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highladyandromeda · 1 month

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The Stolen Pen

Azriel x Fem!Reader

Summary: Azriel inadvertently steals a pen from Y/n, his crush. His covert operations to rectify the situation spirals into a comedy of errors…will Azriel be able to return the pen and admit his feelings, or will he forever be labeled as a thief?

Warnings: None, just fluff with stupid decisions, a sprinkle of jealousy, silly mistakes, and perhaps too many details about pens.

A/N: So I was supposed to be writing my other fic, but I was a bit stumped on where to take that…So I started this with the intention of it being a cute, short, one-shot or blurb…but here we are…7k words later….this is a fluffy mess.

“Ohhh there come the lover boy”, Cassian whisper-yells, as Azriel silently slides into the chair next to Nesta in their shared criminal justice elective. His attempt at stealth, however, is foiled by that not-so-subtle announcement. With a scowl aimed at Cassian, Azriel attempts to shrink further into his chair, hoping that their professor remains engrossed in her lecture and oblivious to his tardiness.

“Shhhhhh” Nesta whispered, smacking the back of Cass’s head, giving Azriel some support before she smirked, “He’s not lover boy yet. Have you even been able to say something beyond hello and goodbye?

The question hits Azriel with the force of a freight train, his cheeks burning with a flush that he prays is hidden by the shadow of his hoodie. He's saved from having to voice his defeat by the TA, who chooses that moment to distribute study guides for their impending exam. Grateful for the distraction, Azriel takes out his pen, only to catch the curious—and amused—gazes of Nesta and Cassian directed not at him, but at his hand.

Always self-conscious about his scars, he hunches further into his hoodie, but as he follows their stares back to his paper, Azriel's heart sinks. In his hand lies a distinctly feminine, pink pen adorned with a star or flower emblem at its tip, an object so glaringly out of place in his grip that it screams for attention. The realization hits him like a wave, leaving him momentarily speechless. Oh. Oh.

“Please tell me that's whose I think it is," Nesta teases, barely containing her laughter as she observes Azriel's stunned silence.

At Azriel’s complete silence, Nesta waved a hand in front of his face, glancing at Cassian and mouthing did he stop functioning? To which she got a shoulder shrug in response.

Her attempts to elicit a response from him were futile; Azriel was lost in a haze of embarrassment, fixated on the damning piece of evidence in his hand. Nesta's playful pokes did nothing to snap him out of his daze, and in a moment of sheer mortification, Azriel let his forehead meet the desk with a thud loud enough to turn heads. If he thought he was invisible before, he's anything but now.

Azriel was mortified.

He was utterly and completely mortified. Azriel felt like he was living in a nightmare, one where embarrassment was the main theme, and there was no waking up. He wished for anything—a magic trapdoor beneath his feet, or maybe a sudden, convenient superpower to teleport himself out of this situation. But no, the reality was far less accommodating, especially since he was holding onto something that wasn't his. A pen. Not just any pen, but one that belonged to you, given in a moment of desperation.

Azriel let out a groan, which Cassian tried to cover with a cough that was more like a shout, and Nesta with the dramatic slam of her books. Their attempts were valiant but futile against the tidal wave of Azriel's mortification.

He thought back to earlier in the day, in the calculus class he shared with you, the one in which he always sat in the back corner and one day you came in late, and sat next to him. Somehow, since then, you kept coming back to that spot, and though he replied each time to your good mornings and goodbyes, he wanted to speak up. Maybe ask if you were new because he would've noticed you in the previous math classes. Or maybe inquire if you had transferred, under the guise of offering a tour of the campus. Yet, whenever he caught sight of your ebony hair and the spark in your eyes, words fled from him, leaving silence in their wake.

Just like today, where for once he was there after you…he had made it a bit of a habit to be early to that one class, mainly because it was a class that was important to his major. Of course, he couldn’t finish his computer science degree if he failed multivariable calculus, and the…added benefit of watching you walk into the building from the windows and then up the stairs, always giving him a smile before sitting down, was just that…a benefit.

But yes, today he slept through his alarm, got trapped in a conversation with his elderly neighbor, the one he didn’t know how to escape without Cass or Rhys, was almost run over twice on his motorcycle, and arrived as a verifiable mess to class. After jumping into his seat, he patted himself down so rigorously and nearly up-ended his entire bag trying to find a pen, needing to copy down the partial derivatives he knew the professor would showcase on their next exam.

His frantic search for a writing instrument ended when you noticed his plight and offered yours with a simple, "Do you need a pen?" Frozen, Azriel could only nod, accepting the lifeline you offered but cursing his inability to say anything more–Oh, caldron boil and fry me…

“You stole her pen?”

“I–I didn’t steal her pen, Nesta”

“You stole her pen.”

“Her mount blank pen”, added Cassian, smiling cheekily behind his phone.

“Whose what–Cass, don’t smile at me with fries sticking out of your mouth.” Feyre joins them in their usual diner, sliding into the booth next to Az.

“He stole his crush’s pen,” Cass continues, swallowing his food this time, after Nesta pinched his thigh.

“I didn’t steal her pen!”

“You stole someone’s pen?” Rhys joins, sliding next to Feyre and setting down a tray of milkshakes.

Azriel's cheeks flushed a deeper shade of red, if that was even possible, under the relentless teasing of his friends. "I didn't steal it. She lent it to me," he mumbled, his voice barely rising over the din of the diner.

"Ah, but you've yet to return it," Rhys pointed out, a mischievous glint in his eye as he took a sip of his milkshake. "Sounds like a classic case of pen-napping to me."

"It's not like that," Azriel protested, but the laughter from his friends suggested they weren't buying his defense. He glanced down at the pen in question, its sleek design and the way it perfectly balanced in his hand making it all the more precious now that it was a symbol of his hapless affection.

Feyre, having quietly observed the exchange with a gentle smile, finally chimed in. "Maybe it's fate, Azriel. That pen could be your excuse to finally talk to her."

Azriel's heart skipped a beat at the thought. Talk to you. Use words this time instead of just nodding like a lovestruck fool. It sounded so simple when Feyre said it, but the mere idea sent his pulse racing.

His thoughts were interrupted by Feyre's voice again, pulling him back to the present. "Wait, Az, can I see it?" Her curiosity piqued, she leaned sideways, her gaze fixed on the pen he held so carefully.

With a hesitant motion, Azriel passed the pen to her, but before she could comment, Rhys's whistle sliced through the din of the diner.

"I take that back, this is definitely a case of pen thieving," he declared, an unusual seriousness lacing his tone that drew the eyes of the entire table.

Rhys sighed, muttering under his breath about uncultured friends, a comment cut short by Nesta's sharp look. "Azriel, that’s a Mont Blanc Pen."

"That’s what I said! A mount blank pen!" Cassian echoed, his voice filled with a mixture of awe and amusement.

Sitting up straight, a sense of urgency overtaking him, Azriel looked from one friend to another, their faces a blend of jest and genuine surprise. Rhys continued, "What that means is it’s quite an expensive pen, Az...I’m sure whoever you borrowed it from will want it back."

The words hit Azriel like a cold wave, his anxiety spiking anew. The fear that you might see him as a thief, as someone who took advantage of a moment of kindness, gnawed at him.

Azriel's mind went back to this morning, the moment of leaving the classroom flashed vividly before his eyes—your parting words, something about the pen, but all he had managed in response was a series of nods, mesmerized by your smile. The possibility that you might have asked for it back, only for him to unwittingly refuse, twisted in his gut. Did your smile mask pity, or was it simply to avoid the brief intimacy of touch?

"Oh, cauldron, I am a thief. I did steal her pen," he muttered, the realization settling in with a weight that was hard to bear. The joke had turned into a confession, the humor of the situation evaporating as the reality of his inadvertent theft dawned on him. He had to make it right, to return the pen and clear the air, hoping beyond hope that you wouldn’t think less of him for this misunderstanding.

“Oh Az, I’m sure it’s not that bad” Feyre hands it back to him, trying to provide words of comfort. “It’ll be fine as long as you see her again.”

This must have been the sixth stare Azriel received, as he shuffled in front of the large windows in the building’s hallway. He supposed he cut quite a figure, dressed entirely in black, complete with a mask and his hoodie covering his entire head. But he was here on a mission, no matter the next group of students he saw from the corner of his eye, whispering and pointing at him. He needed to keep watch and see when you would be walking up to the building. He could only think about your pen for the past 2 days, cursing whatever entity who’d assigned this calculus class on Tuesdays and Thursdays. He needed to give it to you today because he wasn’t sure if he could handle the anxiety all weekend.

At first, he just wanted to leave it on your regular seat and skip class today. Maybe leaving behind a cute note with the pen, asking to treat you to coffee in return for his unintentional theft. But, then he spiraled, what if you no longer went to the seat next to him, thinking of him as some ungrateful and lying douchebag. He couldn’t just leave it there for someone else to pick up, especially after Rhys mentioned its exclusivity. He didn’t want to accidentally lose your pen and ruin all chances of ever getting to talk to you.

But as the minutes ticked by, the usual stream of students thinned…and the bell that marked the start of class echoed hollowly in the emptying hallway. You didn't appear. Confusion, then concern, wound its way through Azriel's thoughts. You didn’t appear. Confusion, then concern wound its way through Azriel’s thoughts. Had something happened? Or had you simply decided to skip class? The latter was a possibility that he simply hadn’t considered, having seen you in every class since the start of the semester last month.

With a heavy heart, Azriel made his way to class, the pen still in his possession. The seat next to him, your seat, remained empty, a silent testament to the day's ruined intentions. As the lecture on derivatives and integrals droned on, Azriel couldn't help but feel the gap next to him acutely, an empty space filled with missed connections and unspoken words.

The clatter and chatter of the diner wrapped around Azriel like a familiar blanket as he sank further into the booth, an attempt to escape the scrutiny he knew was coming. The weekly Saturday breakfast with Rhys and Cassian was usually a highlight, a chance to decompress and share laughs over greasy food. Today, however, Azriel felt the weight of his unresolved dilemma like a lead apron around his chest.

Rhys slid into the booth, arching an eyebrow as he took in Azriel's disheveled appearance. "Looks like someone hasn't slept in days," he commented, his voice laced with concern and a hint of amusement.

Azriel could only groan in response, the word "sleep" feeling foreign and elusive. Cassian's next words did nothing to improve his mood. "He's still a thief," he joked, nudging Azriel with his elbow.

Rhys's surprise was evident. "You still haven't returned the pen?" He shook his head, disbelief and curiosity mingling in his expression.

Cassian leaned back, sipping his coffee. "He hasn’t been able to find her. She skipped class."

The conversation paused as a waiter delivered their usual array of milkshakes and waffles, a temporary distraction from the topic at hand. Rhys, ever the problem solver, wasted no time in offering a solution. "I can see if I can pull some strings, and find her contact information. Or at least her email."

Silence descended upon the table, thick and heavy. Both Cassian and Rhys turned to Azriel, expecting confirmation or at least a nod of approval. Instead, they were met with a profound silence that spoke volumes. The shock on their faces was almost comical.

Rhys was the first to break the silence, disbelief coloring his tone. "Don’t tell me…"

Cassian's eyes widened. "You don’t know her name??"

"Not even her first name???" Rhys added, his voice an octave higher in astonishment.

Azriel felt a flush creep up his neck, coloring his cheeks a deep shade of red. The truth of the matter, laid bare amidst the remnants of breakfast, felt absurd even to him. He had spent the week agonizing over a pen, over missed opportunities and unspoken words, without ever knowing your name.

“But you said she’s in your compsci class?” Rhys continued

Azriel shook his head, “No, we're in multivariable calculus together. But she’s definitely new.”

At Cassian and Rhys's blank stares, Azriel elaborated, “It’s one the hardest math classes, I would have noticed her in the previous levels.”

“Wait Az, pull out the pen again.” Rhys reached his hand over.

His eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief, flicking between Azriel and the pen before he floated an invitation his way. "Why don't you take and break and join Feyre and me tonight? We're catching up with my childhood friend—the one who introduced me to Feyre. Actually, Cass, join us and bring Nesta along. We’re meeting at Rita’s as usual so Mor will be there too.

Azriel, however, wasn't so sure. "I don’t know…" he mumbled, lost in his whirlwind of thoughts, missing the significant glances Rhys shot towards Cassian.

