back,” Amy countered. She approached Lucas and lifted her hand, cupping his cheek. He kissed her palm, turning into her touch. Then suddenly he kissed her hard, catching her off guard. Heat mounted so high between them and within seconds, Lucas’ lips were trailing down Amy’s throat.

They made love on the bed. It was like the very first time they had made love: intense, passionate, full of want. As Lucas came and then rested his head on her chest, he whispered, “I need to let you go.”

“Lucas, no!” Amy whimpered. “Don’t you dare!”

Lucas got up from the bed, untangling himself from her and re-buttoned his shirt, and then pulled his jeans up, re-buckling his belt.

“When we got back together, I should have known I wouldn’t be worth it,” Amy growled. “I’m never worth it, am I?”

“You are worth everything!” Lucas shot back. His eyes were wide and his whole face was contorted in anger and frustration. “How the fuck can you say you’re not worth it? I’m doing this because I love you. I should have known better than ever bring you into any of this. I should have stayed away when I first saw you.”

Amy choked as she heard those words and dropped to the bed. “You regret me….”

“I would never regret you. I only regret that I caused you so much pain. Your dad won’t be too much longer, I don’t think.” He looked at the clock; Coventry was about a three hour drive away from London. It was now just after one in the afternoon and Richard had called at eleven. “Go with your dad. You are loved so much more than you could ever imagine. By all of us.”

Lucas walked out of the room and picked up his keys in the hallway.

Amy followed on behind, calling after him.

Before Lucas left the flat, he kissed Amy hard one last time. “I adore you so much,” he choked. “Be happy, angel, but more important, be safe.”

Amy sobbed on the doorstep as Lucas left. She watched his form walk down the hallway and out the main door into the street. Pain was ripping her so raw inside and in her own mind she knew that she could never give up on Lucas North completely. No matter what happened and what evil things were thrown at them. Their love would be stronger than any of it.

***

Amy sat in her dad’s car as they drove back to Coventry. There was only silence and the gentle sway of the car as it swept along the motorway. Until Richard broke open the silence. “Fancy a coffee?”

“Okay,” Amy whispered, her voice so hoarse after sobbing. Her cheeks were still vivid red and her eyes full of unshed tears. They threatened to fall at any moment. Just her dad’s kindness and soft voice made her want to cry all over again. Of course he was only protecting her; that had never been in dispute. That was all he and Lucas were doing.

Richard slipped out of the car and headed into a Costa at a motorway service station. Rain was beginning to spit as dark clouds began to move in. Amy stared out of the window, her focus glued to the spot in front of her where a family were getting into their car. A dark haired man, accompanied by a blonde woman. A toddler and an older child, who looked to be around ten. They looked happy.

The sound of the driver door opening snapped Amy back to reality and made her jump. Richard noticed his daughter’s shock and smiled sadly at her. “Here you go, love,” he said, offering her a large latte. “Extra shot of caramel.” Then he winked.

As Richard started the engine, he sighed. “I’m sorry, Amy,” he said. “I’m only doing this for your good; you know that, don’t you? I know you love Lucas. But being with him is going to put you at risk.”

“I know, Dad,” Amy said, her voice quiet. “I know you’re doing this to help me and because you love me.”

“You might be a grown woman, but your mum and I would do anything for you, you know that. We want you safe. No matter how old your children get, your responsibility for them never stops.”

The car was still stationary as Richard glanced across at Amy’s hands in her lap, and he noticed something dark around her wrist as her jumper sleeve had ridden up her arm. “Fucking hell,” he whispered. “Your wrists.”

***

Lucas slammed the flat door as he walked back inside, knowing Amy would be gone by now. The silence was deafening, and a gasp came from the very back of his throat. She’d gone. Her room was tidy, but her diary from her bedside table was gone, along with her slippers and most of the toiletries from the bathroom. He opened her wardrobe, just to feel the pain of her departure even more. There were barely any clothes left.

In the kitchen and Lucas slumped down on the floor, feeling the cold of tiles against his backside and thighs. Pain from the bullet wound shot down his leg, but he didn’t care. The pain couldn’t compare to that of letting Amy go. He pulled his phone from his jeans pocket and looked at the photo of them on his lock screen. She was his everything. Though the pain was excruciating, her very presence in his life had helped him to feel once more. All of the emotional and mental numbness he had felt since coming home from Russia, had been burned away by Amy Holland. She made him feel happiness, contentment, love, pleasure. But also pain. Pain seemed to be a constant in his life now, a permanent friend.

***

Amy stepped into her parents’ house, feeling the wave of familiarity rush through her. The smell of a home she had left many years ago – it was still exactly the same. It hadn’t been that long since she and Lucas had been visiting for new year, but this was different. Today marked the day she would be staying for longer. Maybe until all of this blew over, and then she could be with Lucas again. So she hoped.

“Your mum isn’t home yet, but I’ve burned the photos. I can’t let her see those. What happened, Amy? The truth, please,” Richard asked, his voice was low but firm. He had never been a demanding man, instead always being gentle with his daughters. But today had shown Amy just how fierce he really could be. “You know who sent those images, don’t you?”

“It’s all secret information…”

“No, Amy! I won’t have that shit,” Richard growled. “Tell me. I don’t care if it’s top secret and a risk to national security, or whatever, you’re my daughter and I deserve to know what happened to you.”

Amy stood in the kitchen and looked up at her dad who was waiting for an answer. He had his arms folded and his face was set in a straight expression.

“The woman who shot me was Lucas’ ex and a CIA agent. She faked her death because she killed her boss and went on the run. Then she must have found out about me and Lucas, and tried to make me think he wasn’t really in love with me. And she collared us outside the café that morning and went to shoot Lucas, but I stopped her. And Lucas killed her.”

Richard sighed and held his hand to his mouth. “Fucking hell, Amy.”

“It was Sarah’s brother who took me hostage, wanting to get revenge on him. Apparently, the accomplice of Simon Caulfield was Sarah’s ex-husband; I was told that in the hospital. They went rogue together to get revenge on Lucas.”

“And you were still prepared to stay with him after all this?” Richard asked, his eyes wide.

“I love him,” Amy replied softly. Tears were falling down her cheeks again. “I’ve never loved anyone else like this, and he actually loves me back. For so long I never felt I’d ever find a man who could love me...”

“Oh, love,” Richard sighed. He took Amy into his arms and held her tight as she wept on him. Through tears, Richard looked up at the ceiling, asking in prayer for the strength to be what his daughter needed.

Once Sharon was home from work, Richard explained the whole story to his wife.

“Where are the photos, Rich?” Sharon asked. Her dark eyes were wide with shock and her hands were shaking.

Amy was sat at the other end of the table, feeling as though her whole body was closed off. She hung her head, feeling ashamed of everything that had occurred.

“It doesn’t matter about the photos. I got rid of them. I wasn’t letting you see them,” Richard replied.

Sharon walked towards her daughter. She was slow and deliberate, and her gaze was locked on her daughter’s arms. Her skin was concealed by a thick jumper. Sharon leaned down and gently pushed the sleeve up on Amy’s left arm. “Oh, God,” she gasped, seeing black and purple bruising around Amy’s wrist.

***

Follow Forever tag list: @lathalea @linasofia @xxbyimm @middleearthpixie @knittastically @meganlpie @asgardianhobbit98 @rachel1959 @luna-redamancy @mrsdurin @lemond57 @missihart23 @quiall321 @evenstaredits @catthefearless @glassgulls @sazzlep @heilith @court-jobi @absentmindeduniverse @albionscastle @for-fuck-sake-im-alive @bookworm-with-coffee @danzalladaggers @ourlonelymountain @phantomessangel @estethell @windb3ll @protosslady

#Lucas North #Richard Armitage #Spooks #MI5 #Lucas North x OC #Original Female Character #Fanfiction

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greenhorn-art · 2 months

Text

to catch a sunbeam with white moonlight

Author: orphan_account [this work has been orphaned and is no longer associated with it's author]

Fandom: 全职高手 | The King's Avatar

Rating: General Audiences

Category: F/M, Gen, M/M

Words: 55,720

At a Glory convention, Dai Yanqi meets Ye Xiu who is helping Su Mucheng buy her favorite doujinshi. They surprisingly hit it off as they browse through all the doujinshi about their peers and talk about Glory.

About the book

FONTS: EB Garamond (body text, title), Roboto (body text - electronic), Bebas Neue (title, headings), Alfie (title), Segoe UI Symbol (scene breaks - 'gear without hub')

IMAGES: Sunflower (Rawpixel, ID: 2687359), lightning (Rawpixel, ID:10200699)

MATERIALS: Domtar Earthchoice (textblock - 20lb, cream, 11x17 cut down to 8.5x11), Recollections paper pad (endpapers - Dark Watercolor Florals), Iris bookcloth (covers - Eggplant), Verona bookcloth (covers - Hot Toffee), Ribbon (covers - 1/4", shell grey), embroidery floss (endbands - 209 Very Dark Lavender), leather cording (endbands - 1.4mm), Ceramcoat acrylic paint (painted edges - metallic silver), Anita's acrylic paint (painted edges - 11038 Purple), Reeves acrylic paint (painted edges - Violet & Crimson & Blue Lake, Payne's Gray), waxed linen thread (sewing textblock - 30/3, white), Books by Hand (glue - pH neutral PVA)

PROGRAMS USED: Affinity Publisher (typesetting), Affinity Designer and Affinity Photo, LibreOffice Writer (QR codes), Bookbinder-JS (PDF imposer)

BINDING STYLE: Split-board binding, French double-core endbands

(Belated) Binderary Book 2024

My first year participating in Binderary and I'm 2/2 with my goals, albeit slightly late (even with the added leap day).

Goal No. 1: Bind a book!

This fic is an orphaned work, with no author available for me to reach out to. Convenient, since it was a last-minute decision.

Goal No. 2: Finish typesetting the fic that got me into this whole bookbinding/fanbinding hobby!

Bad Boys JEDI Style is a 217 chapter, 908k word "comedy of errors: in which our heroes are recruited to film a reality holo-drama". Much to my despair, the fic I loved had been deleted from every site it was uploaded to, and I was left kicking myself for not having downloaded a copy from AO3.

Shout out to Kam and Lofe, whose wonderful Binderary demos were put to use in the making of this book! Kam's French Double-Core endbands demo was super helpful, sizing up the 'textblock' and components made it easy to actually see what's happening with the sewing. Loffe's demo introduced me to the split-board binding technique and, sleep-deprived hiccup notwithstanding, I think I might find it easier then bradel style binding! Need to bind more books to know for sure (such a hardship 😔).

In other new-s, I took my dad's recent workshop baby for a spin. The bookbinding plough works like a dream! I tried a hidden fore-edge painting for the first time (just a solid colour), but the purple is lost under the Payne's Gray basecoat I applied to the silver painted edges. Adding ribbon to the cover was also new (mostly due to the fact that I never remember until the endpapers are already pasted down).

On the Design

Cover

This is a Team Thunderclap!Ye Xiu AU, so the cover was based on Team Thunderclap's uniforms from the donghua (from the one screencap of the team I found, see below): purple across the shoulders and forearms of their jackets with a yellow stripe down the centre. I added silver ribbon as a nod to the white of the jackets as well as the grey gear of the team's logo. Also in reference to the title: yellow=sunlight, silver=moonlight.

Title Page

The title page stumped me for a while. While brainstorming title page design ideas, I thought about what the title means. In English it's poetic but nonsensical, so I wondered if maybe it held some meaning in Chinese?

As it turns out, it does. Kind of. Maybe. (If I stretch and reach for it, it makes sense). According to a quick search of one webpage for each query, "'White Moonlight' usually refers to a person or thing that is elusive in the heart, has always been loved, but cannot be touched" or "an 'unforgettable first love'." The sunbeam itself might be Ye Xiu, the figurative ray of light, the hero, the gaming idol. Or 'catching a sunbeam' could refer to how "sunflowers turn their heads to catch every sunbeam."

The potential meaning I have cobbled together is how Dai Yanqi turns Ye Xiu's head and captures his heart by sharing the (SanXiu-ified) story of Su Muqiu, the aforementioned white moonlight. Is this what the author intended? Who knows. But it does seem plausible enough to inspire me.

I ended up using both the idea of sunflowers and Thunderclap's uniforms (again). Lightning referencing the team's logo, and also the white colour of a flash of lightning which is kind of like moonlight. The logo's background is blue, as is the uniform as seen on the cover of the manhua featuring the captain Xiao Shiqin (see below), so I made the background blue-purple.

Endpapers

The (not-actually-)sunflowers carried over to the endpapers, as well as the grey colour from the gear in Thunderclap's logo.

Endbands

Kept these simple. A solid purple, as close as I could get to the bookcloth. I didn't want to draw attention away from the stripes on the covers or the silver edges.

Probably could've gone for thicker cores.

The text

For the scene breaks I used a special character of a gear. The cog also looks like a sun. Which is fun because it can reference Thunderclap, the title (sunbeam), and my design choice of sunflowers.

I reused the lightning image at 50% opacity as a background to set apart the backmatter.

Misc.

Recently, I've begun to increase my efforts of preseving fanfiction and safeguarding the stories I love from purges and takedowns. (Sparked by the December 2023 scandal about Sony announcing an upcoming removal of content including the movies and TV shows that people have purchased).

This fic has been archived via the Wayback Machine at https://web.archive.org/web/20240215155152/https://archiveofourown.org/works/37414021?view_full_work=true.

Also, curses be upon Rawpixel. Since the time that I had downloaded the images, they have now be placed behind the premium user paywall (along with a number of other graphics and elements that used to be free).

#the king's avatar #tka #qzgs #fanfiction #bookbinding #fanbinding

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ckret2 · 5 months

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Hey, do the Henchmaniacs actually consider Bill a friend and vice versa or just a means to an end, in Weridmaggedon it didn't seem like they were actual friends but more like he controls them through intimidation and they follow him because they have a similar goal. Does Bill just not know how to act towards friends in a healthy way but still consider them such? Love your fic btw.