As if on cue, Cassian's boisterous encouragement broke through his reverie. "Oh, come on, Az. It's not like the pen's going to grow legs and run off!"

And with Rhys adding, "Give us some company, won't you, Azriel? My dear friend will feel left out among the couples."

With a mix of encouragement and playful ribbing, Azriel found himself agreeing if only to escape the orbit of his own overthinking for a while.

Thus, Azriel found himself stepping into Rita's coffee shop, transformed at night into a cozy jazz club, clad in his finest casual attire. Gone was the hoodie, replaced by a crisp black shirt, his best jeans, and the leather jacket that felt like a second skin. The pen, its significance magnified beyond reason, was securely tucked inside his jacket, close to his heart.

Entering the cafe with Nesta and Cassian, who both looked effortlessly chic, Azriel couldn't help but feel a flicker of excitement beneath his apprehension. Rita’s transformed at night from a quaint coffee shop into a vibrant jazz club, complete with dance floors and hidden alcoves, a favorite haunt for their group.

Curiosity about this mysterious friend of Rhys and Feyre nibbled at the edges of his thoughts. Described by Rhys as a "childhood companion" and by Feyre with glowing terms of talent and kindness, she seemed almost too good to be true. Feyre’s stories painted her as a guardian angel of the arts, guiding Feyre through her first year with museum visits and personal tutorials in art history, a beacon of support that enabled Feyre to pursue her dreams in Fine Arts.

Azriel couldn't deny the intrigue, a part of him eager to meet the person who had inadvertently brought both his brothers' such happiness and given him such close friends.

Rita's was a place of warmth and music, where coffee aromas mingled with the sultry notes of jazz, and where the dance floor beckoned the brave. It was here, amidst the casual elegance of his friends, that Azriel hoped to find some semblance of peace.

His heart was already racing from the anticipation of the night, but nothing could have prepared him for the moment he stepped into the semi-circle of his friends and saw her.

The back of a girl, her black tweed jacket adorned with intertwining threads of red and gold, caught his immediate attention. It was a unique piece, one he recognized because it hung over the chair next to him just days ago in calculus. As if on cue, Cassian nudged him forward, breaking his trance and thrusting him into the moment he had been both dreading and longing for.

Time seemed to stretch and bend, each step toward the table feeling like a journey in itself. Then, as Rhys and Feyre stood, pulling the girl up with them, the world snapped back to its rightful pace, but not for Azriel. For him, everything continued in slow motion, the ambient noise fading into a distant buzz, drowned out by the sudden pounding of his heart.

"This is my childhood friend," Rhys began, his voice cutting through the fog in Azriel's mind.

"And my first college friend, Y/n," Feyre added, her smile bright and welcoming. “She just came back from a year abroad, so everyone welcome her well!”

Rhys continued with the introductions, but Azriel heard none of it. His gaze locked with Y/n's, and in that moment, everything else fell away. Her eyes, a captivating mix of curiosity and warmth, seemed to hold him in place, rendering him utterly speechless.

"Oh hi, Azriel!" Y/n's voice, clear and cheerful, attempted to bridge the gap between them. But Azriel remained frozen, caught in the storm of his own emotions, unable to muster even the simplest of greetings.

Then, the silence was shattered by Cassian's laughter. "Sorry about that, Azriel is just too shy, isn't that right?" he joked, clapping Azriel on the back hard enough to jostle him from his stupor. With a friendly push, Cassian maneuvered him into the booth next to Y/n before sliding in next to Rhys and Nesta.

As Feyre drew Y/n back into the conversation, wanting to connect her with Nesta over their love for books, Azriel couldn't shake the feeling of the pen in his pocket. It was as if the object, a simple tool for writing, had become a symbol of all his unspoken words, his hidden desires, and his fear of reaching out. It burned against his thigh, a constant reminder of the words he had yet to say.

As the night wore on, and their friends' laughter filled the air, Azriel found his eyes constantly drifting to Y/n’s, wanting to capture every smile, every glance, every subtle expression that danced across her features. The ambient light of the club, dim and forgiving, cast a warm glow on her face, highlighting the contours and the genuine joy that seemed to radiate from her.

When the girls got up to join the dance floor, a tidal wave of reality crashed over Azriel. Rhys and Cassian's sudden attention, their probing questions about his unusual quietness, felt like spotlights on a stage he wasn't prepared to stand on. "I'm just tired," he managed to say, the words feeling like sandpaper against his throat. "And a bit worried, you know." But his attempt to deflect only invited more scrutiny.

Rhys immediately saw through the facade. "She's the girl, isn't she? That's why she said your name before I introduced you." At Azriel's silence, Rhys elaborated further, “She’s also the one I assumed was the owner of that pen, Y/n has an entire collection of Mont Blanc, and she fits into your description, being technically new as she just returned from abroad.

Azriel’s flush, heavy and telling, confirmed his friends' suspicions without a single word spoken.

“Then this the perfect moment!” Cassian continued. “When she comes back, give the pen and ask to buy her a drink as an apology for the delay”

Rhys perked up as well, hitting Azriel on the shoulder, “Cass is right! I know Y/n, and she’s not one to hold a grudge, especially if you apologize. In fact, get her a tequila daisy, she loves those.”

At his friend’s encouragement, Azriel felt his spirits being lifted. He could do this, he thought, the Mother blessing him with such good luck that he found the girl he was looking today. He should take this as a sign, telling him that this was his time to have courage. As Cass and Rhys shooed him up, spotting the girls returning, Azriel shot back his drink and stood up. With a slightly steadier step, he decided to take a little detour back to their table, positioning himself so he'd see Y/n first. It was a small thing, but it gave him a moment to steel himself, to prepare for her smile, her presence. "Alright, let's do this," he thought, feeling a mix of nerves and excitement.

As Azriel navigated his way back to the table, a sudden wave of nervousness washed over him. The confidence he had just moments ago seemed to evaporate with each step he took. By the time he was close, he found himself unable to meet the gaze of his friends or even Y/n, his eyes fixed firmly on the floor, a beacon of his newfound apprehension.

He made a beeline for the chair adorned with the distinctive tweed jacket, so caught up in his thoughts that he completely missed Cassian's worried glance. With a heart racing and a mind swirling with rehearsed apologies, Azriel reached out to tap the shoulder of the person he assumed was Y/n, all the while starting his practiced spiel. "Hey, I just wanted to give you this, I--uh--I'm so sorry couldn't before--let me buy you a drink to make it up—"

His words faltered, dying in his throat as he finally mustered the courage to look up, only to find Elain's familiar face smiling back at him. The confusion was immediate, his brain struggling to catch up with the reality in front of him as Elain, seizing the pen from his grasp, chimed, "Oh, Az, my birthday's still a week away...but thank you so much!" The affectionate kiss she planted on his cheek was meant to be a sweet gesture, yet it only served to heighten Azriel's horror as he watched her examine the pen.

“Oh, that’s so preetty Elain! Mor stumbled by, the alcohol clearly catching up to her by now. “But, why do you have a pen right now? Don’t work, come dance with us! She said laughing, grabbing Cassian on her way back.

Azriel, now left alone with a blushing Elain, had no idea how this happened. One moment he thought he’d finally get to confess to Y/n and the next moment, he’s given perhaps her prized possession, which she lent him, to another girl. It turned out that he was incorrect before, it's clear that the Mother brought up the worst luck he could have.

He needed to fix this.

Now.

And tell Elain that he did have something for her birthday…just not that. Yes, it had to break it to her now.

“I know you said you’d be busy and couldn’t make it to my birthday, but you didn’t have to get me something, Az! This is just my color though…”

Azriel stood there, his mind racing with a mix of panic and disbelief. How had he managed to entangle himself in such an awkward situation? The irony of it all was that he had known about Elain's soft spot for him, a sentiment that had grown perhaps from the time he had escorted her back from class to keep her away from her troublesome ex.

He had considered the possibility of returning her feelings, had even tried to envision something more between them, but his heart never quite made the leap. Elain was wonderful, truly, but the spark he was supposed to feel just wasn't there. And deep down, he knew she deserved someone who could put her at the center of their world, something Azriel couldn't do.

Before he could get a word out, the din of laughter and chatter signaled the return of Rhys and Feyre, their expressions shifting from amusement to confusion as they noticed Elain holding the pen.

Azriel's eyes pleaded for help, a silent, desperate appeal that Feyre caught instantly. She stepped in, her words a flurry of explanations aimed at untangling the misunderstanding. But the situation took another turn with the arrival of Y/n and Nesta, their approach cutting Feyre's explanations short. In a panic, Feyre grabbed Elain's arm, insisting it was late and they needed to leave, effectively dodging the impending awkwardness but leaving the air charged with unsaid words.

Y/n and Nesta returned to find the table enveloped in an unexpected gloom, Rhys and Azriel's expressions painted with unmistakable dismay. The contrast to their earlier mirth sparked immediate curiosity.

"Where did Feyre run off to?" Nesta inquired, her words slicing through the heavy air just as Y/n, with a mixture of concern and confusion, reached out to Rhys. Her fingers brushed his forehead gently, a silent question in her touch. "Are you sick, why do you look so pale?"

Azriel hated the jealousy that sprung up at her actions, especially after what he had done. He immediately chastised himself for the feeling, fully aware that the concern shown was purely platonic. Yet, he couldn't help but long for a similar connection, a moment of care directed towards him, especially from Y/n.

Nesta couldn't resist a teasing jab, her observation laced with humor yet not entirely devoid of truth. "Lovesick more like it," she scoffed, her comment hanging between them like a challenge, prompting a momentary flicker of amusement to dance across Rhys's otherwise somber features.

Nesta’s words, though teasing, unwittingly mirrored the turmoil swirling within Azriel, a turmoil stemming from his unvoiced feelings for Y/n.

Amid the group's subdued atmosphere, Y/n took the initiative, her concern for her friends sparking into action as she decided to fetch water and some food for the table. Once she was out of earshot, Rhys leaned in, his voice low, "Remember when I said she's very forgiving? Well, Y/n is a bit possessive over letting others use her things." Azriel paled considerably.

Upon returning, Y/n placed the food down with a gentle smile, announcing, "I'll find Mor to say goodbye before I have to leave."

Nesta's questioning gaze prompted Y/n to share a bit more about her plans, revealing her Sunday brunch with her father. It was a tradition, yet one that held mixed feelings for her. Rhys, catching the underlying sentiment, ventured cautiously, "First time since you're back...any welcome presents?"

Y/n's nod was accompanied by an eye roll, her voice tinged with a mix of amusement and resignation. "He'll probably gift me a pen, as always." Then, leaning closer to Rhys, she confided in a whisper, "He still thinks I don't know his assistant keeps buying them." Their shared laughter, though tinged with sadness, was a brief respite from the tension of the evening.

As Y/n waved goodbye and made her way through the diner, the weight of what had transpired settled heavily on Azriel's shoulders. Rhys’s earlier statement now mixed with what he had just heard father gets me a pen…hates sharing…

The pen he had intended to return to Y/n, now in Elain's possession, wasn't just any pen; it was akin to a token of her father's affection…

He was so, so doomed.

If Azriel thought he was mortified before, well, it couldn’t be compared to now. His current stakeout, crouched in the dense foliage outside Elain and Nesta’s apartment, felt like a scene straight out of a spy movie—only infinitely less glamorous and with higher stakes.

After searching the entire night for the pen, he realized that you really were Rhys’s friend, the resell prices he found made him want to throw his computer out. But even if he could afford it or request Rhys for help, it seemed that the version you had was sold out. He didn’t even know they made limited-edition pens, let alone ones of this price, were they made of gold? he thought pulling up the product description….set with a pearl…Oh.

Well, that led to his current predicament, knee-deep in the bushes outside Elain and Nesta’s shared apartment. Given that he had borrowed Nesta’s key, which was carelessly strewn on the table of his and Cass’s apartment, he knew she wouldn’t be back for a while. The problem now was getting Elain and it seemed Feyre out…which was why he had texted Rhys an SOS.

As he waited, hoping that no one noticed him acting like an absolute creep, he finally saw Feyre pulling Elain out, something about a project with Lucien?