It varies from member to member.

Most of them, if not all, did consider him a friend—often their best friend—when they joined.

Some still consider him a friend, some call him a friend because they desperately want him to be, some call him a friend because of the sunk cost fallacy ("if I've done this much and gone this far for him, and I CAN'T even count him a friend, then what was it all for??"), some call him a friend because they fear the consequences if they don't, some call him a friend because it's convenient and he wants them to but they solely consider him a resource, a boss, an ally, whatever.

He both does and doesn't see them as friends; he can change his mind twice a sentence without changing it at all. It depends on how he feels at any given time. Yes they're his friends because he's desperately lonely and he craves friends; no they're not his friends because he's above them and they're idiots and they're useful but he certainly doesn't like them. He loves none of them; but he loves how they love him. He tells himself they love him, except when it's useful for him to tell himself they fear him.

But: if they ONLY feared him, they wouldn't stick around. There's a mix of fear and admiration, fear and camaraderie, fear and affection. Something to balance out the arm-twisting, the feeling of always being watched, the ever-present psychological pressure.

Intimidation is a tactic of last resort. Intimidation doesn't mean he's lost his temper; it means the Henchmaniac screwed up. It's an effective punishment but it's a poor way to maintain long term control.

It's a lot easier to control people by convincing them you're the best thing that's ever happened to them and you have their best interests at heart.

You can see how he controls them in the last chapter. His power is laced through the entire scene.

A side-effect of growing up in the Henchmaniacs was that Paci-Fire regarded The Authorities as a nebulous bogeyman that was personally out to get him and all his family and friends. Do you think he picked up that belief accidentally?

"Oh, yeah, pretty much every world in my galaxy was still ground bound when Bill recruited me." Go after someone who isn't knowledgeable about the multiverse; who doesn't know Bill's reputation; and who can't call on the people he left behind to help him get home...

"But the rent's really reasonable for a place this size in this part of the Nightmare Realm." ...then minimize the resources he has to get out—finances included—and make him think you're doing him a favor.

"Bill Cipher was always a most droll prankster." Get the people around you to laugh off your cruel, controlling behavior as "just a joke." Do you think they'd call charging just one guy rent a "prank" if Bill hadn't done similar things in the past and gone "C'mooon, relax, it's just a joke!"?

"I mean—I was paying it to Bill. But I dunno who took that over, so I guess, kinda... no one?" "You were supposed to give it to me now." Keep people close by who will back up your bull. (Useful if they tear each other down; they'll be more likely to resent each other than you.)

"I don't know... Bill and I were talking about them once, and I realized they're as bad as Mom was. Bill said probably the only reason they didn't treat me as bad is because they never got the opportunity—" Make him believe you're the only one who cares about him. Cut him off from potential support networks.

"Face it: the only reason the rest of us didn't leave the Nightmare Realm millennia ago is because Bill couldn't leave." Keep them all isolated.

"Bill's not a liar!" The people who have been around him the longest have sunk so much into trusting him and following him that they can't afford to think it might have been lies.

"The only reason we've stayed so long is because everyone's too starstruck or too scared to ditch him!" 8 Ball's hit the nail on the head. To some extent, he's figured out how Bill operates and he's gotten past the stage where he tells himself it'll be all right if he just sticks it out...

8 Ball, he'd tried to split four or five times before crawling back, but Kryptos didn't care about him anyway. Bill had always been right about him: he was too selfish to care about the rest of the gang but too stupid to make it on his own. They'd taken in losers like that before. ...and, not coincidentally, Bill's been badmouthing and undermining 8 Ball to the others. "Selfish," "stupid," "loser." Also: 8 Ball, too, has been unable to make it out—do you think Bill offered any help any of those times he tried to leave?

The shapes were here because Bill had promised to make them a new home. He was the only one in all of reality who could do it. They'd held fast to Bill's promise for a trillion years. Who would they be if they lost it? Hell of a sunk cost. If you've been waiting one trillion years for somebody to fulfill a promise, any rational person would assume they'll never fulfill it; but, after waiting one trillion years, how can you possibly leave? When you've waited an eternity of eternities? Was it all just a waste? But it'll all be worth it, if—when—he keeps his promise.

Yet he was still here, and still waiting, because he didn't know what else to do. And who was it that convinced the shapes to pin their every single hope for the future on Bill?

You didn't get many chances to be the star of the show when you lived around a supernova like Bill. And what do you think being kept down like that so long does to somebody's sense of self-esteem and self-sufficiency?

Be their protector; keep them dependent on you; keep them isolated; convince them to give up everything (time, money, family, freedom) for you; ensure they have nowhere else to turn.

And that is how Bill controls the Henchmaniacs. His friends will never leave him if he's given them no other choice!

Because when he does leave them a choice, inevitably, they do leave, and it breaks his heart. They leave him quickly, and angrily, and never come back.

Gee, I wonder why.

(I've said before I headcanon Bill's backstory as a former cult leader. Honestly? I shouldn't be saying "former.")

#anonymous #ask #about my writing #bill goldilocks cipher #(thanks for giving me an opportunity to highlight all the little sinister threads subtly laced into the chapter)

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starboy-acer · 28 days

Text

"outlaw, traitor, exile" (chapter one)

(this is longer than most because this is a full fic on ao3!! please go check it out there if you prefer to read there! but if you prefer to read here and want to keep track of the chapters, follow the outlaw traitor exile tag!)

Captain Black was infamous on the seas of Mana. He was one of the newest and youngest Pirate Lords and everyone knew of his name. They knew his ship and the black sails that cast a shadow over any ship that he approached. They didn't know his face. They didn't know his real name. All the people of Mana knew were his title and the fear that he struck into their hearts.

Admiral Jay Ferin, daughter of the revered Jayson Ferin, was known by everyone in the oversea. She was known to be a lot more empathetic than her family. She cared for people. She didn't want to be feared. All she wanted was to make a change in the world. After getting reprimanded for the millionth time by her father for showing empathy for "criminals" who were just fighting for their freedom, she was sent to the sea and tasked with hunting down Captain Black.

Gillion Tidestrider, "Champion of the Undersea, Hero of the Deep", was exiled from the only place he knew. Since then, he's done nothing but get in trouble with not only the navy but pirates too. One night, he stumbles onto a large ship after escaping a fleet of Navy ships. Only to be met by Captain Black's shadowed face and his glowing smile.

"What do we have here?"

Captain Chip Black paces around the short blue man who washed up on his ship, his hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword. His long red coat dragged behind him and his matching hat tipped down at the perfect angle to cover his eyes. Gillion glanced at his hand on his sword, then at his lack of a shirt. His eyes traced over the flame-like tattoos across his chest as they swirled and spiraled. In the dark, it almost looked like they moved. Maybe they did, Gillion couldn't tell.

"Hello there! I am Gillion Tidestrider! Champion of the Undersea, Hero of the Deep. Sorry about the... intrusion. I'm just passing through. You know how it is." Gillion rambled on. Usually, when he jumped on a ship, he was attacked right away by either the Navy or pirates. The fact that this man was simply circling him like a shark scared him a little.

The man chuckled slightly. He stopped in front of Gillion. "I know who you are." He said with darkness in his tone. His voice was like shadows; it was dark, slow, and seemed to creep up on you and send shivers down your back.

"Oh?" Gillion questioned and laughed nervously. "Well, I don't know who you are. I am curious about how you know me but I guess that being a Champion gets you that kind of recognition!"

Suddenly, Gillion was pinned to the ground with a sword to his throat. He had no idea how or when this happened. Chip had managed to, without a sound and as quick as lightning, push the heavily armored triton to the ground. Chip knew who Gillion was. He knew what Gillion had been up to since he had been exiled. He knew that Gillion had somehow sunk plenty of ships of pirates that he knew and plenty of ships that he was seeking out. Gillion had somehow caused a rift in some of Chip's plans against the Navy. However, Gillion had absolutely zero clue that he had caused as much destruction as he had. He just thought it was bad luck that the ships kept sinking after he showed up and was attacked by them.

"You're the damn fish that's been sinking ships all over Mana." Chip's hat had fallen off in the altercation and now Gillion could see his full face. Gillion could now see his stubble that framed his mouth with shockingly white teeth along with his brown eyes that were now scowling at him. "Do you even know what you've done? All the plans that went to shit because of you? All the pirates that I recruited to my cause that lost their ships because of you?"

Gillion just stared at him, his eyes wide. "Uh. No. No, I didn't. Wait, what cause? Who are you?" Gillion was always moist, but now he felt like he was sweating. He had absolutely no clue how that worked, but it did. Chip looked at him in shock. Was this guy really that stupid? He had no clue what he had done. Was he lying? Did this fish not recognize Chip's ship or his sails? Chip leans up, still straddling Gillion so that he couldn't stand up. His arms drop to his sides and he squints at the fish man under him while a million questions run through his mind. Gillion just laid there like a rock. He, for once, had nothing to say. He didn't know what was going on.

"You really have no clue, do ya?"

Gillion nods and slightly shrugs as he replies, "I have no clue like most of the time." Chip scoffs to hide a laugh. Deciding that Gillion wasn't a threat, he stands. Chip puts his hat back on, but places it high enough where his face can be shown. Gillion stands up and brushes himself off.

Chip puts his sword away and crosses his arms, his entire figure lit up by the moon. Gillion took note of the swirling tattoos on his arms. They were definitely moving, no doubt about it. Chip noticed that Gillion was staring, hard. Chip walked up to Gillion and leaned down to look in his eyes. A light pink spread across the triton's face as he felt Chip's breath in his face. "What're ya starin' at?" Chip smiled.

"Your tattoos. They look like they're moving." Gillion stated as he took a step back. Chip looked down at the tattoos that flowed like water but were the color of fire. "Yeah, they're movin'."

"How?"

"You have an awful lot of questions."

"Yes. Now answer them."

"And if I don't?"

Gillion's jaw dropped and he looked in disbelief. This man was really testing his patience. "I, Gillion Tidestrider, will sink your ship!" He decided to declare.

Chip's eyebrow raised and he looked Gillion up and down. This was a 5'8 fish against a 5'10 pirate lord. Chip could not picture a timeline where Gillion would win this fight, and because of this, he did one of the stupidest things he had done thus far.

"Fight me then. The loser has to answer all the questions that the winner has." Chip smirked and Gillion's eyes lit up. If there was one thing that he was good at, it was battle. Gillion picked up his sword from the ground and then took off the glass bowl that he had at his side and set it to the side. "Pretzel, stay right there and watch, okay?"

"Pretzel?" Chip questioned while stretching.

"Win and I'll tell you who she is." Gillion took his battle stance.

Battered and bruised, Gillion stood over Chip. He pushed Chip's chin with the tip of his sword so that Chip was looking up at him. Gillion's lips turned up in a smile. "Still got it." He said triumphantly. He then pointed over to the glass bowl with the pink frogtopus spinning around and chirping happily. "That's Pretzel. My best friend and companion!" Gillion picks her up with his free hand and she squirms to rest on his shoulder.

Chip scoffed and pushed the sword out of his face. He stood up and brushed off the back of his coat. "I thought the loser answered the questions."

"Yes, that was the deal. I was just being nice." The fish man smiled and sheathed his sword. He was all bloodied and was breathing heavily, but he still kept a naturally positive aura about him. All Chip could think about was how useful this man would be as a part of his crew. He's strong and he's positive enough to boost morale on low days. It wasn't often that Chip got beat on his ship, but that fish somehow did it. That fish man, Gillion Tidestrider, beat Captain Black on his own ship and is still smiling. Frankly, Chip was amazed. He refused to show it, however, as he stood and adjusted his clothing. He gestured over to the starboard side of the deck where a square crate sat. Chip sat down on one side of it and Gillion sat on the other. Chip opened up the crate, pulled a dark green bottle out of it, and uncorked it as he took a swig. He closed the crate and set the bottle on top of it as it acted as a table between them.

"So, fish guy, what do ya wanna know?" Chip asked as he took another swig of the bottle. He offered it to Gillion, but he refused and looked up at the sky, pondering his questions.

"What is your name?"

Chip looked over at Gillion. He was almost baffled before he remembered earlier when Gillion very clearly had no clue who he was. "I'm Captain Black. My real name's Chip."

"Captain Black?" Gillion questioned. He had heard the name before, but he can't seem to remember where he heard it from (failed history check, obviously). Chip shook his head and chuckled quietly. It was almost refreshing to meet someone who had no clue who he was, but he found it funny nonetheless.

"Captain Chip Black. The lone survivor of the tragedy that struck the Black Rose pirates 'round a decade ago. Ring any bells?" Chip looked over at Gillion, still confused. "Youngest pirate lord in Mana at only nineteen years old? Seriously, that doesn't set off any alarms in your undersea mind?"

Gillion thought about it as hard as he possibly could. He looked to Pretzel and she chirped something at him that Chip couldn't understand. "You're right, Pretzel! That's where I heard that name last!" Gillion looked back over and Chip. "I've only heard your name on some of the ships we've come across. The last time I heard it was on a big Navy ship!"

Chip coughed as he fully turned his body to Gillion. "A big Navy ship? Please, do tell!"

"This big guy I had seen in the undersea right before my ex- I mean, before I left for my adventure! Yeah, that's what I mean. Anyway, big guy with orange hair and some other lady I had never seen before, also orange hair, were talking about you. Big guy seemed pretty angry at her. All I heard was 'YOU'RE NOT COMING BACK UNTIL YOU HAVE BLACK'S HEAD ON A STICK WITH YOU!'" Gillion stood and deepened his voice to imitate the voice of the man he was discussing. "But then these guys came up to us and tried to capture us, but Gillion Tidestrider refuses to be a prisoner! You can't imprison the champion of the undersea, after all. We managed to get off that ship before the big guy saw us. Few days later, we end up here!"