Whatever, that wasn’t important now. His phone buzzed in his pocket with an aggravated all-clear from Rhys. He knew he owed him and Feyre a lot…and technically Elain and Nesta too. The plan was simple: get in, find the pen, get out.

He had been to their apartment before, but always with the company of someone else, usually Cass when he went to pick up or drop off things for Nesta. It felt…eerie being here alone, and he tried to ignore how much of a creep he felt looking through their things. Yet, despite his efforts, the pen remained elusive, a realization that sent a wave of panic crashing over him.

Mother above, where would one keep a pen?? He checked the various surfaces in all the rooms, he checked Elain’s desk, her vanity, and even her bedside table….he looked at the bathroom counters and even scanned through Nesta’s room. As he debated how many more boundaries he’d cross by opening the drawers, his phone buzzed again, with a text from Rhys, feyre said it's with her *crying face emoji* *crying face emoji*...

It’s with her…it’s still with Elain?! The words echoed in his mind, a mantra of frustration and defeat.

Needing to escape the claustrophobia of his failure, Azriel abandoned his search, the apartment, and any pretense of dignity he had left. He found himself wandering aimlessly, feet leading him through the city's streets with no destination in mind. Hours passed, his thoughts a tangled mess, until the financial center's impersonal skyscrapers towered over him, indifferent to his turmoil.

It was there, amidst the steel and concrete, that a familiar voice pierced through his haze of self-reproach. "Azriel?" Y/n called out, her presence like a beacon in the dimming light.

She emerged from a store, the elegance of her white lace blouse and black slacks contrasted sharply by the vivid red purse she carried. It was the bag she swung from behind, adorned with the same white flower symbol as the pen, that captured his attention, a silent testament to the reason for his current state.

Azriel was at a loss for words, his surprise at seeing her mirrored in the way she regarded him. “I’m surprised to see you here, what are you doing?”

Caught off guard and scrambling for an explanation, Azriel mumbled something about needing a walk, a half-hearted attempt to mask his real reasons for being there.

Y/n's gaze held his, a hint of curiosity mixed with understanding flickering in her eyes. "A walk that led you all the way here?" she asked, her voice soft but pointed.

Azriel felt the inadequacy of his answer hang between them, an invisible barrier he wished he could dissolve. "Yeah, it's been one of those days," he admitted, his voice trailing off, the truth of his statement more profound than he cared to explore.

Y/n studied him for a moment, her intuitive eyes reading the layers of unsaid words. Then, breaking the tension with a smile that seemed to light up the dimming city around them, she said, "Well, in that case, I could use a bit of company. I was about to grab some coffee. Join me?"

Azriel hesitated, the weight of his earlier mission pressing down on him. Yet, there was something about Y/n's offer, an earnest simplicity, that cut through his reservations. "I...yeah, coffee sounds good," he finally said, not surprised at his own eagerness.

Seated in the cozy enclave of the coffee shop, with bookshelves brimming with tales and plants that whispered of care, Azriel found himself enveloped in a warmth that the stark lines of the financial district rarely offered. The glow of the setting sun, filtered through the tall windows, bathed Y/n in a soft light, casting her in an almost ethereal aura. Her laughter, light and easy, filled the space between them as she caught his look of pleasant surprise.

"This place isn't quite the corporate café you were expecting, is it?" Y/n teased, her eyes twinkling with amusement.

Azriel chuckled, nodding. "I was expecting somewhere... more stiff. This is a nice surprise."

Leaning in, Y/n shared her secret with a whisper, "This café is my little escape. Not many know about it here. But trust me, the coffee’s unmatched, and you have to try the food."

As Azriel began to protest, not wanting her to treat him to even more, his stomach betrayed him with a timely growl. Y/n’s laughter rang out again, full and genuine, just as an older lady approached with their order. "Here you go, dear," she said to Y/n, then turned to Azriel with a warm smile. "First time I've seen her bring someone. You take good care of her, okay?"

Y/n’s protest that they were just friends, and really just classmates, did little to deter the lady's knowing look, leaving her a flustered shade of pink as the lady departed. Y/n then explained to a bewildered Azriel about the café's significance to her, a place discovered during times she'd rather forget waiting in her father's stark office, with the building being down the street.

As they shared the meal—Y/n insisting Azriel try her favorite sandwich and a tart chosen especially for him—Azriel marveled at her attention to detail, at the fact that she'd noticed his fondness for blueberries. "How did you know?" he asked, his heart aflutter at the realization that she paid him such mind.

With a shy glance away and then back, Y/n admitted, "I noticed you always carrying around blueberry bars. It's the little things, you know?"

Azriel, moved by her attentiveness and kindness, found himself unworthy of her attention. How could he let her remain ignorant about his transgressions, and watch her smile and laugh with him? But he also couldn’t bear to let her go, not when she made him feel things he thought he’d never be able to. Azriel decided then and there that he would admit his faults and then he would beg, he would plead for her to forgive him, or at least continue to talk to him, after he returned the pen from Elain. And if she refused, then he would accept it, but he would grovel as much as she allowed, if only to not lose the smiles that she sent his way.

"I... I don't deserve your kindness," he confessed, his voice a whisper of turmoil. "Because I'm a thief."

Y/n's eyes widened, confusion and concern mingling in her gaze, "A thief?" she echoed, her head tilting slightly, inviting him to explain.

Azriel's words tumbled out in a frantic cascade, a confession spilling forth about the pen, his failed attempts to return it, not knowing her name and the catastrophic mix-up at Rita's that saw Elain inadvertently receiving what he thought was Y/n's treasured possession. "I know it was a gift from your father... I'll get it back," he assured her, his heart sinking as he prepared for her to walk away, to maybe throw the coffee in his face, for the soft warmth of her smiles to vanish.

But instead of anger or disappointment, laughter bubbled up from Y/n, rich and unrestrained. Azriel lifted his gaze, bewildered, only to find her smiling, her eyes crinkling at the corners in genuine amusement. It was a moment Azriel wished he could freeze and live in forever, were it not for the fear of her next words.

From that dreaded black bag, she produced a sleek box, emblazoned with Mont Blanc, and Azriel's heart sank. This was it, the moment of reckoning. He half-expected her to reveal a price tag that would make his eyes water, a reminder of his foolishness. Instead, Y/n unveiled a pen, its body a dance of blue and white lacquer, sparkling with what he could only guess were jewels.

Y/n shared a piece of her past with him then, her voice soft and nostalgic. She spoke of her younger self, who found more joy in the worlds of books and art than in the dry texts of study.

"I used to collect colored pens, fancy ones that made writing notes less of a chore," she explained, gentle laughter threading through her words. She revealed how her love for calligraphy had blossomed from there, a passion she had hoped would catch her parents' attention.

The story took a turn Azriel hadn't expected. "For every achievement, every missed event, every return home, I got a pen. I thought it was my father remembering my words, but," she chuckled, shaking the elegant pen in her hand, "it turns out it was his assistant who remembered. My father doesn't even use fountain pens."

She waved the decorative pen with a flourish, proclaiming it beautiful but utterly impractical. "They're more for show than anything else, the nibs aren’t even correct for the type of stylized calligraphy I enjoy. I still keep them, just locked in a drawer at my apartment. But for everyday use, I stick to the rollerballs from Mont Blanc. They're just easier."

Y/n paused, eyeing him with a playful curiosity. "The pen was pink, wasn't it?" At Azriel's nod, she continued, "I swapped that one with a friend. Not really my color, but she wanted to exchange it for a white version that wasn’t available abroad.”

Azriel nods, still caught in the whirlwind of his own confessions and fears.

She shrugs lightly, her gaze drifting down to the black box, "Mont Blanc treats me too well and sends me many extras because I’m on their VIP list due to my father’s assistant. I don’t mind, though. It’s nice to know they’re going to someone who appreciates them."

Azriel's mind races as he tries to process this. The pen, the source of so much turmoil, was just one of many to Y/n, an item of little consequence. Yet, feeling a sense of responsibility, he insists, "I’ll get it back for you. It was yours, after all."

Y/n's response is a gentle wave of dismissal. "You don’t need to worry about it, Azriel. You didn’t steal it. I told you to return it whenever you wanted. I just...hoped it would make you think of me." Her voice fades, a note of melancholy creeping in as she turns her face away slightly, hiding the vulnerability in her eyes. "I guess you didn’t, though. Do I bother you, sitting next to you in class?"

The earnestness in her question, the raw hint of insecurity, pierces through Azriel's defenses. He reacts instinctively, his words tumbling out in a rush to bridge the gap his silence had created.

"Bother me? Y/n, you’ve been...I’ve been trying to find the words to talk to you since you first sat next to me. You don’t bother me; you distract me because...because I think you’re beautiful."

The confession hangs in the air between them, a fragile truth that sends a blush creeping up Y/n's cheeks. Azriel's heart pounds in his chest, his earnest declaration laying bare his feelings.

"So, friends?" Y/n ventures after a moment, her voice steady but her eyes searching his for an answer.

"Friends," Azriel agrees quickly, too quickly, perhaps, because what he really wants to say is so much more. "But, I'm hoping for more than that," he added under his breath, a vow to himself as much as to her.

Y/n's smile in response is shy but hopeful, a silent agreement to the unspoken question hanging between them. In the quiet of the café, amidst the scattered pens and the remnants of their past misunderstandings, they find a new beginning.

A/N: The pen Y/n received above! So, I have no idea where this story was meant to go. I just had the idea to write about Azriel doing something silly because he was so distracted by a crush, which became him unintentionally stealing a pen. After all, I have an obsession with pens due to the same reason Y/n said...And then this spiraled a little too much into my own uhh grievances with pens, calligraphy…and uhh parents. ANYWAYS, I hope this made you all laugh and fyi Mont Blanc does make great pens, I highly recommend their roller balls and fountain pens, though some are so extravagant I can’t imagine ever using them.

#azriel au #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x reader #azriel x y/n #acotar series #acotar #acomaf #acowar #azriel x oc #rhysand #morrigan #acotar fanfiction #azriel acotar #acotar modern au #silly aus #i rushed the ending #should i continue Azriel's silly antics?

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brf-rumortrackinganon · 2 months

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I saw another post on another blog that had a really good point and wanted to share it with everyone here...unfortunately I can't find the comment now!

The anon suggested that perhaps why the wire services may have freaked out about the edits on KP's photo is because of terms and conditions prohibiting agencies from selling post-edited or post-modified images. So someone at the AP or whatever wire service saw the edits and assumed that the usual rules - no selling or purchasing edited photos - applied in this case and overcorrected by issuing the kill notice to rectify their mistake of purchasing an edited photo. And in that panic to correct their "error", no one realized that the photo was sourced from a personal social media account, thus is subject to different rules. More internet chaos and a KP apology later, the photo suddenly gets resurrected and some of the community notes are removed.

It's a good theory, and one that's very plausible. Probably the most plausible explanation of everything that happened.

As to why there was suddenly a resurrection, I'm thinking the lawyers got involved and if the lawyers finally did get pulled in, they probably said either "this is a personal photo accessed on social media, those rules don't apply" (and everyone went "shit-shit-shit") or they talked about the sudden liabilities they're now open to with this precedence of calling out edits that they now have a standard to uphold (and everyone went "shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit"). Again, this is just conjecture. The kneejerking back-and-forth that happened today does seem classically lawyerese to me, though.

A second piece to this, I'm reminded of how KP shares their photos. Which is that the actually aren't selling their photographs. It's an old story from back in 2013, but when KP published the baby George-Kate-William-Lupo photos taken by Michael Middleton, a blogger who wanted to buy the photos for her website contacted Michael or KP to enquire about purchase and usage, and Michael or Michael's people responded that there was no cost for using the photos as long as she properly credited him with the copyright and used them only for a news story. I imagine that's similar to KP's process; if a publication (such as the AP) wants to reproduce a photograph credited to Kate (or William) that has been published on social media, the entity makes a request to the office, and the communications office sends them the source file.

At no point in any of this is there actually any money exchanging hands. I'm pretty confident there's no money being exchanged for KP's personal photographs to be reused, in which case the "we don't buy edited photos" rule is null and void. Different standards apply here. (My confidence comes from the fact that this is part of the "press pact" that Meghan and Harry pushed back against; they wanted to charge copyright and usage fees for their personal photographs rather than make them freely available on request like the then-Cambridges did.)