Chip's jaw seemed like it had hit the deck by the time Gillion had sat back down. Before he could come to any conclusions on who those people were, Chip had to ask some follow-up questions. "Wait, these orange-haired people, did you catch their names? Ranks? Last names? Any information about them?"

"I thought I was supposed to be asking the questions!"

"LISTEN, MAN," Chip yelled, maybe a bit too loudly. He collected himself and took a deep breath. "You can ask more questions in a second, but this is important. I need you to answer me. Do you have any information on who those people were?"

Gillion thought back to his surroundings on the ship. He remembered seeing a plaque beside the door to the room those people were in, but he was having a hard time remembering what it said. "There was a plaque next to the door. It said... Ad- Admiral? Admiral something..." Pretzel chirped up and then flapped her tentacles like wings. Chip didn't understand what she said, but he definitely knew what those motions were. His face went cold. "Ah, that's right! Admiral Ferin! And there was a bird engraved under it. The big guy also had a pin with this bird on it. Good eye, Pretzel!" Gillion stuck his hand into his pocket and pulled out a small piece of fish to feed to Pretzel.

"Oh. My. God." Chip stood up and laughed as he ran his hand through his hair. Gillion felt his face slightly heat up at the sight of it, but he shook it off. "Hah! Admiral Ferin! THE Ferins are sending someone after ME!" Chip turned and crouched down to Gillion and squeezed his face. "You gorgeous fish, you! You just gave me SO MUCH information."

Chip stood upright again. To other pirates, having the legendary Ferins after you might seem scary. To Captain Black, it was nothing but good news. He's spent the past ten years trying to be the best pirate in Mana. He's been working his hardest to live up to the hype that came with the Black Rose pirates. He wanted nothing more than to make the late Arlin James, his mentor and almost-father figure, proud. Chip wanted to be not only a legendary pirate but a helpful one. His infamy comes from the liberation he's spread along his way. He's freed hundreds of people and handfuls of towns from the grasp of the Navy as they've encroached on neutral- and even outlaw- land lately. He saw the beginnings of tyranny bloom and decided to try and stomp it out before it bore fruit. Having the Ferins say his name, to have the Ferins hunt him down? That was his opportunity. This only proved to him that what he was doing was right. This proved to him that he was on the right path.

"I'm a little lost here," Gillion spoke up, snapping Chip out of his trance. "What is happening?"

"Gillion Tidestrider, do I have a story for you!" Chip smiled as he looked back over to Gillion. His smile then fell as he looked out to the dark horizon. "Oh, fuck."

Gillion stood up and looked in the same direction with a quizzical look on his face. "What? What do you see?"

Chip then quickly put his hat back on and rushed to the door to the below-deck cabins to gather his small crew of ex-Navy turned to his cause. "JOHN, GET THE CREW AND GET UP." Gillion could hear some mumbling before Chip started yelling again "IF THIS IS WHAT I THINK IT IS, THEN WE NEED TO BE READY TO EITHER FIGHT OR GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE."

"Chip, what can I do? What is happening?" Gillion asked with his hand on his sword as about five men came out from below deck. The first of them was a big, burly man with a tattered Navy uniform and what seemed to be tribal tattoos across his arms. The man looked at Gillion and then at Chip.

"Who is this, Captain?" He asked, his voice deep and gruff.

Chip looks at Gillion and back at the man then back at Gillion. "Gillion Tidestrider, meet my first mate, Marshall John. He's ex-Navy, lookin' to make a change in the world. John, this is Gillion. He washed up on the ship and beat my ass in a one-on-one then told me about how the Ferins are after me now, so he's stuck with us for now. Now, John, get the crew ready." Chip pulled out a spyglass and looked out to the distance as he spoke. "It looks like she's alone, so we're not gonna run just yet, but be ready to hoist the sails as soon as I say the word."

Marshall John nods and runs to direct the rest of the crew as Chip walks to the edge of the starboard. Gillion follows. "What is going on?! I'm so lost."

"Gillion," Chip gestures for Gillion to stand beside him and hands him the spyglass before pointing out in the distance. Gillion holds the spyglass up to his eye and Chip moves it to where he's pointing. "See that ship? Does that look familiar to you?"

Gillion took a second to look over the ship before spotting the Jolly Roger that was flying high. It was none other than the Navy's flag. He then caught a glimpse of orange before Chip took the spyglass from him. "Navy ships."

"Bingo." Chip just stared out at the ship as it got closer.

As it got closer, Gillion could clearly spot more orange. Then, he saw a face. Then, a shiver ran down his spine as bright blue eyes pierced his soul, even though they weren't looking at him directly. He looked at Chip, who had a cocky, bright smile across his face.

"Gillion Tidestrider, you're about to meet my very best friend," Chip said, sarcasm dripping from his tone.

"And who would that be?" Gillion asked, still clueless as to who this was.

"None other than the youngest Navy admiral and youngest of the most ruthless Navy lineage." He waved as the only other crew member on the Navy ship put down the anchor as the ship was now within range of Chip's. He cupped his hands around his mouth to project his voice farther.

"Jay Ferin! Good to see you, sureshot!"

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clovermarigold · 7 months

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Smoke & Ice Chap.1

Hey guys this is the first chapter of the smoke x oc/reader, bi han x oc/reader fic. This is somewhat of a trial chapter to see how I like the direction I started with. Currently working on chap 2, so it should be out soon. I swear I heard smoke’s voice lines, and I folded so fast 😂

I apologize for the pace of this chapter, I had to get at least some of the exposition out of the way. I promise future chapters won’t feel this slow. Feel free to give feedback on the pace, if it feels too slow or too fast give me a heads up.

Masterlist

Word count: 1554

“Okay, explain it to me again” Kenshi rolls his eyes at Johnny’s incompetence. “For the last time; Lord Liu Kang is sending us along with the Lin Kuei on a recruitment mission”. “Well, ok. But it doesn’t exactly explain why we are the ones going” Kenshi sighs deeply, prompting Raiden to place a hand on his shoulder. “What Kenshi means, is that Lord Liu Kang requires both the Shaolin and the Lin Kuei to have leaders present to convince the Hamadryad to join their place as earth realms protectors”. “Right! Right right… But why not send actual Shaolin” at that, both Kenshi and Kung Lao let out an in-sync groan of defeat. “Because, Johnny Cage, as contenders to be champions of this century's tournament, you are best suited for the task at hand” Liu Kang smiled to the others as he approached, Bi-han, Kauai Liang, and Smoke in tow.

The four bowed to the god of fire, albeit some slower than others. “Oh great, this guy. You know you still owe me for my Hichuli” Johnny points at Bi han. “You will get nothing from me, cage” Kauai Liang held an arm out in front of his brother to stop him from approaching the American. Johnny smirked at Bi han’s visible anger, “So, who exactly are these hama-whatchamacallit”.

“The Hamadryad were once one of the three protectors of earth realm, along with their sister’s the Shaolin and the Lin Kuei” Liu Kang explained, “However, they left our order before the last tournament”. “But why would a clan of earth forsake their duty” the soft spoken Raiden asked. A regretful look spread on the fire god’s face, “During the prior tournament the Hamadryad sustained heavy losses to their people. So much so that the elders decreed their recession from their duty and participation in the tournament”.

“Heavy losses? I don’t know why I’ve never asked this, but.. Uh… What’s our record at this tournament” Johnny said with less than his usual snark. “Earth realm and Outworld have long been evenly matched. But Outworld is gaining strength. Should it win, its more militant factions will be emboldened”. “I thought you admired outworld” Raiden remarked. “It is a place of great knowledge, wealth, and beauty. But our realms do not share goals and beliefs. We coexist peacefully because Outworld respects our strength. Should we show weakness… our rival will become our enemy”.

“And… this requires the aid of the Hamadryad” Raiden asks. “...The Hamadryad have long been among the greatest forces of earth realm, now, however, they are lost. It would benefit us all if they were to return” Bi han scoffed at the praise of the Hamadryad. “Come” Liu Kang instructed the group to follow as he walked towards an open path of stone. The group watched as Liu Kang summoned a fire portal, presumably to wherever the Hamadryad were.

Stepping through the portal they were met with lush green as they are surrounded in forest. “Huh, kinda reminds me of this movie I was in a few years back, we shot the whole thing in Greece, it was a box office hit” Johnny, being himself of course, said while filming the entire thing and scanning the area. “While I will not reveal our exact location, for the safety of the Hamadryad, I will confirm your suspicions” Liu Kang said, walking past them with his hands behind his back. “Oh, hell yes. We have GOT to go to this gyro place in Athens” the others walked past him, causing him to run to catch up while promising the gyros were worth it after stomaching all the bland rice they had with the Shaolin.

The three Lin Kuei, however, hung back, walking at a slower pace. “I do not understand why we are wasting our time here” Bi han said, fists clenched. “Lord Liu Kang has requested our help. If he believes the Hamadryad can ensure safety for earth realm, then I believe him” Kauai Liang said, attempting to placate his brother. “These Hamadryad are nothing compared to the Lin Kuei, it is a waste of my time. I am grandmaster, I should be leading the others” Smoke and Kuai Liang shared a concerned look. “Were he here, father would advise us to proceed without protest” said Smoke, earning a scowl from the cryomancer. “Mind your place Tomas. Father may have taken you in, made you one of us. But your blood will never be Lin Kuei” The harsh words made the ninja momentarily pause in his stride, choosing to remain silent the rest of the journey.

After about half an hour of walking the group came upon a large stone arch. “And this is where we shall part ways,” Liu Kang says. “Wait, you’re not staying” Johnny asks incredulously. “No, Johnny Cage, I will not. But I wish you luck in this endeavor, I hope that you all will return soon”.

“Wait, how long will we be here before we go back?” Kung Lao asks this time. “As long as it takes to convince the Matron of the Mangrove to rejoin us. Knowing her… weeks… at least” Bi han pushed past his brothers at this. “You expect us to remain here and leave the Lin Kuei without leadership for weeks,” he asks angrily. “The Lin Kuei will not be without leadership” Liu Kang says, “Kuai Liang will lead them in your absence”.

“I am the Lin Kuei’s grandmaster. I should be the one to remain-”. “No, Bi han. This requires a leader of the Lin Kuei to be present. And Kuai Liang, similar to myself, would not be granted entry”. Bi han seethed at the notion that his brother would lead the Lin Kuei in his stead. Raiden broke the silence, “Why would you and Kuai Liang not be granted entry”. “The Hamadryad are a people similar to that of your legends of nymphs. Their life force is connected to that of their brethren tree they are born with. Because of that, fire is strictly prohibited within the Mangrove, Kauai Liang and myself, would be turned away” Liu Kang explains.

“So, do we just go on in?” Johnny asked leaning to get a better view beyond the arch. “Whatever decisions you make from here on shall be your own. But remember, respect the rules of the Hamadryad, and learn from them” With a bow, Liu Kang, followed shortly by Kuai Liang turned back to the way they came. “Well, that was no help” Johnny said, earning a punch to the arm from Kenshi, “What- hey!” Bi han shoulder checked the actor, moving past him to go through the arch. “Alright, find this mangrove, convince their leader to join us, and don't start any fires… simple enough” Johnny said following the others through the arch.

“Bi han you’re moving too fast” Smoke said gesturing to the others who were a good thirty feet behind them. “Liu Kang couldn’t have portaled us closer?” Johnny panted. “The longer it takes for us to get there, the longer we shall be stuck here”. “I understand your ambition to return swiftly but-” the faint sound of the breaking of wood caught the two ninja’s attention.

Turning to the sound they are met with what looked to be a boy no older than twelve, staring at them like a deer in headlights. “Easy there” Smoke held out his hands to calm the boy, who though still, breathed heavily, eyes darting to each of them. In a flash the boy broke into a sprint, diving into the brush. “It seems our work will be done for us”.

“Shouldn’t we follow him?” Kung Lao asks. “No, following him would only make us appear a threat. Better to let them come to us, and prove our intentions” Smoke said, turning to the others. The group sprawled out, finding places to stand and sit in the small clearing of the path. “So what was all that brethren tree stuff Liu Kang was talking about?” Johnny asked, kicking back to lean on a log. “Are you aware of Greek history, or is your ‘expertise’ limited to my clan’s history” Kenshi asked, making a reference to Sento “Yes, for your information, I do”.

“The Hamadryad are a type of dryad that are bound to a tree or a plant” Raiden explains, “When one dies, so does the other”. “Wicked, that’s definitely going in the movie” Johnny used his hands to gesture at an imaginary billboard, “Attack of the tree people”. Kenshi rolls his eyes, “Don’t you pay attention to anything the monks teach you. It’ll take a miracle for the matron to agree to anything with you around”.

“And what’s the deal with this matron? What’s her deal?” The others swear they could faintly hear smoke stopping Bi han from ‘shutting up the fool who won’t stop talking’. “The matron is the leader of the Hamadryad. It is usually a title to be inherited, like that of grandmaster. However, the last matron did not have children. And it was instead given to the oldest of them”.

“Brother,” Smoke said quietly under his breath. “I am aware. We are being watched”. “Woah, who is Ms. smoke show” Johnny drew the attention from the group to the female figure emerging from the trees. “You are not welcome here, Shaolin. Leave”.

#mk1 #mk1 2023 #bi han x reader #bi han #smoke x reader #tomas vrbada #sub zero x reader #smoke and ice

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my-favourite-zhent · 6 days

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Fortune and Favour

Hello folks, a new AU long fic for you.

Summary:

AU set in Luskan 1480DR. Rugan has assumed leadership over the Coin Spinners gang and taken the name Clearlight. When a Waterdhavian noble comes snooping around for Illuskan Netherese relics under the gang's headquarters Rugan steps up to put them in their place. What he instead finds is the chance at an amazing payday and an unexpected prize.

Notes:

This AU is straight out of the filthy mind of @fistfuloftarenths. She head canoned the idea of Rugan of Clearlight based off the screenshots of @captainsigge. Fistful also came up with a lot of the scene ideas, so I'm bordering on being her ghostwriter at this point. Also thank you to @dustdeepsea for helping me with the title and summary. Big shout out to all three for beta reading for me. These fics are pretty much written for the Zhentil Keep Perverts at this point.

Banner by the lovely @coreene

Chapter One below the cut or here on AO3

Chapter One

1480 15 Uktar

Eden of Clearlight was dead, had been for many months now. While she had rallied many of the other gangs to the Coin Spinners banner, she had lost almost as many men in the ensuing chaos. The Coin Spinners had been left adrift, weakened, directionless and Rugan had seen an opportunity.

He’d only been a lieutenant in a lower ranking gang – so low its name does not bear recounting – when Eden had pulled them all into the fold. But now she and most of her officers were dead. There had been a few others that vied for leadership, and all had found a knife in their back. Either each other’s or Rugan’s.

So it came to be that at barely twenty-four Rugan had become the new head of the Coin Spinners, and with it acquired the title Clearlight. So named for the temple-come-fortress that housed them. He had struck decisively at the other criminal organisations before they had gotten their feet back under them. Most had survived but in weakened states. There were few left who would dare challenge him now. Which was why Amnos’ information came as a surprise.

“Some girl’s been asking about you down in the Cutlass,” the redheaded man had said as the pair stood in front of the altar to Tymora that marked the centre of the fortress.

“That right? Looking to get recruited?” Rugan drawled in his lilting Luskan accent. He tilted his head as he spoke, tied back flaxen hair catching gold in the sunlight that trickled through the stained-glass window overhead. It was said to be the last glass window in Luskan, and for which the temple and now Rugan derived their name.

“Doesn't seem like, looked a bit posh to be joining up.” Amnos scratched his beard pensively.

“A noble?” His eyebrow quirked. That was interesting. Not that he had any love for nobles but he’d never heard of one stooping to joining a street gang, especially not in Luskan of all places.

“Seemed so, dressed nice and spoke real educated-like too. Southern accent it sounded like.”

“Who’s she affiliated with?” The thought of a southerner stirring up trouble did give him pause. Kalen Dren, one of the parties who had been involved in the annihilation of the Luskan gangs, had been from Waterdeep and had since returned there. Any locals would’ve known to stay out of Rugan's way.

Amnos shrugged. “Doesn’t seem like she knows the local gangs, we haven’t seen her make contact with anyone. She’s just been reading books when she’s not harassing the locals.”

“Suppose we should pay this little interloper a visit then. We can’t have just anyone trading on my good name.” He smiled shark-like.

+++++

The Cutlass was one of the busier inns. In the city’s heyday it had been a sight to behold. Still turned a profit as it was, but much like Luskan it’s glory days were long past. The timbers were old and rotted, and its windows were made of thin sheets of animal horn rather than glass.

A nervous silence had fallen over the taproom when Rugan and Amnos entered and he felt a smile play at the corner of his mouth. There was power there, in being feared. Rugan’s exploits against the other guilds had been cutthroat and his reputation well earned. He had little interest in the common folk though. These customers had no reason to fear him as long as they didn’t cross him, but there was no need to tell them that.

He nodded at Amnos to wait for him down here before ascending the stairs to the inn’s rooms. The girl had been under watch for a few days now and his men had informed him of which room was hers. He knocked at the door. Whatever this little noble wanted, he'd be sure to send them packing.

The door swung open and there she stood. Little was right, she barely came up to his chest. But gods, she was beautiful. With soft raven waves cascading past her shoulders, a small but perky bust and a delicate waist that was begging to be grasped.

“Heard you've been asking around about Clearlight, lass.”

It was meant to be intimidating, well, just a touch to start. In her excitement the girl didn't seem to notice. She clasped her hands together under her chin and looked at him with wide eyes.

“You know about the Clearlight temple?” The delight in her voice was unmasked. Her eyes were sparkling, and they were lovely too, framed by thick dark lashes.

The girl’s reaction was the exact opposite of what he had intended, and he felt himself swallow unexpectedly. She grasped his hand in both of hers.

“Oh, do please come in!” She began pulling him into the room without waiting for a reply. Rugan allowed this, but not without some trepidation. Was this a trap set by a rival faction?

“I'd love to hear your opinion on the maps. It took a while to piece them together.” She ushered him towards a table that looked like the victim of a mad cartographer. Several maps were scattered over its surface, weighted down with pebbles. He could see underneath was a larger sheet that had connections between these disparate pieces drawn in.

“Now, no one source had all the sections of the undercity of course. What information we have on Netheril and Illusk is fragmented at best. But based on the complete diagrams from various other Netherese ruins we know that the general floorplan of a Netherese vault house follows a distinct pattern…” The girl had taken a seat at the table and continued to chatter on, but she had lost him a while ago. He sat down in the opposite chair, scrutinising her as she spoke.

A thin braid encircled the crown of her head, adding a touch of order to the chaos that was her hair. Her blouse looked to be of a fine cotton, with ruffled trim along a neckline that dipped deliciously low. He admired how the swell of her breasts peaked out from beneath her top. It was cinched under her bust by a green velvet jacquard corset, laced up the front. Her pants were tan leather, they looked smooth and barely worn. Amnos had been right, entirely too posh to be a recruit. Some noble out of Baldur’s Gate or Waterdeep mayhaps?

“I keep asking about the temple but no one seems to want to talk about it. You'd think it was dedicated to Beshaba rather than Tymora with how skittish the locals have been.”

“People can be a bit superstitious here in Luskan,” he offered, inwardly grinning at his good fortune.

She was a complete and utter fool. For all her research she had neglected to look into the local criminal organisations before coming to Luskan. Of course she didn't know that the Coin Spinners had taken the temple as their base, and that he had taken its name for his own.

“Ah, forgive my manners. I've forgotten to introduce myself. My name is Isolde.” She held out her hand for him to shake.

“Rugan.” He replied, taking her hand and raising it to place a kiss upon it.

She was taken aback, eyes wide with surprise.

‘Didn't think a guttersnipe like me knew how to address a noble lady, did ya?’ Rugan was both rankled by the thought and smug that he had proved her wrong.

He noticed a blush creep over her cheeks and how she seemed to be appraising him now as if noticing him for the first time. He felt the beginnings of a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. No, it was more than surprise, she was flattered.

“P-pleased to meet you,” she managed to eke out.

“Indeed.”

Then, just as quickly, it seemed his hold on her was broken by a sudden recollection.

“Ah I almost forgot! The onion skin!”

“Onion skin?”

But she was already out of her seat and rooting through her pack. She returned with a roll of paper that when unfurled was semi translucent. He supposed it did resemble the skin of an onion.

Carefully she placed it overtop the other maps, pinning it down based on some landmarks only she perceived. There was a map on the onion skin he realised. Tymora’s tits, this was—

“It's the blueprint for Tymora’s temple. The clerics in Waterdeep let me take a look at their copy. Took a bit of maths to get it to scale with the others but luckily the walls are mostly square. Mind you, this is from when it was built in the 1370s, there's no way to tell what it looks like now over a hundred years later. At least not short of going in yourself.”

Now this was something. It galled him to think that a map of the hideout had just been floating around in some Waterdeep temple for any preening noble to come have a little look-see.

“And these markings here?” He gestured to the map, careful to keep his tone neutral.

There were four circles and three crosses marked on the onion skin which lined up with structures on the maps below. He already had a sneaking suspicion what they were based on their locations.

“Passages down to Illusk. The circles are confirmed, cross-referenced with some old journal entries of a priestess I found in Candlekeep library.”

She was correct, two were caved in, but the remaining pair the Coin Spinners had heavily trapped and kept watch over. Never knew what manner of sneak or beast would come up from the undercity.

“And the crosses are unconfirmed?”

“Right, I couldn't find any historical records that mention them specifically, but based on the fact that the first four correspond with the Netherese designs, I think it's safe to assume there would be a temple counterpart for the remaining three. Two of them are connected to a hidden inner chamber while the third connects to the high priest’s chambers, which would explain why they weren't widely known. I mean, it's just a hunch, but I'm fairly confident.”

She looked proud, and he supposed she had reason to be, having found three unguarded entrances to slip into his lair.

“Why would the temple builders create passages, and not just loot the undercity?”

“They may have already looted it or attempted to. But I suspect the temple's location would be particularly auspicious, sitting on top of a coin house. The number of passages also suggests this—seven was considered lucky in many human cultures.” She mused.

There was a sharp whistle and they both started from their chairs.

“Shit, the kettle.” She hurried over to the opposite table where a ceramic kettle bedecked with runes was steaming. Nobles and their magic toys.

“Would you like some tea?” She called over her shoulder.

“Oh, aye.”

Rugan took the opportunity to consider his next steps. He had come here expecting an upstart wanting to buy their way into the guild, or perhaps some imposter trading on his name. Either one he would've cowed or killed, depending on how much he disliked them. He was certainly prepared to dislike some preening noble.

But, technically she was innocent of any crime outside general nosiness. If anything it was his good luck that he had found her before some rival did. He could just take the map but that left the girl as a loose end.

Rugan watched as she prepared two cups of tea. Killing her would be easy enough, but it would be simpler to find the entrances with her know-how.

‘Besides,’ he thought, as she tucked her hair behind her ear revealing more of her slender neck, ‘Noble or not, it would be a crime to remove such a pretty thing from the world.’

She returned with the two cups, and he noted she had left two sugar cubes on his saucer. Sugar had been a luxury in Luskan of late, seemed like more and more things were luxuries nowadays.

“My thanks.” He accepted the cup politely and dropped both cubes in before stirring. “You bring all this with you from Waterdeep?”

“Yes, that's right. Generally prefer to travel light but the merchants I know in the city were of the consensus that it’s a bit harder to get supplied in Luskan, and in any case it was just the one boat up.” She took the seat beside him and sipped at her tea.

“Not too long of a trip I hope?”

“A little more than half a tenday by galley. Not long at all.”

He nodded and took a deep draught of the tea. Rugan was no deckhand, but you don’t grow up in the city of sails without learning a thing or two about ships. A galley was one of the fastest and most expensive ships to book passage on, just one way may have run her fourty or fifty gold pieces. Definitely moneyed, maybe a merchant family out of Waterdeep? She might fetch a nice ransom. No servants though, at least none that Amnos had observed. This wasn’t entirely unusual with tourists who thought part of the fun was ‘roughing it’ . Especially if they were stingy tourists.

“I’m being rude again, I’ve forgotten to ask about your interest in the temple.” And she really did look sorry.

“Well I live there for one.”

“Live there!” She straightened in her chair. “But the clerics in Waterdeep, they said the clergy has long since abandoned Clearlight temple.”

“We’re not really associated with the Waterdeep branch. None of the large organisations have any interest in Luskan since the Spellplague. You could say we’re a bit esoteric compared to most Tymorans.” Rugan didn’t consider himself a particularly good liar, but the girl hadn’t seemed to have noticed.

She was leaning in close now, barely containing her excitement. “So you’ve been inside? You’ve seen the passageways?” He could smell her hair now, it was like jasmine and orange peels.

“Aye lass, some of them. Most are collapsed but those new ones on your map I haven’t seen before. Could be worth an investigation.” The girl was almost leaping out of her chair, this was too easy.

“Would you permit me to come look?” Her voice had already been high but it seemingly shifted a whole octave up now. “I promise not to disturb anything, and of course there would be a split of anything found down there.”

He let his features fall into a charming smile. “Well, if you're promising.” Of course the split would be highly in his favour, if he let her keep anything at all. Unlikely.

It was his lucky day, Tymora be praised. He was going to secure the fortress, possibly a payday and—he let his gaze linger on her a moment—a bit of company if he played his cards right.

She must have noticed his stare, noticed how close they were because her cheeks were reddening and it seemed like her breath was caught in her throat.

“Are you a treasure hunter, then?” Her cup was no longer steady in her hand and he gently took it from her, placing it on the table.

“N-no, just a student. I've been writing my graduation thesis on Illusk.”

“And the treasures they left behind?” He leaned in closer as well so they were mere inches apart.

“It's the records I'm interested in.” Her voice was quieter now, it had a breathy quality to it.

“Not the coin?” She merely shook her head and he reached forward to palm her cheek. When she didn't protest, Rugan felt confident in his approach. She was younger than him, not by much, but enough that combined with a sheltered upbringing she was likely inexperienced in these things.

“Seems to me, if we're going to be working together we should get to know one another a little better. Don't you agree?”

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smilebackwards · 1 year

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tim drake fic recs

i have been shaking the tim drake tag on ao3 and here are some of my recent faves. mind the tags, these are not all fluff. this boy has Problems.

two against the world by carolinaa @officialratprince Tim adopts a dog and meets Dick and Jason at the dog park with Ace. Then he almost gets kidnapped and things really go off the rails. Tim lies so much in this. I love this gremlin boy.

The Tragedy of Trying Only After All is Lost by @ivy-and-ivory Superb Jack & Tim & Bruce relationship study after Jack discovers Tim is Robin. Also this Alfred & Bruce one. And this Jason focused one. I couldn't choose.

Jason Todd's Costco Sampler Of Hell by OberonBronze Jason asks Tim to help him through fear toxin detox and it goes Badly. Rollercoaster of emotions.

when doves cry by Scarlet_Ribbons @silk-scarlet-ribbons Tim's parents are killed and he spends like this entire fic dissociating and accidentally running into Jason. Not for the faint of heart--this is borderline horror and 100% devastating--but stellar.