And then finally, all photographers - amateur and professional alike - edit their images before publishing them or sending them anywhere. What Kate did is no different than what Misan Harriman or Chris Jackson or Samir Hussein do (and have admitted to! Check out those links for their "confessions."). And I suspect that KP's statement where Kate said she had done the editing herself before the photo was posted is what threw the monkey wrench that maybe brought the lawyers in - because if they retract KP's photo on the basis that someone edited it before it was first posted/submitted to the public, then they have to retract thousands and thousands of other photos on the same grounds that someone edited it before it was first posted/submitted to the public. Again, this is all speculation.

At the end of the day, it all seems to be boiling down to one thing: there was a mixup and a miscommunication somewhere. And for me, all the signs point to the cock-up happening on the media's side. The rules/terms and conditions they have in place to use only verified images are good ones to have, but the last 48 hours have made it abundantly clear that there are holes in the rules and gaps in how they vet and verify images they source and distribute.

(Honestly I'm surprised that photographers haven't spoken out in Kate's defense. I'd have thought at least one or two would've said something. I can see why they wouldn't - maybe jobs are on the line or maybe they lose contest/recognition opportunities if they do - but it does strike me as a bit odd.)

(Also, sorry to the anon from earlier this morning to whom I said I probably wasn't going to post on the photo edit drama anymore. Clearly that plan went by the wayside.)

#brf #waleses #theories

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apparitionism · 3 months

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Asleep

Happy @b-and-w-holiday-gift-exchange to @kla1991 , our fearless leader, who of course knew I was their gifter, and who requested “a bed-sharing scenario that doesn't immediately turn sexy,” one that might involve tensions and/or physical discomfort. I’ve tried to approach that assignment in the appropriate spirit, with a bit of spin, although I suppose it all really depends on what any given person considers “sexy”... anyway, I’m pretty sure there are two sides to every story. Two sides to every bed, too. Here’s the first side. (This takes place in a post-season-five world, because why not raise the difficulty level?)

Asleep

My arm is asleep.

Normally, a person would, upon realizing this, shift position so as to restore blood flow.

Normally.

But very little is normal about the situation in which Myka’s arm is asleep.

She is in a hotel-room bed, in the dark of night, lying on her left side, with her left arm, her now-asleep arm, pinned beneath her. So ends the extremely limited “normal” portion of the situation.

Here begins the rest: she absolutely must not move. This is because she can hear, and can as a molecular disturbance feel, the steady push-pull of Helena’s breathing, near her neck, so near. She feels also the unfamiliar proximity of Helena’s body, offering heat across what must be only nanometers separating her from Myka’s back. And then there is Helena’s hand, what must be her right hand, resting in sleep, what must be unconscious sleep, on Myka’s hip.

They have never been in a bed together before tonight—but also, sadly also, they are not in a bed together now. They are simply two people in a bed in a hotel room, one of them obviously sleeping, obviously fulfilling her role in the “two agents are sharing a hotel room and getting some rest” play they are performing.

Myka, however, is not asleep. No: instead she is on fire because of Helena’s breath and heat and hand but unable to do anything about any of that, and thus desperate to escape and suffer her mortification in private but unable to do anything about any of that either—a terrible combination.

And now her arm, as if in intentional mockery, is asleep.

She has arrived at this pretty pass due to a series of events that had seemed, in their unfolding, to be at the very least manageable...

... starting with Helena’s return to the Warehouse.

That return had at first struck Myka as a beautiful dream—and, equally, a reward for awakening from a nightmare.

The particular nightmare from which Myka had awakened was the fugue in which she’d imagined she might have romantic feelings for Pete. How perfect it had seemed, then, for Helena to present herself to resume agent duties at the Warehouse, so soon after that enormous error had been rectified. “A reboot, I believe it’s called,” Helena had said of her change of heart, and Claudia had laughed uproariously at that, shouted “Turn it off and turn it on again!”, and hugged the obviously befuddled, but just as obviously pleased, rebooted agent.

Myka had not hugged Helena, not then. She’d thought to save such an action, such an aggressively bodily action, for an even more meaningful time, progress toward which would, at long last, begin.

But progress had not begun. In the reboot, Helena was a collegial colleague to Myka.... and that was all.

Helena did not, as she had in old times (old shows?), make comments that even usually-oblivious Myka could read as flirtatious. She did not step close, too close, as she had in old times, waking Myka’s body to possibility and want. She did not, in fact, mention old times at all. No words about “Wells and Bering”—as Myka had hoped to one day again correct, however incorrect Helena found the correction, to “Bering and Wells”—having ever done anything together.

And Myka of course could not assault such a collegial colleague with an anguished Why? She could do nothing but wish for a reboot of her own, or at least a do-over, one in which the minute Helena stepped from Claudia’s embrace, Myka herself initiated one that made her hopes clear.

But no such reboot was forthcoming.

That disappointment was, Myka found, manageable. Crushing, but manageable. It was made more so by the fact that Artie sent Helena on retrievals with Steve, sometimes with Claudia as adjunct; thus her collegial interactions with Myka did not have particularly meaningful stakes. At least, none that were Warehouse-specific, and that was what counted. That had to be what counted.

Until one morning at breakfast, when Artie tossed a folder at Myka and said, “Tomorrow you’re going to San Antonio to bag a camera.”

Then he pointed at Helena. “And you’re going with her.”

“Am I?” Helena asked, even as Myka voiced, “She is?

“She’s the one who stole it from Warehouse 12,” Artie told Myka. To Helena, he said, “So I assume you’ll know it when you see it.”

Well, that tone in Artie’s voice was like old times—old shows. But Helena did not respond with her back-then defiant chirp. She said a simple “oh,” a chastened wince that seemed pulled from a different show entirely.

Artie should not be inflicting this on her, Myka thought. After a moment, she revised that to, Artie should not be inflicting this on her or on me. Her first counter: “Maybe Helena could just tell me what it looks like.”

“If that would be easier,” Helena said, with a quickness suggesting she agreed that something was indeed being inflicted on somebody, “I certainly—”

“Did I stutter?” Artie demanded.

He didn’t. But after a bit of time, Myka thought she could, just maybe, manage the situation, both because of Helena’s apparent trepidations and as a way of sidestepping her own feelings. “I’m not sure this mission with Helena is a good idea,” she tried saying to Pete later that morning.

“How many times do I have to tell you the vibes aren’t bad anymore?” he asked, annoyed, as if she’d been making a habit of hitting him with this concern whenever he was trying to get comfortable with a comic book.

In fact, he’d told her that once since Helena came back. Once. It had happened when Myka had said, in a moment of exhaustion that had allowed her management to slip, “I miss how Helena used to be,” and he’d rolled his eyes and told her, “That’s dumb. The vibes aren’t bad anymore.”

Now Myka said—because why fight about it?—“Obviously more than once. But I just don’t think it’s a good idea. For her, I mean. Artie said that thing about the stealing and she... I don’t know. Wilted.”

“Okay, so tell that to Artie.”

Was that vaguely reasonable advice? “I guess I could give that a—”

“Like that’d work! Ha!”

“You’re very unhelpful,” Myka informed him.

“Keeping it on brand.” He flexed his biceps. “Just like these big boys.”

To which Myka could say only, “I am so devoutly grateful we aren’t together.”

“Me too. Different reasons though.”

“I’m devoutly grateful for that too,” she said.

She was grateful also, when it came down to it, for his total lack of interest in parsing the differences between their reasons.

Pete’s unhelpfulness aside, she still had the greater part of a day before her scheduled departure on this Helena-accompanied retrieval, and she hoped it might still be possible to extricate herself, Helena, or both of them from it.

Who would be more helpful in such an endeavor: Claudia or Steve? Claudia, who might be more sympathetic to the overall difficulty... or Steve, who would probably be more persuasive in helping to take a plan to Artie...

She went with Steve.

She opened with, “I need to talk to you. No, wait, before you wince: I need to talk to someone, and I think you’re my best bet.”

“I’m not overly flattered, but my prefrontal cortex appreciates the revision. Also my sinuses.”

“I have a problem.”

“My prefrontal appreciates that too: direct, no nuance. And I know we haven’t talked about this out loud, but if your problem’s with me? Totally justified. I got the you-and-Pete thing wrong.”

“No, my problem’s with Helena.” That was probably too revealing. “But the other thing, he and I got it wrong. You were just a witness. Regrettably.”

“But I... pushed?”

“Probably it was a thing he and I had to test to know for sure. And we did, so now we do. I like to think I don’t make the same mistake twice.”

That got her a twist of a smile. “You like to think, but this H.G. thing. I know you two have history, so is this that?”

Myka would have preferred to say “no,” but she figured she should continue giving his sinuses a break. So instead she said, “See, you’re discerning. This is why you’re my best bet.”

“What’s the problem then? You both seemed less than thrilled at breakfast, but—”

Now Myka could tell a truth. “Exactly. She clearly doesn’t feel okay about this artifact, and she shouldn’t have to deal with anything that would make her regret having come back. Right?” Before he could agree or disagree, she presented her plan: “You should do the retrieval with me instead. And I’ll need help selling this to Artie, so if you could gently ask her about the camera and then tell him you’re just as likely to recognize it when you—”

“Wanting to spare her discomfort is admirable. Really. But that wasn’t your issue, not at first. The very instant Artie said H.G. was going too, you tensed up.”

He is your best bet, Myka reminded herself. She sighed and said, “Fine. I’m not sure I can go on a mission with her.”

He winced and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Okay, yes,” she acknowledged. “I’m sure I can. I’m just not sure I want to.”

He didn’t release the pinch. “Unfortunately for both of us, that’s also a lie.”

That one, she resented. “Maybe you’re too discerning.”

“And yet I’ve heard I’m your best bet.”

“Right. Maybe I do want to. But the problem is, everything’s different now.”

“Also, I’m sorry, a lie. That last part. Everything isn’t different. What’s the same?”

Far, far too discerning. “I don’t want to say.”

He smiled. “Aaaaah. Very truthful.”

“Here’s something I do want to say: would you take my place instead?”

“Either way,” he said, his smile morphing into an apologetic grimace, “I don’t think that’s how this works.”

“We just have to make a case to Artie, which I know is a heavy lift, but something like how much easier it would be for Helena to go with you since you’re her wrangler now, so—”

“No, I mean logistically. I’m not her wrangler at all, by the way, but also the plane tickets are already in your names, right?”

Well, that was annoyingly true. “Fine. I hate it, but fine. And even if I could find an artifact that would change names on plane reservations, I couldn’t use it because that would really be personal gain.”

“Would it though?” Steve asked, lightly, but with an undercurrent.

Myka did not want to answer that question.

So she and Helena went.

On the plane, Helena said to Myka, “I’m sure you’re wondering about Artie’s statement.”

Accurate, but: “Not if you don’t want to talk about it,” Myka said. “In that case, any and all wondering canceled. Canceled like... an underappreciated cult TV show.” That was something a colleague would say, wasn’t it? A particularly collegial one, such as, for example, Claudia, from whom Myka had copied and pasted the words about television.

This wasn’t the first time she’d plucked words like this; articulations of her own, she feared—even more so now than in the past—were likely to reveal too much.

Helena raised an eyebrow. “You sound like Claudia.”

Mission accomplished, if a bit too well, so Myka shrugged and said, “I’ve heard characterization can get weird in a reboot.” That was also from Claudia, who had asked Myka, not long ago, “Do you think H.G.’s okay? I know characterization can get weird in a reboot, but she seems a little off,” and Myka had pleaded ignorance as to the entire concept, despite her wish to opine at length on how Helena seemed definitely, from Myka’s perspective, not okay. Definitely off. More than a little.

“I did use that word,” Helena said.

“You did.”

“I did also steal the artifact in question.”

“Napoleon Sarony’s camera.”

“Yes. I gave it to Oscar Wilde.”

“You did?” Oscar Wilde. Okay.

“I told him to have someone use it to take his photograph.”

Obviously this has something to do with its effect, but Myka has no idea what. Helena clearly wants to be drawn out on the point, so Myka probes, using what she knows, “Because it was what Sarony used to take those photos of Wilde when he was on his big star-making tour in the U.S.? Or because of the Supreme Court copyright case about that one Wilde photo he took? Oh, that case, I bet it’s why the camera’s an artifact, but—”

“You’re correct on the why of the artifact. But do you know its effect?”