WIPs

Wineskin by sevansa @sevansa Vampire fledgling Tim loses access to his food supply which leads to an Incident and a run-in with Batman and Robin.

i can't let go when something's broken by pennneminem Dick and Bruce constantly fight and Tim has to deal with the fallout.

Say Uncle by Megaerackles @megaerakles Tim recruits newly resurrected Jason to play his fake uncle. Dying for the last chapter to this. Oh and also this completed one where pre-Robin Tim and Bruce get abducted by aliens together.

#now i need to go back and comment on all these #i was in an intense 'good bring me another' fic reading spiral #fic recs #tim drake

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 9 months

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Comet Donati [Chapter 7: Heart Attack]

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

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

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

Word count: 6.2k.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s Se7en about?” Rhaena asks.

“You wouldn’t like it.”

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

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

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

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

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

Jace is intrigued. “No?”

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

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

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

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

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

“A rum and Coke?”

“No.”

“Like…white powder coke?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nobody can hear me. Nobody is coming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ve been gone.”

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

“You know what I meant.”

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

~~~~~~~~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” you answer immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She’s lucky to have you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” he says again instantly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Criston is blushing. “Aegon, stop.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Make me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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daytaker · 2 months

Text

1. Apology

(Existing Sucks So) Let's All Be Shadows.

A Satan-centric Nightbringer Timeline Fic (Read on AO3)

Chapter Starring: MC, Satan, Lucifer Chapter Word Count: ~2,000 Chapter Warnings: Canon-typical violence

"Never play around with my body again."

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Latest Chapter

1 2 3 4 5

One of the first things I did when I was thrown back in time was knock a rampaging Satan unconscious. It’s been a while since then, and I’m still not entirely sure whether or not I feel guilty about it.

It stopped him from hurting anybody, and I don’t regret that, but… I guess it gnaws at my sense of fair play a bit. He had no idea what was coming. Besides, you don’t get a second chance at first impressions, and I had made a stinker of a first impression on Satan.

Regardless, what’s done is done, so during my first walk through the Devildom with the brothers in this new era, Beelzebub marched with an unconscious Satan slung unceremoniously over his shoulder.

I remember getting a decent look at him as he dangled there, bouncing gently off Beel’s back. It’s always night in the Devildom, so the artificial street lights there are second to none, but they still cast an eerie pall over his face, and the contours of his face formed shadows that were unusually sharp and unhealthy-looking. He was grinding his teeth just about the whole time too, and even unconscious, his hands were balled into fists. I tried to remember if the Satan back when I'm from did either of those things. I didn’t think so.

Of course, I wasn’t thinking too hard about any of that as I walked to the House of Lamentation with Diavolo and the boys. I was mostly preoccupied with my sudden and unexpected displacement in time. I was relieved when I met up with Solomon at the gates to the manor. We discussed my situation, and I spent the next few days trying to come to terms with what had happened to me, all while Diavolo impulsively and zealously recruited me to help found his shiny new academy.

So when I entered the House of Lamentation a few days later and felt a pair of eyes boring into me, and when I looked and saw Satan for the first time since the incident, the fact that I'd recently delivered him a psychic slam so hard that he lost consciousness didn't even register. He stood on the stairs above me in the entryway wearing a grim, tight-lipped expression, his tail curled around his right leg, and his eyes had never looked more cat-like.

“Good morning,” I called out to him after an awkward silence.

“Don’t you have something you want to say to me?” Satan folded his arms, tapping his finger on his bicep impatiently.

I stared stupidly at him for a few seconds, completely mystified.

“Do I?”

That seemed to annoy him. I could feel chilly energy begin to swirl around him as he leaned over the bannister, gripping it with white knuckles.

“How stupid are you?” he growled. “After what you did, that’s all you can think to say? ‘Do I?’ Is this how most demons operate?”

I wasn’t making much headway, still blinking at him like a dying fish, when Lucifer emerged from the dining room, tailed by Asmodeus. He glanced at me, looked up at Satan, seemed to read the situation instantly, and let out an exasperated sigh.

“Satan has, rather immaturely in my opinion, been waiting for an apology for the incident the other day at the new academy,” he explained, crossing his arms and casting an annoyed look at his brother. “Apparently he hasn’t yet realized how ineffective passive aggression is when the other party isn’t there to witness it.”

“Isn’t it so much better than aggressive aggression, though?” Asmo put in. He beamed warmly at Satan, who balked irritably under such an adoring (or maybe condescending) gaze. “Satan’s getting better at managing his temper, I can tell!” He turned to me, wearing a heart-stoppingly earnest smile. “We’re so proud of him!”

“Stop talking about me like I’m not here!” barked Satan. That chilly energy around him was growing stronger, and I could tell from the sudden discomfort on Asmo’s face and the exhaustion on Lucifer’s that his darkening mood wasn’t lost on them.

I took a step toward the stairs.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for you to get hit so hard.”

“But I was.”

“...But you were,” I conceded a little sheepishly. “...Are you feeling alright now?”

What followed was an uncomfortably long silence. Lucifer rubbed his temples, Asmo rocked forward and back, hands clasped behind him, and Satan stared at me with an inscrutable expression and narrowed eyes.

“...Somewhat,” he finally admitted, looking down peevishly. “So I’ll accept your apology conditionally.”

Conditionally? I hadn’t been counting on that. I could feel sweat beading on my forehead. “What’s the condition…?”

“Never play around with my body again.”

Predictably, Asmodeus gasped. “Are you sure you won’t end up regretting that, Satan? I mean, if we’re really going to have such a cutie around all the time, you never know–”

“I think I do know,” snapped Satan. “Not all of us think like you do, you pervert.”

Asmo gasped again, and Lucifer sighed, wisely turning on his heel and heading further into the house before he could get drawn into things.

“I accept your condition,” I said, hoping to interrupt the rising conflict.

“I can’t believe you’d call your adorable little brother a pervert!” Asmodeus whined, crushing those hopes.

“You’re not my brother, but you are a pervert.” Brushing Asmo aside with that remark, Satan stared moodily down at me and nodded, acknowledging my reply. “Good. Then we shouldn’t have any more problems.”

“I have a problem!” insisted Asmo, who would not be silenced.

“I’m well aware,” Satan said dryly.

Ever persistent, Asmodeus crossed his arms and jutted his chin out defiantly in Satan’s direction. “I have a problem with all the awful things you say about me! And not just me, though it’s certainly most unacceptable when I’m the target. But you’re too hard on the others too!”

Satan didn’t say anything, but his expression darkened. Asmo continued.

“I know you get angry easily, but that’s no excuse–!”

“You think I need an excuse to put you in your place?” The crackling of dark energy around Satan was becoming more and more physical. “You think I give a single damn if I hurt your feelings? I’m not your brother, and I’m not going to treat you like you’re my brother, and if you’re a pathetic loser or a pervert, I’ll tell you so!” He pointed directly at Asmodeus. “You are a pathetic loser and a pervert!”

Announcing his arrival with a dramatic sigh and all the bravado he could muster, Mammon strode into the front hall, his hands on his hips. “Alright, alright, quiet down! Big Bro is here. What’s the problem?”

“Oh, you want in on this?” Satan shouted down at Mammon. He was back to gripping the bannister like a vice and leaning over the edge. “You’re shallow, self-centered, and so stupid and pathetic that I’m ashamed to be associated with you!”

“Whoa whoa whoa!” Mammon lifted his hands, clearly thrown off-guard by the sudden barrage of insults. “Take it easy! What’s wrong?”

“Don’t you dare condescend to me!” He scowled darkly at Mammon. “Don’t treat me like I’m your little brother!”

Mammon sighed, shook his head, and turned to me to offer up an explanation. “He’s goin’ through a phase lately. He’s always goin’, ‘You’re not my brothers!’ and ‘Say that again, I dare ya!’”

“Don’t talk about me like I’m not around!” Satan bellowed for the second time. Granted, Mammon hadn’t been there to hear his first warning, but that didn’t do anything to ease Satan’s growing rage.

“He called me a pervert,” Asmo told Mammon, ignoring Satan’s outburst.

“Oi, Satan,” Mammon groaned. “You know he doesn’t like it when people point that out! Just let him be!”

“It isn’t true!” Asmodeus argued, and he turned to me. “It isn’t true.”

“Okay,” I said with a nod. Just agreeing seemed to be the safest way ahead.

“You’re both delusional,” Satan snapped, vaulting over the bannister and landing like a cat on the ground in front of us. “Nothing is more pathetic than someone who won’t even admit what they really are.” He turned his gaze to me, and I was just starting to wonder if he was going to tear me a new one when the clacking of Lucifer’s shoes sounded on the floor behind me.

“I shouldn’t have bothered walking away,” he said with the air of a man who suffers fools for the greater good. “This will stop. Now.”

“You,” snarled Satan. He spat the word out like it was poison on his tongue. “You’re worse than any of them.”

“Satan, I would advise you not to provoke me,” Lucifer said with a chilly calm.

“You try to keep us all under control because you know this is all your fault,” Satan seethed. He almost looked like he might start laughing.

“Oi, oi, you're at this again?” Mammon groaned. “We’re adults, y'know? We’re responsible for ourselves!”

I looked between the brothers, feeling just a little bit out of the loop. What was Lucifer's fault? The Great Celestial War? Their less-than-ideal social standing in the Devildom? Something else entirely? Whatever it was, it seemed like the brothers didn't need any clarification.

“Let it go, Mammon,” Lucifer murmured. He continued to stare down Satan with all the cold exasperation of a disappointed father.

“It’s all your fault! Everything!” Satan stalked towards Lucifer, spittle flying from his mouth with the intensity of his words, a corpse-like emptiness in his eyes. “You arrogant, self-righteous, clinging, cowardly failure! You ruined your brothers and got your sister killed! I should do us all a favor! I should kill you!”

“Enough!”

There was a crack throughout the hall as if thunder struck indoors, and my hands flew to my ears, though it was already too late. Asmo shrieked, and Mammon shouted, inadvertently gripping him in a tight embrace. Even Satan looked startled enough to be snapped from his wrathful fugue. Now he was suspended in midair by coils of invisible chains, binding his arms tightly to his body and his legs together.

“Let me go!” he demanded, squirming futilely against his restraints. “Let me go! I’ll kill all of you! I’ll grind this whole world into powder! How dare you!”

“I’ll do nothing of the sort,” Lucifer said calmly, dusting off his collar. “I can’t allow you to simply run roughshod through this house threatening to destroy worlds and kill people.”

Meanwhile, after extracting himself from Mammon’s grip, Asmodeus went right ahead and threw his arms around me, as if Mammon had made him realize that this was the perfect opportunity to get handsy.

“Gyah~! Lucifer and Satan are so scary, aren't they?” he whined, petting my hair. “There, there, little one. Asmo is here.”

“Would you knock that off? You’re gonna make me puke.” Mammon sighed a little too nonchalantly and started walking down the hall, away from the entire situation. “Anyway, come on, Attendant. Let’s get outta here.”

“Have you seen my bathroom yet?” asked Asmo, letting go of me and prancing after Mammon. “I have–”

“Ya got your own jacuzzi, yeah, you’ve gold us,” Mammon snapped.

I hesitated and took one last look at Lucifer and Satan. Lucifer seemed tired and frustrated… Maybe even a bit sad. And Satan still looked like he wanted to kill him.

“Hey, hurry up!” Mammon called from down the hall. “You’re gonna get vaporized if you stick around there!”

He made a good point. So I backed out of the entryway before turning tail and hurrying after the others.

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larluce · 27 days

Note

🤚 can I ask about the Loving the Dragonlord's son summaries??

Summary of the chapters of my still not published merthur fic "Loving the Dragonlord's son", sequel to "Protecting the Dragonlord's son" (SPOILERS!! DON'T READ IF YOU DON'T WANT THEM!!):

Chapter 1: Merthur date and courtship by Arthur. Arthur watching Merlin do magic and giving him magic books. People begin to criticize Arthur for having Merlin so poorly dressed and overworked, so Arthur wants to reduce Merlin's chores and make him dress better, but Merlin doesn't want to. They fight and Arthur lets slip up Merlin actually shouldn't have so much chores and he intentionally overworked him. Merlin gets mad and quits his job.

Chapter 2: Merlin wants to move back in with Gaius, but Arthur convinces him to stay in the antechambers. Merlin still doesn't forgive him thought and refuses to get back to work. Knights, servants, among others, ask him to please forgive the prince, because he's been to bad temper with everyone since they faught. He finally does it. Arthur mentions later there's no progress in the search for Morgana. Merlin remembers he still hasn't told Arthur he poisoned her and feels bad for making a scene about Arthur lying to him, when he's still keeping that secret from him.

Chapter 3: Merlin makes a new friend. A new servant that is from a village close to Ealdor. Jealous Arthur tells him he just wants something from him, but Merlin pays him no mind. It turns out Arthur was right, the servant is a Cenred spy who wanted to recruit Merlin as a spy too. Merlin, of course, doesn't accept the offer and shortly after tells Arthur about the spy, but the spy escapes. Since Merlin denied his offer, Cenred sends his men to be kidnap Hunith. They almost do, but she is rescued by Balinor and they have an emotional reunion.

Chapter 4: Cenred send Uther a letter telling him what he discovered. Uther doesn't really believe any of it, but still has Merlin arrested. Arthur searches for evidence to free him. In his search he meets Balinor again and with his help he finds the spy. Balinor makes Arthur promise he'll tell Merlin about him and they say their goodbyes. Arthur brings the spy to Camelot and he confesses. Merlin is set free. They send back the spy to Cenred. Merlin asks why would Cenred lie about his mom being seeing with the Great Dragon. Arthur tries to tell him the truth, but in the end he can't.