“I didn’t have time to look it up before we left. And it’s not in the file.”

“Artie left it out, I suspect.”

“Because it’s exculpatory?”

“Because it’s explanatory. As far as anything could be, given that time. Obviously nothing is exculpatory.”

Isn’t it? “Do you want to explain?”

“Want,” Helena said, and oh god if Myka could have given herself leave to understand that word said differently. But this was not that reboot. After a throat-clear, Helena went on, “It was... post.”

Myka didn’t need to ask post-what.

“So many artifacts there were,” Helena continued, “so many unhelpful to me in my extremity. Nevertheless I thought to help. To make some difference. Where I could, as opposed to where I could not.”

In old times, Helena had not said this much about her mental state... post. Fleshy, this admission was, and Myka did not know what to make of it. Was it a step closer, akin to the old sort of physical proximity? Or was it just... explanatory? “The effect?” she prompted, gently, hoping for clarification.

“Artistic enhancement of the subject photographed. Oscar too was... post. Imprisonment had diminished him so terribly. I thought an artifactual photograph might help restore his writerly prowess.”

“Did it work?” Myka asked.

“I can’t prove causation,” Helena said. “Nevertheless, post-photo, he did write ‘Ballad of Reading Gaol.’”

That was one of those utterances Myka would be processing for quite some time. Separate and apart from her outsize feelings for Helena as Helena—as a physical body to which Myka’s own body has for years now compulsively responded—there was the ongoing absurdity, the near high comedy, of Helena speaking factually about events of such cultural-historical import. “I can’t think that was a bad outcome,” Myka eventually managed to say.

“I can’t either.”

They had not had so genuine, so genuinely substantive, a conversation since Helena’s return.

However, their renewed familiarity, if that’s what it was, did not outlast the plane.

They found the camera, and they neutralized it with minimal difficulty—if a bit more consternation on the part of the gentleman who believed he had the right to possess the piece.

That was all very... collegial.

And—but—they then tried to check in at their hotel. Or rather, Myka did. Helena was occupying herself with the snacks on offer in the lobby. “Steve usually checks in,” she’d said. “Do you mind?”

How could Myka have been less accommodating than Steve? Also she was—she had to concede—more than a little charmed by Helena’s seeming admission of... well, not incompetence. Just a slight slink away from responsibility.

Please, a more cynical part of her said with a snort of derision, you’re charmed by the way she does everything. Walking, talking, existing. Inspecting potato-chip bags across the lobby in a hotel’s snack pantry.

“Bering and Wells,” the desk clerk said in confirmation of the reservation, and Myka wanted to thank him for that ordering of names. He followed up with, “One king.”

She didn’t want to thank him for that. “No,” she told him, and it was good that Helena was out of earshot. “Two. Kings, queens, doubles, twins, I don’t care. But two.”

“Sorry,” said the clerk. “Full up.”

So one king it had been.

And now, in that one king, Myka’s arm is asleep.

“Are you asleep?” she wants to ask of Helena, aloud, to ascertain the true contours of the situation, but the very asking might—would?—change the contours, and Myka isn’t sure she’s in any kind of state to handle any certainty or any change. So she thinks the question at Helena instead, thinks it over her shoulder at that warm body over and over, Are you asleep, are you asleep, are you asleep, are you asleep, until she’s estranged from the question as anything but words, until “asleep” in particular begins to strike her as bizarrely archaic, its construction completely uncontemporary, and she interrupts her telepathy to think, It is archaic; we don’t ask “Are you abed” or anything like that anymore—

—but she interrupts herself again, for that doesn’t ring quite right. So she calls up the dictionary, the A’s, riffling her way through, and the exercise offers her all sorts of examples that show how very unarchaic indeed it is to say “asleep”: ablaze, abuzz, aground, ajar, alight, aloud, amid...

The list goes on. It’s far longer than she expected, but she continues, doggedly, to the end of the A’s, through “astray,” “aswoon” (she doesn’t linger on that one), on to “atingle” (that one either), on and on, ending with “awhirl.” She’d been by then vaguely looking forward to something like “azoom,” but alas.

Such a lengthy jaunt through the initial chapter of the dictionary surely must have eaten up significant time, perhaps even more than she imagined; perhaps morning is at last approaching, and the alarm will ring, and all this physical consternation can be resolved by sudden wakefulness on everybody’s part.

The clock on the nightstand tells her the journey took three minutes.

Spectacular.

Well, fine. If the A’s were three minutes, the rest of the dictionary should offer her at least an hour of distraction—both from her arm’s discomfort and from the physical, emotional, and existential discomfort created by the presence at her neck, back, and hip.

She starts in on the B’s. First comes “b,” defined, in entry 1a, as “the 2d letter of the English alphabet.” No doubt it’s important to periodically refresh one’s memory of such things.

The B’s proceed, slow and thorough; after “b” comes “baa,” and on and on... “bedlam” catches her attention, in a Warehouse-y way; “bed of roses” does too, as it’s “a place or situation of agreeable ease,” which this certainly is not—

—in sudden, striking emphasis, Helena’s hand on Myka’s hip moves, a minimal slide-glide toward thigh, and oversensitized Myka can’t control a too-violent twitch in response, one that jolts her toward the bed’s edge, which was nearer than she realized, for now its surface is an abrupt absence, and a crash to the floor is imminent, and instinct, instinct: her brain shouts for an arm to break her fall, but the volunteering limb is the stupid somnolent one, and OH GOD she has never known pain to manifest like this—she’s taken a bullet but this is more, for “seeing stars” is no mere metaphor, as she’d always imagined; her vision is literally stellating, even as she hears herself yelp in prelinguistic anguish.

The horrific fullness of the situation settles on her as she additionally hears, directed at her from some angel perspective, the voice of her dreams but now this nightmare saying “Myka? What’s wrong?”

“Everything,” Myka moans at the unforgivingly injurious floor, and then the stars win.

TBC

#bering and wells #warehouse 13 #fanfic #Asleep #B&W holiday gift exchange #kla1991 #endured bodily discomfort can lead to terrible outcomes #or maybe eventually to nonterrible ones?#we'll see #all definitions quoted from Merriam-Webster's Collegiate 10th Ed #(it's nearest to me on the bookshelf)#(and maybe was once nearest Myka too)

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thecarnivorousmuffinmeta · 4 months

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I had a thought, and now I must inflict that on others. This may not fit in with your metas/thoughts on Edward's characterization but the thought was too "This Is A Bad Timeline" not to share.

Reading about how Edward will cheat on Bella but also believes in Soulmates got me thinking: This is the man who initially believed Bella to be a demon sent to punish him, or a test from God (something along those lines), before he "fell in love". You mentioned the mental gymnastics he does - can you imagine if he convinced himself that the "He Smells A Smell" human is Bella reincarnated, her humanity given a 2nd chance by God to live? The part of her that was lost upon her becoming a Vampire? On one hand he would torture himself because ofc this "gift" isn't for him, he fucked it up in the first place by turning Bella (that's why the scent is still there, as a divine punishment to torment him) but Bella herself has been brought back (she's also a Vampire sitting next to him but that's neither here nor there) to rectify his horrific error. She doesn't smell the same, but that's to be expected with different genes, upbringing, and whatever's in the food these days, but who else could have a scent so potent to him? Who else could it be? (Literally anyone unlucky enough, but Edward doesn't think about that). When it's past the point of being played off as "befriending" the human, and Edward's confronted about his cheating he tries to insist that it's not cheating because that human is Bella. That argument, I imagine, does not go down well.

Yeah, that sounds on point.

#twilight #twilight meta #twilight headcanon #twilight renaissance #edward cullen #anti edward cullen #edward/bella #anti edward/bella #meta #headcanon #opinion

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superbattrash · 1 year

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Superbat: Safe Flight

Alternative title: another bridal carry fic, how original

Hi, this is for that sweet anon, who wanted more angry bridal carry Bruce. Enjoy! <3

“Don’t,” Bruce mutters.

“I didn’t say anything,” Clark says, despite his entire frame shaking with suppressed laughter.

“I can feel you laughing.”

“It’s not my fault you’re so close,” Clark singsongs as he tightens his arms. He’s enjoying his win way too much.

“Then carry me some other way,” Bruce demands. He squirms around in Clark’s arms but there’s no way for him to move around much in this position.

“I thought we concluded this was the most efficient way to carry you,” Clark says and he’s doing that thing with his eyes where you know he’s being earnest and truthful and Bruce wants him to drop him so he can fall to his death.

Bruce harrumphs which is enough to let Clark know he’s won. At least it’s usually enough to have him end the conversation, but not today, of course not. Why make it any easier on Bruce than he absolutely has to? Clark needs to take things just a little further.

“At least I covered you with my cape,” he says helpfully.

Like that’s any comfort.

“Why you do that, I have no idea,” Bruce mutters. It’s not like Clark has to wrap people in his cape. Bruce doesn’t do that whenever he saves someone. There are other ways to make sure people are kept safe. Shields for example or any other type of weapon or gear. Or in this particular case Clark could simply fly backwards.

“It’s to protect you from the wind,” Clark explains like Bruce isn’t already aware of this fact.

“I have my own cape, Kal,” he says, because he has to say something. He knows he’s just being difficult, but he isn’t happy with this situation, not at all. There’s a reason he usually says no to Clark.

“Well, mine is prettier.” Bruce let’s out another grunt and Clark grins like he just won a particularly amazing contest. “Red looks really good on you.”

“Shut up,” Bruce mumbles and crosses his arms tighter over his chest. There’s no need for it – he’s wrapped in Clark’s cape after all – but the movement makes him feel better. He’s physically telling Clark this isn’t alright with him which is the entire point.

He should’ve said no. He should’ve insisted, actually, but he doesn’t have the batwing nearby and he still hasn’t installed any type of wings into his suit. It’s an error he’ll rectify as soon as he’s home; there’s no way he’s letting Clark carry him home like this ever again.

It’s not even like he can blame Clark; Bruce did sort of willingly let him carry him home. Usually, he’d never approve such a humiliating scenario unless extremely necessary to his own survival but today’s different. Today he’s late for an event and even if he could magically find a way to the gala and get his hands on a proper suit, he’s soaking wet. Aquaman better handle the rest of the flooding or Bruce will be so pissed. He nearly drowned! There’s no way he’s going to let Arthur live that down. Stupid unreliable water-powers.

Either way Bruce has accepted a ride from Clark, and they did agree that this was the least humiliating way for them to travel. Now that he’s squished up against Clark’s chest Bruce is starting to second-guess their decision though. Clark’s heart is steady, his chest broad and warm and Bruce is terrifyingly aware of how easy it would be to settle against him and doze off. He blames this week’s lack of sleep for his thoughts.

“It’s still a long way home,” Clark comments like he’s been reading Bruce’s mind. “You can relax, you know?”

“I am relaxed.”

“My neck hurts just looking at you,” he tries. It’s a semi-successful strategy; Bruce is much more inquired to listen if it’s about someone else’s discomfort. Not today though.

“Look away then,” he says and turns his head away. Just because he’s stuck against Clark’s chest doesn’t mean he has to look at his face. His very attractive, very close face. God, if he didn’t have such extreme control over every single physical reaction of his body, he might’ve done something stupid. Like press his cheek against Clark’s shoulder. Or tilt his head up enough that he could reach Clark’s lips with his own and- nope, not going there. Lack of sleep is horrible for the brain, Bruce’s even more so.

“Bruce,” Clark says and there’s a scolding tone to his voice. It’s his ‘I wish you would just listen to me, it’s for your own good’ voice. He uses it more with Bruce than anyone else on the team.

“What.” Bruce still doesn’t look at him. There is a good chance he’ll feel those pesky butterflies in his stomach if he looks into Clark’s eyes right now. He’s not a teenager, this isn’t a silly crush. There’s no reason for butterflies, yet he still hasn’t found a way to get rid of them. In fact, they only seem to increase the more time he spends with Clark. Which is a lot. They are teammates, after all.

“We’re several hundred feet in the air,” Clark points out. He’s stopped trying to catch Bruce’s eyes at least.

“I’m aware,” Bruce says.

“There’s nobody else around,” Clark continues.

“I know.”