Chapter 5: In one of the searches for Morgana, Arthur finds the courage to tell Merlin about Balinor, but Merlin goes ahead and confesses to Arthur that he poisoned Morgana. Arthur becomes enraged and doesn't speak to him again, not even when they return to Camelot. Merlin receives a letter from his mother telling him about Balinor. Merlin goes to Arthur, excited to finally know something about his father, but he soon realises Arthur already knew and keep that secret from him. They fight again making a public scene. Furious with Arthur and Gaius for lying to him, Merlin moves in with Gwen.

Chapter 6: Everyone thinks that Merlin has lost the prince's favor due to the public scene and the fact Merlin left the prince's antechambers, but both Arthur and Merlin are too busy feeling sorry for theirselfs they don't realise that. Is not until a nobel man attempts to rape Merlin that Arthur realises. Reconciliation. First I love you's and first time.

I'll probably have to split some chapters in two, but for now the summaries are these.

#merlin bbc #bbc merlin #merlin #merthur #merlin fanfic #merlin prompt #merlin fic #merthur fic #arthur and merlin #merlin and arthur #merthur fanfiction #merthur fanfic #merthur fic rec #merthur prompt #The Dragonlord's son series

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charliespringsleftconverse · 4 months

Text

Kiss Me Again

Word Count: 8,645 | Masterlist | Read on AO3

Writer’s Notes: I was going to have a friend proof this for me but they were busy so I did some multiple self-revisions in the past few days in hopes that I caught as many grammar errors as possible. Apologies if I missed any! Anyway! This is a college AU ACOTAR Feysand fic. The concept was idiots in love. As in, they’ve baaaasically been doing couply stuff but they were too blind to see or acknowledge that they’d been in love and acting as a couple for a while. <3

I don’t typically write AU fics, so this is a first for me! That being said, it was so much fun to write. It’s actually the longest one-shot I’ve written! A HUGE Happy Holidays to @thegloweringcastle <3 I hope you enjoy it and finally find out who got left at the supermarket! 😂

Thank you to @acotargiftexchange for putting this event together once again! I LOVE participating in this every year! <3

Squinting at the scribbles below, my eyes attempted to decipher the notes I’d borrowed. I had been able to make out the date thanks to the simple fact that it hadn’t been written in cursive like the rest of the details. It was a lost art form for me just like any other calligraphy-related configuration. I would have written down my own notes for the humanities course I was taking, in plain print, had my younger sister not lost the key to her dorm room. With her roommate out of town for the week, there wasn’t much Elain could have done outside of calling her Resident Assistant, which, to her dismay, also happened to be her ex-boyfriend. So, rather than having to face Grayson more than she needed to, she’d called me.

Lucky for Elain, I kept a spare. All of my sisters and I did, actually. Nesta, Elain, and I all had a key to each other’s place. It had been especially helpful when we all lived on campus last year. We could just walk into each other’s rooms at any time. Like when I needed help with my homework for Calculus with Analytic Geometry and borrowed Nesta’s notes from her sophomore year. Or when Nesta needed to borrow my curling iron for a date. And, of course, how could I forget the night that Elain and her then-boyfriend broke up. She had refused to leave her room for two days. I had never been so grateful to have access to a spare key. Nesta and I had been so worried having not heard from her for more than a day. We spent that entire weekend taking turns bringing her food from her favorite places across town in hopes that they’d brighten her spirits. Thai food from Adriata’s Palace, Italian Cuisine from Neve’s Garden, and Mexican from Rita’s Margaritas. I had never seen my sister so devastated in her life. Although to be fair, Elain had never dated a boy before Grayson.

I turned the notebook a bit to the side in hopes that the lighting from the new angle would bless me with a hint as to what words hid behind Mor’s beautiful script. Mother above. Shaking my head, I bit my lip. I should have listened to my mother when she said that learning cursive would be an invaluable skill. She was certainly right in thinking that it was a dying skill. It was dead on me for sure. Hell, the only people I knew who still wrote in cursive were sorority recruitment leads when they made their colorful, extravagant banners with fancy lettering and doctors. Which would make sense at the moment given who I had borrowed these notes from. Zeta Tau Alpha’s latest Chapter President. My mother was certainly wagging her finger at me from wherever she was.

I sighed.

“You look more concentrated than my morning orange juice,” said Rhysand, sitting across the table. His violet eyes studying me, his brows raised in concern. We’d—he’d been studying for the past thirty minutes, meanwhile, I’d just been heavy-breathing and decoding what looked like a cipher like a treasure hunter in search of the coordinates to an ancient Greek secret temple. But unlike an archeologist, my work proved unfruitful.

“I’m trying to decipher Mor’s handwriting,” I said. Leaning back on the chair, I let out another loud sigh. “It’s beautiful. But I can’t read cursive for shit.”

Rhys and I had known each other since freshman year. More specifically, ever since I accidentally dropped a shoe on him from the fourth floor of the residence halls. I had originally been aiming for my roommate Viviane to catch, who to this day still wanted to room with me. She hadn’t wanted to come up again to retrieve the missing shoe and I didn’t want to go downstairs in a towel as I’d just come out of the shower and was still undressed.

The natural decision was to just fling the sneaker out the window of our dorm room, obviously. What we didn’t account for was my terrible aim and Viviane’s lack of hand-eye coordination. Not only did Rhys get bumped in the head by a single white platform Vans but he also got pushed into a bush by Viviane. She had been so busy looking up, that she forgot to look forward and completely missed the 6-foot man inches from her. It had been a miracle Viviane herself hadn’t impaled the shrubbery along with him. I’ll never forget the mortified look Viviane and I mirrored, eyes wide and hands over mouth. All I could think was, he’s concussed. I concussed a man.

Personally, if someone had smacked me on the head, I would have at least yelled at them. Maybe even called them a prick. Rhys, however, was a different breed of man. He had certainly groaned on impact but as soon as he realized he had backflipped into a small hedge and held a women’s size 8 shoe on his lap, he laughed. He let out a full belly laugh. This man—this stranger—had the audacity to laugh given the circumstances. I suppose I should have realized from that moment that nothing could truly take him by surprise or upend his day. A trait I admired. One I hoped seeped into my bones by osmosis or whatever symbiotic science allows personal characteristics to flow from one person to another.

I apologized profusely to this man. In a towel from my window. In my pajamas after I ran downstairs. In his residence hall, after Viviane helped me put together an apology basket when we discovered he lived across from her boyfriend Kallias. Even then, this 6-foot-something of a man thought it was funny. Every. Single. Time. To which I convinced myself, I’d more than concussed him. I convinced myself I’d done serious damage for a man to laugh at that level of pain. Although, I suppose that if two people showed up in their dinosaur onesies at 9 pm on a Thursday evening with a basket for me, I’d also laugh. But still.

It wasn’t until that very week that I realized Rhys and I shared similar classes. We were both in English Composition, Principles of Chemistry, and Introduction to Sociology. Which, quite honestly, are more than enough courses for you to figure out if you have the same schedule as another student. What can I say, I’m oblivious—an ongoing theme in my life.

Another thing I’ll never forget, the smug look on Rhys’s face when we were paired together in English Composition for a research paper on the portrayal of minorities in the media. I’d wanted to find the nearest cliff and jump off it but destiny had other plans. No, fate looked me straight in the eye and said, “Hold my drink, bestie” because two years later, here we are. Best friends.

Rhysand snatched the paper out of my hands. “The Gate of Athena Archegetis was dedicated to the patron goddess of Athens, Athena.”

My hand rushed to jot down what he said. The table vibrated from the ferocity with which I scribbled on my notebook. What I couldn’t crack in thirty minutes took Rhys all of two seconds to read out. Why our professor for that course didn’t allow laptops or tablets for note taking, I’ll never understand. I was just grateful I had something legible transcribed now.

“You can read that? It might as well have been written entirely in Latin,” I said.

“I’ve had practice reading my cousin's handwriting for years. I’d be disappointed if I couldn’t, at this point.” Rhysand chuckled. Passing the page, he eyed the notes, likely reviewing the contents from the course he’d taken himself the semester before.

“I, unfortunately, was blessed with my father’s handwriting.” I tugged at the sleeves of my V-neck indigo cardigan and shyly pointed at my hideous penmanship. It might as well have been written by a third-grader. It was practically childlike. There wasn’t much fixing that could be done at this point in my life when it came to my writing unless I signed up for a calligraphy course. And even then, life had no guarantees.

The irony wasn’t lost on me. An art major who couldn’t read or write a visual art form. Who could paint true-to-life full-body portraits, vivid illustrations of natural landscapes, and dramatic high-colored oil paintings but couldn’t read or write in cursive. I dropped my shoulders, frustrated with myself, and propped my legs up on the tufted dining chair pulling them against my chest with my arms wrapped around.

Rhys’s eyes were back on me. He had a way of reading me like a billboard sign, and I could tell he was trying to figure out what was going on through my mind, what today’s bold neon letters were. I was never sure how he did it but he always knew exactly what I was thinking. Which either meant my face was easy to read and I had the worst poker face of all time or…he just knew me.

“The ‘A’ in cursive is not a sharp letter. It’s more rounded and looks the exact same in both upper and lowercase. Similar to the way you’d write it in print,” he said.

There were several traits I admired about Rhys outside of his keen observations and nonchalant perspective on life. Like his level of empathy. I knew what his academic grades looked like but boy did I also want to know what his emotional quotient score was. Whatever it was, that score was certainly high. He never made anyone feel like their shortfalls were a hindrance. Nor would he want to. That wasn’t his style. Rather than point out my flaws and make me feel embarrassed, he read the notes aloud.

“The Greek language served as a lingua franca,” he continued.

“That last phrase was actual Latin,” he added. Rhys flipped through the pages of Mor’s notes. I could have asked him for his own from last semester since he’d been able to sign up on time. I, on the other hand, had been wait-listed. Hence why I was taking the course in the spring. It was one of the few classes we all needed to graduate as it was one of the general requirements for all offered degrees. I probably should have asked him for his notes since I could his penmanship but I’d been too caught up with Elain yesterday to even consider asking.

“Here’s another one, in vino veritas,” said Mor, raising two bottles of wine toward us. “In wine there is truth.”

“Amen,” said Cassian, lifting a third bottle.

“I thought you two went out grocery shopping,” said Rhysand. Laying the notes on the table, he crossed his arms eyeing the two figures by the door. The corner of Rhys’s mouth twitched as he raised an eyebrow at his cousin and roommate.

“We did. We brought back the essentials,” said Mor. Smiling back at her cousin, she winked at him before closing the door to the apartment with a kick of her red platform heels.

“Hmm,” Rhys hummed.

Bringing his eyes back to me, Rhysand continued reading off the notes while the other two flocked into the kitchen. I bit the inside of my lip as I followed along the soothing sound of his voice. His warm tone always calmed me when we studied together. Which was why I was his favorite audience member when he needed to practice his presentations. I’d listen attentively, the first time. I’d even provide feedback, the second time. But I’d almost always fall asleep to the sound of his enchanting mellifluous voice any other time after that.

“It’s wine night, Rhys. You know the rules,” said Mor from the other room. Every Friday was wine night, the one day of the week our friend group could get together with no interruptions or excuses. No one had an evening class on Fridays or a night shift so things worked out this semester. Most of the extracurriculars each of us participated in typically held events over the weekend so we’d truly lucked out with everyone’s schedules this time. It wasn’t something we were likely to have again so we were taking advantage of every Friday we had before some of us graduated.

Though, that was one of the rules. No talks about graduation. The point of wine night was to live in the moment and enjoy however many Fridays we had left as the “Inner Circle.” It was a silly name Cassian spewed one night after downing 3 bottles of wine, and it kind of stuck. We didn’t exactly call our group that but we did change our group chat name accordingly.

“You too, Feyre.” Mor’s voice echoed.

Another rule. No homework. That rule was more of a precaution so none of us would accidentally email professors the wrong file while inebriated. To be fair, I was only taking notes but we all tried to abide by the no homework rule as best as we could.

“Give me a few minutes, and I’m all yours,” I said.

“You’re telling me you’ve had all day to write those and you still haven’t?” asked Mor, her voice trailing from deeper in the apartment as she stepped from room to room. She had her apartment across town but, like me, she practically lived here too.

“Yeah, well…there have been some delays,” I said, fidgeting with my pencil. My face began to feel warm as blood rushed into my cheeks. Biting my lip, I kept my eyes down. I didn’t want to let Mor know that I hadn’t been able to write her notes because I couldn’t read her notes. Not that she would make fun of me for it but I knew that if I confessed the truth she’d barge me with questions. And I simply did not feel like answering any of that in front of everyone else. All I wanted was for something to distract her from prying right now. Just about anything would do. A pigeon flying in through the window. The fan in the living room mysteriously falling onto the table. A fire alarm. A knock on the door. Anything would do. Please.

“Weren’t there three of you when you left?” asked Rhysand.

I felt my body relax, and my shoulders dropped. I hadn’t realized the muscles down my back had tightened and tensed so firmly until my body loosened and eased back into the chair. My eyes lifted, meeting Rhysand’s whose amethyst orbs were right on me. He winked. The man knew I’d been on the brink of jumping out a window and needed assistance to divert the tall blonde in the kitchen and I loved him for it.

“Azriel!” said Cassian and Mor in unison. The sound of shoes running filled the kitchen accompanied by that of drawers shutting in a hurry, and the jingle of keys. The pair dashed around the apartment like parents who’d just forgotten their child at the supermarket, which was exactly what had happened. Somewhat.

A knock sounded at the door.