“I’m holding you in my arms,” he says, and Bruce wants to roll out of said arms and fall all those hundred feet just so he doesn’t have to be a part of this conversation. It’s almost like Clark is trying to get Bruce to confess. All that’s left is candles and soft music and it’d be as perfect as it gets.

“Yes,” he says instead of voicing any of his panic.

“The least you could do is try to enjoy it,” Clark says.

See that’s the problem right there. It would be way too easy to enjoy this, to get used to it. To accept Clark’s offer once or twice and then suddenly every other time he asks. Soon Bruce will start expecting Clark to fly him home and then he’ll start to offer Clark a cup of coffee before he leaves. Clark will be too polite to refuse, and Bruce will get used to his company. Will crave it and miss it. Miss him.

There is absolutely no reason for Bruce to kickstart the process his feelings are already doing their very best to never let him forget.

“Enjoy being suspended in the air?” In your strong arms, so close to you that I can feel the heat of your body, the strong beat of your heart. “Sure thing, Kal. I’ll get right on that.”

“You don’t have to put up a front, Bruce,” Clark sighs. “I know you’re exhausted. I can feel it in your entire body.”

“Don’t do that,” Bruce says gruffly.

“Do what?”

“Don’t… read me.” It makes it seem like you care about me. “It’s creepy.”

“I’m sorry,” Clark says quietly. “I’m just worried about you.”

“I’m fine.” He really is. Or at least he will be, as soon as he’s back on the ground on his own two feet.

He’s been getting more and more obsessed with these thoughts of Clark recently and he knows it’s only a matter of time before he says or does something stupid. Confessing is out of the question – there’s no way he’ll ever risk losing Clark’s friendship because of some foolish feelings – and it’s not like he can actually decide when he sees Clark. They work together, they’re the founders of the League. They have a responsibility to the team and each other. Not even the minimal possibility of Clark not rejecting him is worth jeopardizing that.

There are a few moments of silence before Bruce realizes that Clark hasn’t said anything back. He doesn’t usually give up this easily, but perhaps they’re both a little off today. He dares a glance towards Clark’s face and ignores the soaring of wings in his stomach. Clark is looking straight ahead, his mouth set in a tight line.

Oh. He’s upset.

Rightfully so if Bruce is really honest with himself. He’s being carried several hundred miles home – superstrength or not, Clark is carrying his full weight and flying slow enough that the wind won’t hurt Bruce at all. He’s wrapped Bruce in his cape, he’s trying to take care of him in his own way.

And Bruce… Bruce is too caught up in his own stupid feelings to make even the smallest of efforts. If he wasn’t well in his thirties, he might’ve just ignored it and pretended not to notice (youth is a strong, although shitty, excuse), but this is Clark. Sweet, caring Clark, who would move literal mountains for Bruce if he asked.

Bruce squirms around some more; he really can’t move around well when he’s burrito’ed into Clark’s cape. He wiggles his shoulders around so much that Clark stops in the middle of the sky.

“Are you uncomfortable?” he asks, because of course he does. He can’t ever not be nice and caring. Which is probably why Bruce likes him so much.

“No,” Bruce says softly and decides to hell with it. He flops his face onto Clark’s shoulder and nuzzles at it. He is reminded of Selina’s cats but tries not to think too much of it. “Sorry for being… like that.” It sounds better than ‘an asshole’ but somehow loses some of its strength. It’s better than nothing though.

“You’re like that a lot these days,” Clark says carefully. He starts flying again. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yes,” Bruce says and then because he can’t keep pushing everything away: “Just a lot on my mind.”

“You can talk to me; you know that right?”

“You make that abundantly clear.” It’s supposed to come out sharp and a little sarcastic, but instead it just sounds soft and grateful, which… isn’t too bad, Bruce supposes.

“I’m going to keep reminding you though,” Clark says, and Bruce can tell by the movement of his chin that he’s smiling again. Good.

“I know.”

Flying Air Superman is much faster than any other type of transportation and within the hour Clark sets Bruce down on the manor’s grounds, very aware of not being visible from outside the fence surrounding the entire property. Or, well, he tries to set Bruce down. Getting unwrapped from the cape is a little tricky. While Bruce prides himself on being rather elegant in most cases, not even Batman can get unwrapped from a giant piece of fabric while being put on the ground without stumbling a little. Cue Clark’s very capable hands grabbing his elbow and making sure he doesn’t fall flat on his face.

While Bruce is grateful, he’s also acutely aware of how close Clark is. Somehow, it’s worse (better?) than when Bruce was pressed against his chest. This feels much more insistent than simply being in Clark’s arms. Bruce takes a small step back, proving to both himself and Clark that he can indeed stand on his own two legs, contrary to what his little side-step-dancing just showed. He finally untangles himself from Clark’s cape, pushing the fabric off his shoulders before handing it to Clark.

“Red really does suit you,” Clark says fondly before he clasps it onto his shoulders again. It’s a design he’s gotten from Bruce’s cape – very neat to be able to detach the thing in emergencies. Or if you want to wrap your best friend in it.

“Shut up,” Bruce echoes his earlier response, although his words are much less sharp this time around. It’s clear that Clark notices because his smile grows even if he doesn’t say anything.

Bruce looks towards the door. He’s still in the suit but it’s still early evening. He has a few hours to kill before he has patrol. He could go for a cup of tea in the study.

Don’t invite him in, don’t invite him in, don’t offer him a cup of-

“I was going to have a cup of tea,” Bruce says and doesn’t bite his own tongue off, despite his inherent need to do so. “If you’d like one?”

“Oh, yeah, that-” Clark starts and then promptly stops. He tilts his head just slightly to the side, but Bruce knows that look. Has seen it more times than he can count.

“Emergency?” he asks.

“A fire in Australia,” Clark says. He sounds sorry.

“Go,” Bruce says with a flip of his wrist. Clark looks like he wants to say something but then closes his mouth and nods before taking off. Bruce sighs. Better this way; he’s pretty sure his lack of sleep might’ve turned into a lack of brain-to-mouth filter.

He’s still going to sit down for a cup of tea. First, he has to change though. Clark’s cape might have kept him fairly warm but the evening winds of Gotham are unforgiving and he hurries inside.

Later that evening when he’s nestled in his favorite chair with a steaming cup of tea in his hands Bruce gets a text – and he usually doesn’t text with anyone but his kids these days, so he’s surprised to find it’s from Clark.

Would love a cup of tea next time. Are you free tomorrow? :)

Bruce smiles softly and for once doesn’t curse the butterflies in his stomach. It’ll be okay, it’s just a cup of tea. What could happen from a cup of tea?

#misha writes #superbat #superbat fanfiction #silly little cracky thing #Superman/Batman #superman x batman #Clark Kent/bruce wayne #Clark Kent x bruce wayne

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middleearthpixie · 23 days

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Something in the Night ~ Chapter Sixteen

Summary: Following the Battle of the Five Armies, a seriously wounded Thorin Oakenshield returns to Erebor to recuperate and eventually ascend the throne as king. With the deaths of Azog the Defiler and his son, Bolg, Thorin no longer has to worry about the bounty the Defiler placed on his head and can instead concentrate on restoring Erebor to its former glory.

Nina Carren of Esgaroth has one goal—to make Thorin Oakenshield pay for unleashing Smaug the dragon unto her home—where he destroyed the town and killed her family. The Defiler might be gone, but his bounty remains very much in place, and she fully intends to collect on it.

Finally, the opportunity shows itself for her to do just that, only to have it go horribly awry. Wounded and now at his mercy, neither Nina nor Thorin stopped to think what might happen, should things not go quite according to plan…

Pairings: Thorin Oakenshield x ofc Nina Carren

Warnings: None

Rating: T

Word Count: 3.1k

Tag List: @mrsdurin @i-did-not-mean-to @fizzyxcustard @lathalea @legolasbadass @xxbyimm @kibleedibleedoo @arrthurpendragon @exhausted-humxn-being @knittastically @notlostgnome @myselfandfantasy @medusas-hairband @guardianofrivendell @jotink78 @ruthoakenshield @frosticenow @quiall321 @dianakc @msjava1972 @glassgulls @evenstaredits @heilith @asgardianhobbit98 @way-too-addicted-to-fandoms @sazzlep

If you’d like to be added (or removed) to the tag list, please just let me know!

Previous chapters can be found here.

His first few days back were far busier than he’d anticipated, as he had much to catch up on in his absence. But he had no complaints about what had been left for him, as Dís had done a more than competent job in managing things in his stead. Even so, she was also very willing and happy to turn his duties back over to him.

He had been back in Erebor for almost a week when Dís rapped on the door to his flat. “Thorin, do you have a moment?”

He’d been on his sofa, head back, eyes closed, and lifted his head to call, “It’s open. Come in.”

The door swung open and he braced himself for the whirlwind that was his sister as she barreled into the room, the beads woven into her beard clacking with every step. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d decided to take the day off.”

He smiled. “No. I was up late last eve with Balin, catching up on the progress at Esgaroth and Dale. Men built at a far slower pace than dwarves, it seems, and they like to pad their bills as much as possible.”

Dís’ forehead wrinkled slightly. “Are we being cheated?”

“No more than usual and with Balin’s keen eyes keeping close watch, we catch each and every mistake before the bill is paid. It’s amazing how many mathematical errors find their way into invoices.”

“Perhaps we should rethink—”

“No. I gave my word, Dís.” He shook his head slowly. “And I went back on it once. I cannot do so again, but I also will not let them take me for a fool, either. Balin is far more diplomatic than I will ever be, and so when he calls them on their nonsense, they rectify it at once.”

“You’ve more patience than I would, I’ll have you know. I do not look kindly on those who think to steal from me.”

“Nor do I, but in all honesty, I think Bard is honest as well and if we didn't catch it, he most likely would.”

Dís hardly looked convinced even as she replied, “If you say so.”

“Either way, you needn’t worry about it.” He sat up, hands clasped between his knees. “Now, I know you came here not to be bored with construction news that you’ve already been privy to.”

“You know me well, brother.” She skirted the stone table before the sofa to settle alongside him. “There is something I wished to ask you and I hope you’ll not think I am meddling too much.”

“Which of course means you are about to meddle.” He said it with a smile, for no matter how much meddling Dís did—and she could be quite meddlesome when the mood struck—her intentions were of the best where he was concerned and he understood that, even if it threatened to drive him into madness time and again.

“Yes, it does.” Her hand came to rest on his knee. “Did you still wish me to see about inviting Elisin to come stay for a bit?”

He sighed softly. Elisin was the woman he’d at one point planned to court. She was a distant cousin, and one he’d known most of his life. He wasn't madly in love with her, but they got on well and should Mahal see fit for them to have children, she would be a fine mother.

But that was before Nina Carren came into his life.

Nina.

His stomach curdled with fury at her betrayal. Why couldn’t he simply forget about her? She’d played him false, pretended to care, all the while plotting to end his life.

For five thousand in gold.

Trouble was, he couldn't forget about her and no matter how busy he tried to be, she was always there, lingering in the back of his mind. Despite his best efforts, he couldn't shake the memory of her, and as more time passed, he found himself on the verge of pining for her and that was the last thing he wanted or needed.

“Thorin?”

“Yes, please. By all means, invite her to come stay for a bit. There is still much to be done here, but she will be comfortable enough. And, as you reminded me before I departed for Rivendell, I am growing no younger and should think about taking a wife and giving Erebor a queen.”

“And you wish to do this now? You told me at the time to mind my own matters.”

“Things change.”

“What things?” She gave his knee a squeeze. “Did something happen whilst you were in Rivendell? A romance with an elf that went sour, perhaps?”

He chuckled. “No, our relations with the elves are better than they were, but they will never be that good.”

“So what is it, then?”

“Nothing. It is only that I’ve traveled far and nearly died and realize that my life is passing and I’ve little to show for it in the way of personal matters.”

“Are you certain that is all? You haven’t seemed like yourself since you returned. And I know you hate when I pry, as you like to call it, but you just… you seem unhappy, Thorin. And I hate seeing you unhappy and you know that. So, is that all?”

A knowing look accompanied her words and he braced himself for her to ask about Nina—or the mystery mercenary, as Dís kept calling her. When she said nothing more, he offered up a silent prayer of thanks and shook his head slowly. “I am tired, is all. It was an adventure, both getting to and coming from Rivendell. We crossed paths with a determined orc pack just beyond Rivendell’s borders and I am fairly certain we met up with them again outside Mirkwood’s.”