The four of us froze and exchanged glances. The only thought I had in my mind was of Azriel, hoping he hadn’t walked all the way back here. Mor took slow steady steps towards the entrance and when she reached the doorknob, she tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, took a deep breath, and pressed her lips together. Ever so delicately, she turned the knob and pulled the door towards her.

"Today was not my best day. I dare say it didn't even make the top five," said Azriel. He had one hand reaching the top of the doorframe, leaning slightly. His handsome face held no clear emotion but his eyes. His cold eyes stared down at Mor, making her smaller than she was. Oh, he is pissed.

“You left something at the grocery store,” said Nesta, pushing past the brooding body. Her heels clicked as she waltzed into the room wearing a black satin sleeveless dress that hugged her in all the right places from her chest to her hips. The slit on the right side exposed her up to her mid-thigh with every step. Cassian’s eyes immediately caught the movement as they slid up her body, stopping once they met her eyes.

“I would never have left you, Nes,” said Cassian. He took a step toward her, almost challenging her gaze. She held it, eyed him up and down sizing him up, and spun to face the rest of the room. With her back to him, she placed a hand on her hip, blatantly ignoring the door-framed-sized man behind her.

Cassian stepped closer and slid his hands around her body, holding her closer. Nesta didn’t fight him. If I had blinked, I might have missed the slight shift of her body against him, leaning against his chest even closer. It was beyond anyone’s pay grade to understand where they stood in their relationship if it was even that. They’d been on and off for so long that their situationship was like the weather, something that had to be measured in every room.

“I despise you,” said Nesta, with a hint of a smile on the corner of her lips.

“Keep telling yourself that,” said Cassian.

“Are you headed out tonight, Nesta?” I asked.

“I only came to deliver the lost puppy,” said Nesta, taking a step forward and away from the figure wrapped around her. Cassian’s jaw ticked as she untangled herself from his embrace. “I’m headed out with the girls.”

Gwyn and Emerie, I thought. That’s who she almost always referred to. They’d been her closest friends since freshman year and they’d been inseparable from the moment they met. It was surprising that they hadn’t come up with her since they all lived together.

“Gwyn’s downstairs waiting for me, and Emerie is already in the car,” she said.

There it was.

“You should take better care of pretty things,” said Nesta, walking towards the door. Elegantly spinning, her eyes met Cassian’s from beneath the doorframe. Her fingers slipped up her thigh to her waist sensually, her eyes never breaking contact as she spoke. “Someone else might steal them.”

She closed the door on her way out, leaving the rest of us too stunned to speak.

“I’m gonna marry that woman,” said Cassian.

“Wine, anyone?” said Mor.

——

"I almost fist-fought you last night when you took the blanket," I said. Tugging on the dark blue throw-over, I pulled it over myself enough to cover my legs entirely as I sat criss crossed on the couch. The star-filled spread was dark and fluffy like Amren’s black Bombay cat. With three glasses of wine in me, if I closed my eyes and traced my hand down the blanket, I could almost picture Ruby on my lap. She was soft and cud—

A pull on the blanket brought my thoughts back.

“You snore. Loudly," said Rhys.

"I do not snore, you liar." I scoffed, tugging back on the blanket.

We’d both fallen asleep on his bed last night after an intense studying session. Although our schedules were no longer as identical as they’d been during freshman year, we still shared one or two courses every so often. Like this semester, we had Solar System Astronomy together. We’d stayed up late on the balcony of his apartment looking up at the constellations seeing how many we could name and then placing their locations on a star map.

With 88 constellations in the sky, as recognized by the International Astronomical Union, we’d been able to spot at least seven. Ursa Major, Ursa Minor, Orion, Cassiopeia, Cepheus, Draco, and—my face was beginning to feel very warm.

"How did the blanket end up on the floor? No wonder I was freezing," said Rhys. He was leaning against the backrest of the couch, one hand on the armrest holding his glass of wine. Rhysand’s dark lilac eyes sparked with mischief. He was baiting me and I was definitely too inebriated to ignore his comments.

“How could you be freezing? You’re a freaking furnace!” I exclaimed.

“Then why’d you steal the blanket? I’m basically primed for cuddles.” Rhys’s other hand reached around me and tugged me towards him. I laughed against his chest, and let my body lean into him.

“Mother above, you two bicker like a married couple,” said Mor. She was leaning against the doorway leading to the balcony. With the door open, the cool breeze blew in, brushing her long golden hair past her shoulder. Her eyes darted between where Rhys and I sat on the couch and then shifted to something behind us. I was too focused on the elegant way she held her glass to glance away from her posture.

“It’s not bickering if I’m right.” I slapped Rhys against his chest playfully. His chest vibrated with a chuckle.

“Az, play that one song from the other night,” said Amren. With her wine glass inches from her lips in one hand, she pointed at Azriel with her other. There was a lot you learned about a person while under the influence. In Amren’s case, during the day, she was a short-tempered finance major student who ate boys and numbers for breakfast. There was no doubt that she’d be valedictorian of the College of Business Administration. She studied hard, but she also played hard.

“Thisssisss my jaaaaammm.” Amren’s words slurred. She raised one of her hands as if meaning to touch the ceiling lamp like a fly attracted to a zapper light. Swaying to the rhythm, Amren praised the white light above.

“Oh, she is gone,” said Mor, taking a sip of her wine.

All eyes were on Amren now as she led an interpretive dance to the beat of Dance the Night by Dua Lipa. Her choreography involved a lot of hands swaying in the air. While her claps to the music were slightly off-beat, she was giving it her all. She was the choreographer—the lead dancer. She was Barbie at the giant blow art party and the rest of us were just Ken.

“Here’s another piece of Latin for you, Feyre. Nemo saltat sobrius,” said Mor, nodding at Dance and Flex Barbie™.

“What?” I asked. Clumsily leaning forward, I propped one hand on Rhy’s thigh as I leaned closer to Mor in hopes I could read her lips over the music. I felt a hand steady me from behind.

“Nobody dances sober,” said Azriel.

“Unless you’re Azriel, then you don’t dance. At all,” said Cassian. The couch bounced as he threw his body on the empty spot on the other side of me. He smiled at Azriel, threw his hand over the sofa's backrest, and leaned back.

“I’ve definitely seen him dance,” said Rhys.

“No way. In his room?” Cassian chuckled.

I took this as an opportunity to make myself more comfortable, while they were distracted. Shifting my body, I leaned further into Rhys, the shape of his own welcoming me back to my spot. A soft giggle escaped my lips as Cassian grabbed my feet and placed them on his lap. Somehow my body had slid down Rhys’s and I was fully lying across the sofa on top of the boys. I was comfortable. So comfortable, I could fall asleep.

“At a party, actually,” said Rhys, his eyes glanced at Azriel while a small smile edged on his face.

“With a girl?” Cassian’s voice sounded surprised.

“With a girl.” Rhys nodded.

“No fucking way,” said Cassian. He couldn’t help but smile at Az, his mouth gaped.

I understood Cassian’s reaction, Azriel didn’t dance let alone run or jog for anything. He was an enigma; an unsolvable riddle. The man was calm, cool, and collected at all times. Always unfazed by things that would distress the common Joe. It was slightly unnerving. If someone spilled wine on the carpet, Azriel wouldn’t panic at the thought of a huge red stain on the rug. He’d walk into the kitchen, no questions asked, and come back with a dry cloth, dish soap, and hydrogen peroxide, and blot the patch until it made you doubt if anything had actually been spilled. Whereas Mor and I would have stared at the ink-stained rug and exchanged wide-eyed looks before quietly agreeing that the room could do better without a rug.

Azriel shrugged completely unbothered.

“With wh-

“I don’t kiss and tell,” said Azriel. Cold eyes stared back, silently telling Cassian to back off without any need for words.

“You’re just jealous he didn’t kiss you,” said Rhysand. He was trying to diffuse any rising tension. I could feel the sound of his voice vibrating across his chest. At some point, I’d given him my glass of wine or he’d taken it from me very smoothly. It would have been a disaster if I’d spilled it over the three of us on the sofa. I would have felt especially bad about it considering it was new. Their last one had moved on to a better place after Cassian put a hole in it from jumping on it during a karaoke session two months ago.

“Hell yeah, I am!” Cassian exclaimed.

Azriel raised an eyebrow, a lopsided grin on his lips. "Are we about to kiss right now?"

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” said Rhysand.

“Come here, you,” said Cassian. Throwing my legs off him, he jumped across the room embracing Azriel. The room filled with laughter at the show the two of them were putting on. Even through the loud ruckus, the short-tempered finance major was far too deep into her slumber to awaken. At some point, Amren had tucked herself into the armchair by the window and nodded off. She looked cozy and peaceful with her head lying on the armrest. We’d learned long ago that it was best to leave her alone when she dozed off. A lesson learned the hard way.

Through the open doors leading to the balcony, the sky was briefly illuminated with a bright light followed by a faint sound of thunder. I glanced at the digital clock beneath the TV sitting on the television stand. It was late and I needed to get home. There was still a buzzing feeling that tingled across my body from the earlier drinks but I didn’t live far. It was ten minutes max walking. Plus, if I left now, I could avoid the rain.

Sitting up, I scanned the room looking for my shoes. “I should get going,” I said.

“Let me call you a ride,” said Mor, already taking out her phone.

“Mor, I live within walking distance,” I said, gathering my shoes.

Azriel jumped in, “I barely drank. All I had was a sip earlier. I could give you a ri-

He didn’t finish his sentence as his eyes glanced toward the other side of the room at the sound of boots hitting the hardwood and the sofa shuffling. I didn’t think too much about it, not that I could in my current state. I was more focused on figuring out where I’d placed the key to my apartment.

“Do you want us to walk with you?” asked Mor.

Holding on to the wall, I hooked two fingers into one of my white platform Nike and pushed my foot into the shoe. Was it counterintuitive to own sneakers with shoelaces if I never had any intention of tying them? I couldn’t help but chuckle at the thought as I did the same with my other shoe. It was unclear to me if I genuinely found the thought funny or if it was the alcohol coursing through me. Before I could respond to Mor’s question, I felt the close warmth of a tall figure standing near me.

“I’ll walk her,” said the familiar voice.

“Rhys-

“That wasn’t an offer, darling. That was me making a statement,” he said.

I sighed, looking up at him. It was late, and I didn’t feel like arguing knowing that it would delay my departure before the oncoming storm. Having someone walk you home wasn’t the end of the world. It was an act of the purest love. That someone cared about your well-being enough to ensure you’d made it home safely. That’s what I loved about my friends. The genuine love we all had for each other.

Sliding my baby blue nylon backpack over my shoulder, I double-checked I’d gathered everything. I went through my mental checklist. Phone, wallet, keys. Patting my pockets, I ensured I had them. I made sure to hug everyone goodbye before heading out. Well, everyone except Amren, who was ever so sweetly tucked in the armchair with a blanket twice her size. Likely one of Cassian’s massive blankets.

When I turned, Rhysand was already by the door holding it open for me. Slipping his hand over my shoulder, he grabbed my powder blue bag and placed it over his. With the motion, my white plush bear keychain swung against the two baby penguin pins on the cerulean fabric. My backpack had a very soft aesthetic that stood out when held by Rhys who was dressed in dark tones from head to toe. It didn’t fit his aesthetic. At all. I was about to object that I could carry my own bag but his voice interrupted my thoughts. “Don’t put the top lock on the door, I’ll be right back.”

As we headed out, the sky flashed again. The air felt cool against my skin and smelled like dew. It was a calming, fresh scent. It reminded me of potted flowers and succulents like the ones I had by the window in my room. The ones I always forgot to water but always survived, courtesy of one Elain Archeron. She knew I couldn’t keep anything alive, plant or fish, so she’d made sure to get me greenery that required minimal attention, which reminded me that I hadn’t watered them in a week. If it started pouring by the time I got home, I could stick them out the window and have them be watered au naturale.

I jumped at the sound of thunder and instinctively grabbed Rhys’s hand. His fingers wrapping around mine were warm and rough whereas mine were cold and soft. He squeezed my hand and held on to mine as we continued walking. “It caught me off guard.”

“Mmhm,” he said.

The wind picked up slightly as we headed down the illuminated path amongst the trees and apartment complex gardens that stretched across an open space. Rain was certainly on its way, it was just a matter of when. We likely had a couple of minutes before the downpour began. Thunder sounded all around us, and one, two droplets landed on my cheek. Damn. Other than being way off in my calculations, I’d also forgotten to borrow an umbrella before we left. There was no avoiding that we were going to be caught in this.

“I’m glad I grabbed this before we left,” said Rhys, opening an umbrella large enough to cover us both. At what point he’d grabbed the umbrella was beyond me. I stepped closer to him as he fumbled opening it. He gave it a slight jiggle with one hand that became more aggressive by the second as he attempted to push the sliding metal piece with his fingers. After about a minute, the section loosened up allowing for more movement. The issue now lay with the broken stretchers that were meant to hold the fabric.

“Who the hell leaves a broken umbrella in the umbrella stand?” said Rhys.

“Someone who forgot to throw it out?”

“That’s why trashcans exist,” he sighed. Rhys let go of my hand and continued fumbling with the umbrella trying to see if the pieces would lock into place. Thunder sounded above us and more drops of water began falling slowly picking up.

“If we pick up the pace, we can make it before it really hits,” said Rhys. His eyes surveyed mine and I could tell he was both disappointed and worried that he’d let me down somehow. But unless he was secretly in cahoots with Mother Nature, there was no way any of this could be his fault or something for him to blame himself for.

“I’m sorry about the weather,” said Rhys. The way he rubbed his neck and his brows drew together, I couldn’t bear the look of disappointment on his face for something out of his reach.

I shook my head and smiled up at him. “What are you sorry about? A broken umbrella that you had no idea was broken? The sky? Rhysand, unless you secretly own a weather machine, there’s nothing to be sorry about. Forget the umbrella.”

“In fact,” I continued, “I think this is an opportunity.”

I took my bag and the umbrella from his hands, chucked the latter in the nearest bin, and placed my bag on the ground.

“An opportunity?”

I wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol or the moment, but I’d always wanted to dance in the rain like in movies and musicals. I felt bold and giddy at the idea of doing so now. All I could focus on was this tune from the third High School Musical installment. “Take my hand, take a breath.”