“I told you that you should take more than just Dwalin.” She squeezed his knee again. “But don't tell him I said that.”

“I won’t. And you were probably right. But, rest assured, I have no plans on leaving Erebor to go any further than Dale or Esgaroth for the near future.”

“Good. Then I will extend an invitation to Elisin and perhaps we might have a party of sorts to welcome her?”

“I think that sounds doable.”

“Then I will see it done and posted before luncheon.” She rose, then peered down at him, her face lined with concern, her blue eyes, so like his own, troubled. “Are you certain nothing else troubles you?”

“I’m positive.”

“Very well.”

She bent to press a kissing the top of his head, and then with a soft clacking, let herself out and silence fell upon him once more. As the door closed behind her, he let his head fall to the back of the sofa once more. All he wanted to do was forget Nina. Forget the magical night he’d spent with her.

Forget that he was on the verge of falling in love with her.

Perhaps Elisin’s arrival would help him do just that.

A low sigh leaked through his teeth. Somehow, he knew he was just lying to himself.

“Yer Sigrid’s friend, ain’t ye?”

Cold grey eyes alit on her and while those eyes sent a shiver along her spine, Nina managed to keep that to herself as she smiled and nodded. “I am, yes. She told me you needed serving girls and I’d like to apply for the job."

The tavern proprietor, Harald narrowed his eyes as he gave her a long up-and-down appraisal. “Sigrid told ye I needed help, did she? Ye have any experience?”

Drawing in a deep breath, she slowly shook her head. Although her fever had broken several days ago, after the doctor Sigrid brought to the flat treated her infected wound, Nina still felt a bit unsteady and tired easily. Hopefully, Harald hadn’t noticed. “No, but I am fast learner and I’m quick on my feet.”

He didn't look at all convinced or inclined to offer her a job, but then he shrugged and with a heavy sigh, said, “I’ve nothing to lose, I s’pose. Business is still slow, and Margrete’s been complaining about needing help. When can ye start?”

“When do you need me to start?”

“Can ye be here this eve? ‘Bout half-six?”

“Done.” She held out her hand.

He looked down at it, then up at her once more, then slowly reached to clasp that hand. “Don’t be late, girlie.”

“I won’t be.”

“And try to dress up a little,” he advised, his smile becoming a bit of a leer. “Show some skin. Ye’ll thank me.”

The thought turned her stomach, but she managed to nod. “Of course.”

“Go on, then. Go home and change.”

“I will see you at half-six.” She turned and made her way back out into the warm sunlight to go home.

Home.

It had been so long since she’d had a home—a true home—but now she did, as Sigrid had told her she was welcome to remain with her in the small flat at the end of the alley. Nina had her own small, cozy room, and as she recuperated, her friendship with Sigrid picked up where it had left off, with late night chats filled with laughter and gossip, although Nina had no idea who had the people Sigrid mentioned were. And it didn't matter. She would come to know them in time. As the days passed and her wounds healed, she was the one who insisted she needed to find a job. Sigrid told her to take as much time as she needed, but Nina couldn't bear the thought of being a burden for any longer than was absolutely necessary.

So, that was when Sigrid suggested Nina come talk to the Black Swan’s owner, sure he would give her a job. And now, as she strolled along the alley toward the flat, she managed a slight smile. She was becoming adept at beginning her life anew. And that’s what this was as well, another chance.

The alley ended at a low stone wall that overlooked the Long Lake and what would one day again be Esgaroth. As her ability to get around returned, Nina found herself out there, at the low stone wall, more than once, just gazing out at what had been her home.

She sighed as she reached that wall and sank onto the wide flat top, her back against the stone building it met. Day after day, she sat there, just gazing out at the city under construction. Despite her distance from Esgaroth, she could hear the faint sounds of men working to rebuild, watched as new pilings replaced the charred, ruined ones. Watched as the walkways and bulkheads and platforms were erected and houses framed out upon them.

It was bittersweet, seeing the rebirth of Esgaroth. Her life there had been difficult, but happy. She loved her family, they loved her, and although they were not wealthy by any means, thanks to her father’s disappearance and the Master’s greed, they had still been happy.

Until the dwarves of Erebor arrived. They changed everything.

And one of them had changed her forever.

She never regretted anything as much as she did going to see Tarog. What a fool she was, thinking she could be a cold-blooded killer, no matter how angry she’d been with Thorin. Truth be told, by the time she spied him in the tavern, her anger had faded, her grief had not run its course, but had become manageable. When she’d spotted him, she felt an initial burst of fury, but by the time she caught up to him in the clearing and took the arrow meant for him, it had begun to fade.

He’d seen to it she was cared for, and allowed her to join them.

By the time they’d shared their first kiss, she knew she was in trouble.

And now?

Now she sighed, gazing out at the Long Lake as the sun burned across it to make its surface shimmer like fire.

“Show some skin,” she murmured, smiling at the shimmering lake. “Somehow, that isn’t very likely.”

****

In the year since Erebor had been reclaimed, restoration had been at a steady pace. Day after day, the city reverberated with activity and Thorin had no complaints with how Dís had run things in his stead. If he and his nephews had succumbed to their injuries, she would have made as fine a ruler as their cousin Dáin, who would have inherited the throne. He’d often thought about naming her his heir, should something else befall both him and her sons. He still hadn’t ruled it out entirely.

He stood at the landing that overlooked the treasure hoard of Erebor. It had been depleted some since they reclaimed the mountain, and while it had pained him at first, now, it no longer troubled him in the slightest. He had much to atone for and rebuilding both Esgaroth and Dale were a small price to pay.

Even with what the treasury of Erebor had parted with there was still a sea of gold. An ocean of gemstones of every cut and color. As he leaned against the railing of pure gold, against the wall of labradorite so green it looked almost black and had been polished to a mirror finish, and gazed out at that sea, a low sigh came to his lips.

A feeling of restlessness came over him, and he pushed away from the wall to make his way down the one intact staircase leading to the hoard. In time, the second one would be refurbished, but for now, the one was more than enough.

The stones and coins and other treasures shifted slightly beneath his bulk as he picked his way around all of it, wading into the center of the chamber. He didn't know what he looked for, only that he would know when he found it.

And find it, he did. A beautiful emerald the size of his fist. He scooped it up, the facets glittering under the torchlight as it rolled in his palm. The deep green stone reminded him of a pair of eyes almost that same rich shade. Eyes he’d lost himself in. Eyes he wished he could always lose himself in.

The eyes of a traitor.

He scowled at the stone and drew his arm back to fire it deeper into the chamber when Dís appeared on the landing. “What are you doing?”

His arm lowered of its own. “I’m bidding some old ghosts farewell.” He tucked the emerald into his trouser pocket. “What brings you here?”

“Elisin arrived earlier. I sent her to freshen up from her journey.”

“She made good time.”

“I think she was in a hurry to make certain no one else claimed your heart first.”

He forced a laugh to his lips. “Tell her there is no danger of that happening.”

“Isn’t there?” Dís came down the stairs, then carefully stepped into the sea of wealth. “You’ve been moping about here for the past fortnight as if someone has died. Now, give over and tell me. It’s your mystery mercenary, isn’t it?”

Annoyance bubbled through him, but he tamped it down as he shook his head. “No. It isn’t and there is nothing to tell, Dís.” He crossed over to her, holding out a hand as she stumbled over a jumble of gold plates.

She caught it, her fingers tightening about his. “Thorin, do not lie to me. I know you better than you think.”

He sighed. “Dís, please… I’ve no wish to discuss it.”

“Very well. I’ll not press, but if you ever wish to—”

“I know,” he replied, offering her his arm. “Why don't we go above and I can reacquaint myself with Elisin?”

She looked as if she didn't believe him, but thought better of trying to force the issue. Instead, she nodded. “Very well.”

They crossed back to the staircase and once they were on the main floor, Dís pulled her arm free. “I’ll go fetch Elisin. You try not to look so broody. You’ll frighten her off.”

He scowled. “I do not brood.”

“I do not brood.”

“Thorin, you were staring off into the dark forever.” Nina affixed him with a long look. “That’s brooding.”

“I was thinking.”

“You were brooding. It’s all right. You can admit it.”

Why couldn't he stop thinking about Nina? She betrayed him. She was going to end his life for five thousand pieces of gold.

So, why did thinking of her hurt as well as make him angry? In fact, why was the hurt overtaking the anger a little more with each passing day?

Because hurt was the only description he had for what could only be described as an ache in his heart.

“Thorin?”

He started, jolted from his reverie. “What?”

Dís offered up a queer look. “Where were you?”

“Nowhere,” he waved off her concern, “so, go and fetch Elisin. I look forward to seeing her again.”

He hoped the smile he forced to his lips didn’t look so forced to his sister. She had an uncanny knack for seeing through any and all facades when it came to her sons and her brother. But the truth was, he cared nothing for seeing Elisin. In reality? He wanted to go and find Nina, to ask her why she’d chosen to hunt him. Why she instead stepped in front of that arrow for him, why she put herself between him and an orc’s blade, if she wanted to kill him? And had she truly attempted to kill him that last night?

But he had no idea where he might look for her, and even if he found her, there was no telling that his anger wouldn’t get the best of him. It might have faded some, but it hadn’t gone entirely. Not yet, anyway.

“Are you certain?” Dís asked.

“I am, indeed,” he assured her.

“Very well. Try not to brood too much longer.”

“I will do my best.”

He watched her leave, then turned back to the hoard, withdrawing the emerald from his pocket. It lay in the palm of his hand, glittering in the flickering torchlight. For a moment, he thought about hurling it back into the sea of gemstones, but then instead slipped it back into his pocket.

#Richard Armitage #AU #The Hobbit #Thorin Fic #Thorin Oakenshield #Is it hot in here?#Hobbit Fic #Romance #Hobbit Fanfic #Thorin x OC #Fan fiction #The Hobbit fan fiction

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booksobsess · 2 years

Text

Lucky Charm – Part 1

Charles Leclerc x Doctor! Reader Part 2

Synopsis: Before all their success in life, Charles and y/n were lovers and split up to focus on their professional careers. Until 10 years later y/n receives one patient in ER from a terrible car crash

Warnings: Language, car crash, nearly death, PTSD, Pierre and y/n bromance

Words count: 4'2k

A/N: I would like to clarify, that English is not my first language, so if there are some misspellings or grammar errors, I'm sorry. But feel like commenting on them so I can rectify my grammar. Also, I'm just a pharmaceutical student and I don't know the 100% process of a surgeon's processes. As well as I'm not a F1 expert.

2018

Charles and I were celebrating he officially signed for Ferrari the following year in F1. I was so happy for him, it’s been his dream for as long as I remember.

We had known each other since high school when me and Arthur got paired in a school project and your friendship with the Leclerc's began. In 2016, Charles and I got closer and ended up developing feelings for each other and have dated ever since. I went to every race he had from F3 to now being with Alfa Romeo in F1.

I had always been there for him. When Jules died, I was here. After his lovely father died, I was there. I was his mainstay. Maybe if I hadn’t been there, he would have given up everything. But my hope and perseverance knew he shouldn’t do it and kept fighting. And here we are, celebrating his Ferrari sign for the next season.

There was only one problem. We weren’t only celebrating his sign for Ferrari. I just entered Universite Paris Saclay as one of their future medical students.

“You don’t know how proud I'm of you” commented Charles smiling without taking his eyes off you.

“Are you kidding me? You just signed for Ferrari, Ferrari! That’s the biggest accomplish here”

“That’s old news. And in your defence y/n, I must add you got your dream career which is more difficult than getting to Ferrari”

You look on your lap avoiding his gaze, smiling like a 16 year old girl.

“You are blushing” said Charles with a corky smile

“No, I’m not” I said getting up from the table and walking to sit on his couch.

Charles follows you to sit next to you. He grabs your chin to make you look at him and takes your lips together.

Then he puts our foreheads together to rest and I close my eyes.

“I’m proud of you”

“I’m proud of you two”

We stay in each other’s arms in silence to make the moment last.

You both knew what getting to uni and Ferrari meant, we haven’t talked about it, we avoided it just to enjoy our possible last summer together.

But the summer was ending and we still haven’t talked about our future.