Standing in front of him, I stretched out my hand and offered it to Rhys. He looked puzzled but accepted my offer. “Pull me close, and take one step.”

“A song with instructions? I can follow that,” he said. A small smile formed on his lips.

“Keep your eyes locked on mine,” I continued.

His violet eyes twinkled beneath the moonlight and it almost looked like stars danced across his eyes as they softened, placing his other hand on my waist. He knew exactly what song I was referencing. After all, I’d made him watch it enough times with me. “And let the music be your guide.”

I nodded, cuing him to step with me. With his eyes wholly fixed on me, we slowly stepped into time, our shoes gently tapping against the pavement.

“Won't you promise me,” Rhys chimed.

Pulling me closer against his chest, Rhysand guided me across the makeshift dance floor—the walkway between the trees—with a step here and a half turn there. We were dancing through the gardens illuminated by the night sky and lamp posts down the pathway as we waltzed further in.

“Now won't you promise me, that you'll never forget.”

“We'll keep dancing,” added Rhys.

“To keep dancing.” A smile curved across my lips.

“Wherever we go next.” Our voices intertwined as we spun together, my hands held on to him tighter as the rain picked up. Swaying through the path of greenery, the scenery around us dissolved. It was just Rhys and I.

Thunder crashed above, and the true downpour began.

“It's like catching lightning the chances of finding someone like you,” we continued. I couldn’t help but smile brightly up at him as rain trailed down his face. The buzzing feeling from earlier that had coursed through my body now turned into a tingly feeling that reached from where Rhys was holding my hand—my fingers—to my chest. No, my body wasn’t buzzing, it was humming. We might have been dancing but I was floating in his embrace. I couldn’t look away from him.

With every lyric, raindrops painted our clothes a shade darker. My indigo cardigan was now inked navy as we swayed to the invisible music. My feet splashed against puddles, drenching my white shoes in rainwater. They’d likely be gray by the time I got home but that didn’t matter. As our feet shuffled across the pathway, the sky reflected itself over the water on the trail creating an illusion of stars beneath our feet. We were dancing among the stars.

We sang the rest of the song, never messing up the lyrics or missing a beat. We might have been recreating a moment by singing a song from one of my favorite films but this waltz was entirely made up by us. Rhys’s hand still grasping mine, spun me around as we brought the sound of the music in our chests to a slow end. His eyes were still on mine as we held our soaking bodies close. Was he always this beautiful?

I couldn’t help but marvel at his handsomeness and let an intrusive thought get the better of me as I ran my fingers across his cheek. He leaned into my warm touch, eyes softening. His eyes glanced from mine down to my lips. Please, I pleaded. I could feel my heart racing and my chest tightening at the thought of his lips on mine. Rhysand cleared his throat as his hands gently let go of mine, breaking the spell.

Taking a step back, he scanned me from head to toe and chuckled. “I bet we look like drowned rats to anyone looking out their windows.”

I shook my head, holding back a smile.

“I feel like one too,” I said. Looking down at my jeans, there was not a dry spot on them.

I bit the inside of my cheek. Had we just had a moment? I must have hallucinated it in the dark lighting. There was no way that Rhysand had looked like he’d wanted to kiss me two seconds ago. I wasn’t ignorant, I’d known Rhysand was objectively attractive. He had a strong jawline and he was fit from working out every week with Cassian and Azriel. He had nice cheekbones, luscious lashes, soft lips, and intelligent eyes. He was delightful to look at. He was…

Who was I kidding, he was handsome beyond compare. I just had never seen him in that way until now. Mother above, I was oblivious as they came. And I wished I could have blamed the alcohol for all of it—the way I was feeling, the thoughts I was having—but the truth was, I’d burned it out of my system with that dance.

‘We should get going,” said Rhys.

He grabbed my bag off the ground and we walked the rest of the way in awkward silence. I kept glancing sideways at him every so often. I’d definitely hallucinated that moment we’d had for a split second. The rest of the way to my place, I spent it looking at the ground contemplating while Rhysand stared at the stars as if searching for a cosmic answer.

By the time we made it to my place, we were full-on drenched. I was sure my hair looked like a wet mop attached to my head. I patted my pockets in search of the key and found it in the left back pocket of my jeans. They jingled in my hands as I fumbled looking for the right one.

“I hope you’re not planning to walk back in this. At least let me offer you a towel.” I glanced sideways as I turned the key.

He didn’t argue. In fact, he didn’t say anything at all. He’d stayed quiet and simply nodded as I led him in. With Viviane at her boyfriend’s for the weekend, there was no one home. All the lights were off as we walked in. I flipped the light switches as we stepped through the place in search of something dry. In the hallway closet, I found some towels for us. Meanwhile, I could hear Rhys in the kitchen opening and closing the cabinets.

As I turned the corner, I could see him pulling out two teabags from a box before his head turned in my direction. "I'll put the kettle on."

"So sweet of you, you're an angel," I said.

On top of being handsome, he was very thoughtful. Was I really falling for my best friend? I couldn’t help but keep my eyes locked on him as he turned on the stove and prepared tea for us. I bit my lower lip and turned towards the dryer that was hidden behind a sliding door. Neither of us was shivering or in any danger of getting frostbite, but a warm towel would certainly go well with tea. After a few minutes, the machine beeped just as the kettle began hissing. I pulled both towels out of the dryer and practically moaned at the warm touch against my skin.

“Would you like a dry towel?” I offered.

“You don’t want my wet handkerchief to dry your wet face?” He glanced sideways at me as he poured water into each cup with a smirk painted across his face.

I giggled and walked further into the kitchen. As soon as he placed the kettle back on the stove, I threw a towel over my shoulder and placed the other one on his head as he turned around to face me. I ran the towel over his head, drying his hair before sliding it over his shoulders and wrapping it around his body.

I looked up at him. “My hair is soaked, Rhys.”

The clothes we were wearing could have easily squeezed out two gallons of water. I could have probably fed my succulents with the amount of liquids soaked into our outfits. If I could have thrown myself in the dryer too, I would have knocked out two birds with one stone.

Standing in front of me, wrapped around in my towel, he looked adorable. Rhys’s eyes met mine and I could have sworn time stopped. All I could do was stare up at him. Oh gosh, was I staring? I blinked rapidly and dropped my gaze.

“You still look beautiful,” he said.

I felt my heart stop and my breath hitch. My hands stilled on his body still holding on to the light blue towel. Did he mean it in a friendly way? I glanced back up. His eyes peered down at me searching for something in mine. My lips parted as if to speak but I wasn’t sure what to say. Instead, I closed my mouth and swallowed.

“Feyre.”

The way he said my name made my heart skip. He took a step, closing the gap between us. My name sounded low like a prayer on his lips. If he was praying, then I wanted to bless him but I needed a sign. I wanted a clear sign that he wasn’t just whispering my name in an empty apartment for no reason.

“Why didn’t you kiss me earlier?” I half whispered.

His eyes glanced from my eyes to my mouth and back in a triangle manner. A small smile painted itself across his lips like a prayer answered. “You caught that.”

It wasn’t a question, he was making a statement.

“I wanted to be sure your head was clear when I kissed you,” said Rhysand.

“Rhys?”

“Yes?”

A pause.

“My head’s clear now,” I said.

Rhysand's head slowly leaned forward, stopping inches from my face, giving me time to take a step back if I wanted to back out. I didn’t. I wanted—needed, to know what his lips felt like on mine. If they were truly as soft as they looked. His fingers titled my chin up and kissed me. Gods, his kiss was more than soft, it was life-changing. His lips were gentle against mine, so sweet and delicately slow like he’d been waiting an eternity for this moment and now that he had it, now that the moment had arrived he wanted to savor it. If I’d been floating earlier when I danced with him beneath the rain, then I was soaring above the clouds and beyond the moon now.

His hands cupped my face as mine slid into his hair, pulling him closer by the neck. Neither one of us parted to take a breath. I could tell this wasn’t just any kiss, this was the kiss. The one that would change our lives—my life—forever. The kiss I’d compare any other to. I could feel his chest against mine as our legs brushed against each other. Rhysand's hands slowly slid down my shoulders and arms and made their way down and around my waist. We pulled each other closer, our bodies seeking contact where they could as we continued wrapping ourselves against each other. We were two colliding stars, bursting with sparks and ever-changing hues.

After what felt like forever, I pulled back slightly, eyes closed. Blood had rushed into my cheeks, and there was no doubt that the heat against my flushed face had painted them rosy. I could feel his head leaning against mine, both of us breathless. Mother above, I truly was oblivious to everything. That definitely wasn’t a friend kiss. That was an I-want-to-be-more-than-friends kiss.

Rhysand’s hand came up against my face tucking strands of semi-wet hair behind my ear. It felt like he was looking at me for the first time or trying to memorize every freckle on my face. A beat passed and he broke the silence. “I think I’m falling in love with you. I think I have been for a while.”

My heart skipped at those words—at his confession. My mouth gaped. There were no words. I wasn’t sure what to say. All I could focus on was the rising and beating in my chest as I focused on taking the next breath. Had this really just happened? Had we truly just kissed? Did he just say that he—

“I’m hoping you didn’t just kiss me to then break my heart, Feyre, darling.” He cupped my face as he spoke the last two words.

“I never knew you liked me,” I said, stumbling on the words.

“Now you do. And correction, I said I love you.” The corners of Rhysand’s mouth turned up. I couldn’t help the way my eyes widened in disbelief. He’d said the words again.

“You love me?”

Rhys chuckled as he shook his head. He lifted my head with a hand beneath my chin as if inspecting me. “Did you hit yourself with the dryer door? Do I need to kiss you again? Or maybe hold your hand as we walk through a storm? Or dance in the rain while quoting your favorite movie?”

He loved me. He loved me, and he not only meant it with the words he’d spoken, but Rhys had demonstrated and proved time and time again that he truly meant it, body and soul. A man who could talk the talk and walk the walk. Dare I say, he was a man after my own heart.

“If you let me, I promise I’ll spend every day making sure you never doubt how worthy of love you are,” said Rhys. The back of his hand caressed my cheek.

“I’ll do anything with you, Rhys. As long as it’s you,” I said.

His lips met mine again, this time with more passion and intensity. Wrapping my hands around his neck once more, I felt the towel slide off his shoulders and plop to the ground. Rhys's hands traveled around my hips, to the back of my thighs before he lifted me into his arms. Instinctually, I wrapped my legs around him and deepened our kiss. I wanted him closer. I wanted his body against mine without the barriers of our wet clothes.

As if he’d read my thoughts, I could feel us moving down the hallway to my room. Every kiss turned deeper than the last and I knew I couldn’t deny myself the truth. I was completely and utterly in love with him. And I was a fool for not noticing before that maybe I had loved him longer than my body knew. Longer than I truly knew. He was my safe space, my person, my best friend. He was everything I could want in a man. He was everything. Rhys was everything.

Gently laying me against my bed, he pulled back slightly to look down at me. His eyes were like lilac-blue stars glistening against the moonlight as he marveled at me. It was almost like he couldn’t believe that this was real. I placed my hand on his cheek, rubbing my thumb. His lips smiled against my warm touch.

“I can’t stop smiling when I look at you,” said Rhys.

He gazed at me like a painter setting eyes on their muse. Like he’d been seeking inspiration his entire life and now he’d found it. Rhys shook his head in disbelief. “How did this happen?”

The question wasn’t for me to answer, it was rhetorical. He was speaking his thoughts aloud as if waiting for a cosmic answer to shine through the window. “I can’t stop thinking about you, Feyre.

“When I wake up, when I’m about to fall asleep, even in my dreams I can never stop thinking of you. When you’re not with me, it feels like something is missing. And, gosh, I hate poetry, but when I think of you…I can’t help but imagine that this is what the greats write about. This feeling. It’s like poets are reciting their writings in my head.”

I could feel the corners of my eyes becoming damp. I could spend the rest of this night in his arms simply admiring him. His honest eyes were full of more unspoken words of love. I could feel the wetness of my clothes seeping into the blanket below but I didn’t care. I thumbed his lips, his Apollo’s arched bow, memorizing this moment. I could feel my shaky voice escaping me as I spoke.

“All these years, I thought we were just friends, and I was okay with that…but now I realize that maybe I’ve felt like this for a while about you. That I’ve loved you without knowing that this is what it was.”

“You love me?” A smile spread across his lips.

“Did you hit yourself with the door coming in? Or do I need to kiss you again?” I mimicked his earlier question.

He gently rubbed his nose against mine, his lips inches from my own.

“Kiss me again,” he whispered.

I moaned against his lips this time. I wanted him to hold me, to touch me, to kiss me, to say my name. I wanted everything and more. We tugged against wet clothes, which were much harder to take off thanks to their added weight. They stuck to our bodies and made it difficult to slide out of them. But we didn’t care. We kissed and laughed our way out of the heavy wet clothing until we were skin to skin. Until we were finally warm in each other's embrace. And for the first time in a while, I prayed.

Rhys.

I prayed the rest of the night as his body melded against mine, pulling prayer after prayer from my lips. His name, the only one I wanted to whisper against the moonlight shining through my window. It was only our names echoing from the other’s lips against soft I love yous with every touch and shift against hips. We were dancing like stars in the night sky, and holding on to each other as if we’d collided into one. Our whispers and sighs grew more uneven. He was my gravity, my center, and I was his. With Rhys’s eyes on mine and a final waltz around the universe, I felt my world burst like a nuclear fission. Like a star reaching its last evolutionary stage.

Rhys kissed me again, softer this time, and wrapped me in his arms as we lay beneath the comfort of warm blankets, tangled in each other. Pulling me against his chest, he whispered. "Did you know that rainy day cuddles are two times more effective than sunny day cuddles?"

“Don’t you have to tell Cas to lock the door for you,” I said.

“That can wait,” said Rhys, kissing the top of my head.

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