I decided to be brave and face our fears once and for all. I could already tell my eyes were getting wet.

"Esque il a quelque chose va mal?" Is there something wrong?

"Mon amour, nous devons parler" My love, we neet to talk

"De quoi?" About what?

"Vous savez ce que" You know what

And then is when everything collapses. I start crying and he comforts me saying everything will be ok, that we will get through it

"No we won't, and maybe you don't see it now but if we stay together in the future, one of us will have to give up our dreams. And I couldn't take it if you dropped out of F1 just to be with me. And as selfish as I sound I couldn't give it up either or fail in the process of becoming who I want to be"

We stay silent looking at each other until he stands up and walks to his shelf full of trophies and pictures of his family, Jules and me. Maybe he still hadn't thought about it like I have, maybe I'm the pessimistic one in our relationship and don't see a future where all this works out. Half of me thinks he understands what I'm saying and getting my point, but my other half wishes he has another alternative where we can stay together and be happy.

"I hate to admit it, but you are right. You are always right" Says Charles as he looks at our pictures.

His words shatter me and it's stupid, I was the one that brought it up, it was my idea and the one that ruined everything. I hoped he would tell me everything will be ok, and we will get through it. I really did, but reality is a bitch and we couldn't do anything if we wanted to be successful in life. And it's better to end things now in good conditions and not later in a big fight.

I stand up and walk behind him to hug him from the back, and I start sobbing more than I have ever had. He tuns just so he holds me as tight as he can.

It's not a goodbye. It's I will see you later, as friends when we will be both happy and laugh about it. And with so, we kiss one last time and he offers to drive me to my parents' house. When I open the door to get out, he says "I love you"

The saddest part is, that he is probably the only man I could ever love. So for one last time, I respond "I will always love you"

2028

It was a goodbye. That day was the end.

Charles and I have not seen each other since the day we broke up. Except I spotted him one afternoon with a beautiful brunette girl 3 years ago, when my boyfriend at the time and I visited my parents at Christmas.

I do not regret the decision I took back in 2018. In fact, that was the best decision I ever took in my life. Because ever since that, things only got better for both of us. I know he is doing well despite we have not talked to each other for years, because I had watched every Sunday Formula 1, to see how things were going.

I have not lived in Monaco for 9 years, I only came home in August and Christmas to visit my parents.

Last year after something traumatic happened, I felt I needed to come back home and with my resume, I easily got into the Centre Hospitalier Princesse Grace as one of their neurosurgeons.

Today is Friday and the Monaco Grand Prix is in two days, so the streets are crowded, and a lot of nice cars are on the roads. But It doesn’t affect me, I always walk to the hospital, since I t's faster.

"Is that y/n y/l/n? Or are you an illusion?" I turn to see whose voice was to find Pierre Gasly in his car, stopped at the traffic light.

"Pierre! How have you been?"

"Get inside the car before the light turns green, I will take you" And despite the last time you saw him being 10 years ago you got in, and it seems that no time has passed.

"Let me guess, you are going to Port Hercule"

"You are so smart" We burst out laughing "Girl I haven't seen you in years, how have you been?" I was about to respond to his question but I got interrupted. "Wait, tell me where I need to drive you to. Maybe I'm going in the wrong direction"

"You are" I said with a giggle "I'm going to the Centre Hospitalier Princesse Grace"

"Why? Did something happen?" Pierre asked while going all the way around the roundabout.

"I work there"

"Oh right, I remember Charles commented you got into medicine" He stops talking and gets a little tense.

"Hey, that was 10 years ago, there is no need to get tense"

"It's just that Charles never told me why you broke up and I thought it ended up badly"

"It was a mutual agreement. The reason was simple, he just got into Ferrari and I had to leave to get my medical degree. No hard feelings"

Pierre's face is pure confusion, maybe asking himself why Charles never told him why we broke up.

We chitchat for a bit until he gets me to the Hospital.

“Hey, on Saturday would you like to go to the Paddock I can get you in”

“Oh, thanks but it’s not needed, I can’t watch Saturday’s Grand Prix either. I have to work at the ER, we are short-staffed this summer and they need me. I hope it goes well!” I smile at him and I start to get off the car.

“Oh, you won’t give me my lucky kiss? It was sort of a tradition, wasn’t it?” It was, when I accompanied Charles to the races I always kissed Charles and gave Pierre a kiss on the cheek for luck. So I gave him a big hug and I kissed him on the cheek.

"I missed you Pierre"

"I missed you too, so much" He said the last word with a sigh as I was getting out of the car.

When I was entering the hospital one friend of mine came running to me.

“Girl, was that Pierre Gasly?”

“Yes, we were… we are friends”

“Can you introduce me?”

“No, today is the first time I’ve seen him in 10 years, it would be awkward.” She put on a disappointed face and I continued “Maybe if we get closer again I will introduce you” I said while rolling my eyes.

“How do you know each other?” At work, I don’t talk about my private life and less about something that happened during my teens.

“I used to be friends with Charles Leclerc family and I went to almost every race and I meet most of the drivers. Pierre was the one I got along with the most”

Her mouth makes a shape of an O and thankfully doesn’t ask more.

Next thing I know I’m putting stitches on a kid who cut his finger.

At 16:30 my turn ends and I walk out of the hospital with my friend next to me searching something on her phone. When she suddenly grabs me by the shoulders and makes me look at her. With her phone up and a picture of 18 year old me and a 20 year old Charles and the next picture it’s us kissing. Two photos that we posted on social media and circulated in some articles about our break up.

“You dated Charles Leclerc, Charles Leclerc! And didn’t tell me! He is the hottest guy ever” I close my eyes and I sigh, today it’s not a good day to remember everything.

“Yes, we dated. It’s no big deal, ok? We went to the same school and our families are friends. I don’t want to talk about it ok?”

“Did it end that badly?”

“It was a mutual agreement, he got to Ferrari and I went to university, that’s it”

Thankfully the conversation ended there and she got to her car and I continued my walk home.

After I arrived home, my phone vibrates and I grab it and see a call from Arthur, we always stayed in touch and now that I'm back in Monaco we often hang out to chat.

"y/n do you want to come to my house? We are hanging out in the swimming pool, there are some friends of mine, my brothers and some of their friends, you know Pierre right? He is also here"

Without knowing I get nervous and insecure about myself. I had thought I had everything in control and I knew I will have to see Charles again at one point. But I'm stressing out and I'm not focused to see him again, less in a room full of people.

"Ehem, that would be really nice but... I work tomorrow morning and also on Sunday so it's better if I stay home, thank you tho" That was the lamest excuse I've ever given.

"Oh, no problem, then on Sunday night there is an afterparty for the Grand Prix. And since you don't work on Mondays you must come"

Shit, I already told Pierre I wouldn't come.

"Yes I know, I found Pierre this morning and he told me, I will try to come"

"Come on y/n, you will come, end of discussion. You can't avoid him forever, besides right now you are both sing..." I immediately cut him off

"Yes, ok, thank you Arthur, I'll make an effort. Bye, have a nice day"

Despite Arthur and I always have been friends, after his brother and I broke up we never talked about it.

I was sure I'd moved on but now that I can see him again I'm scared.

It's Sunday morning and today I work all day in ER, a little exhausting but I like working under a little bit of pressure, it makes me more focused.

The saddest thing is that I won't be able to watch the Grand Prix, it's the first time I've not watched it. But it's just one time and nothing will go wrong is just another race. I will watch it when I get home.

Today thankfully was calm, since everyone was watching F1, not many incidents happened.

"Hey y/n, since everything is very calm today you can go home early, we will get through it, now you can go watch the Grand Prix" Announced me another doctor in ER, that knew I had never missed a Grand Prix.

I went to the lockers to change into my regular clothes, grabbed my purse and I got out of the room. Then suddenly the doctor that allowed me to go home ran towards me.

"Y/n! y/n!, You need to get back to work immediately, we just received a call from the ambulance. There has been a car crash and there the patient has a concussion. You are the best in these scenarios, we need you."

Immediately I return and put on my clothes as fast as possible. I think I haven't closed the locker, but that's not my priority right now.

When I get back to the ER the ambulance has not arrived yet. And then it hits me.

I'm driving in my car, there is a big hit, the car spins, there is a bigger hit and everything goes black, seconds later I remember looking at the passenger’s seat and Dorian's face is covered in blood. "Dorian! Dorian! Please answer me" red and blue, blue and red, sirens and the next thing I'm being pulled out of the car.

"Y/n! are you alright? The ambulance just arrived, come on!" I see a nurse helping me get back to reality. I hate car accidents.

But I'm running to get to the stretcher and get the patient to the hospital. When my world collapses again when I see a man in a red suit and a red and white helmet full of pictures. I cannot collapse right now. I must not. I must help Charles

And for the first time, I can control myself and my fear doesn't get me.

I grab the helmet providing a Manual in-line stabilisation (MILS), there is a nurse ready to help grab his chin and also apply pressure on the occipital region, I slowly take off the helmet full of pictures of his dad, his family, Jules and... me. But there is no time for distractions. I need to help him.

"There is a concussion! There is a second-degree burn on the left side of the neck! The patient is still unconscious!" The nurse announces and they immediately cover his burns.

After that, I do a CSF (Examination of the cerebral spinal fluid) and while we wait for the results I go to the MRI (Magnetic Resonance Imaging) machine to check his brain and there I see a pair of blood clots. Shit.

"Immediately we need some Heparin to undo the blood clots" The nurse passes me the needle and I inject it as fast as I can so there will be consequences.

Two hours later, Charles is in a room still sleeping, thankfully there was no complication and all the blood clots are undone. Now I'm walking to the reception where I suppose most of his team and his family are for me to give them the news.

"Charles Lecler's family?" As much as I would like to run to his family hug them and tell them he is alright I must stay professional. In the reception room, I spot Mrs Leclerc, Arthur, Lorenzo, most of the Ferrari team and some drivers, like Pierre, Lando, Max, Carlos, Lewis, ...

"Y/n dear were you the head of his case?" Mrs Leclercs asks me and hugs me with love and fear.

"Mrs Leclerc I must stay professional right now" I whisper to her ear

"Oh right, sorry" She breaks up from the hug and nods as she stays near her sons. Most faces are of fear but Arthur's one is of relief, like he knew Charles has been in good hands.

“Chales is alright, he had a concussion and a couple of blood clots but are now in control thanks to the anticoagulant, the cerebral spinal fluid thank god was not damaged. Also there is a second degree burn but it’s not the priority. Right now he is sleeping in his room, he has not yet awakened”

After that there is a big sight from everyone.

“Can we go see him?” Lorenzo speaks first, looking at me directly.

“The only ones that have authorization to go to his room right now are his family tomorrow, if he is awake and wants visitors, others can come see him”

With that Mrs Leclerc, Lorenzo and Arthur are taken by a nurse to Charles room and most of the F1 team is leaving the hospital, except Pierre and Mattia Binnoto whose last is the first to approach me.

“I must see Charles right now, we need to discuss the championship…” Without second thoughts I immediately cut him off.

“The patient needs to rest and recover fully before even thinking of racing again”

“I don’t care what you say he…” I cut him off again

“You should be worried of your driver’s health and not your stupid championship right now. I don’t want to see you again for the rest of the day, so if you do me a favor and walk off the building calmly and not make me call security. Thank you very much and have a nice day”

And with that he left with some of his crew mates that were waiting for him. And right by the corner I notice a shocked face of Pierre with his mouth open. And still looking at Binnoto Pierre walks towards me.

“I have never seen someone shut his mouth is such style” I look to see if there is someone else in the reception room and thankfully there was no one. And right there and then I colapse.

I fall into Pierre’s arms and he holds me tight.

“I thought I couldn’t do it, when I saw him in the stretcher everything collapsed. I don’t know how I…” he pulls me of his shoulder to look me in the eyes.

“You are amazing, that’s how you did it. Now be the strong y/n I’ve always know and go with him.” Pierre with one hand takes of the tears I didn’t know were falling. “You are amazing” says as he kisses me on the forehead.

“I will call you when he awakes” I make a phone sign with my hand and take it to my ear to emphasize I will call him and I walk fast to Charles room.

Once I get to Charles door one doctor comes and tells me I did enough for today and and that I can go home. And I respond by saying I will say in the patient room to check on him.

I know on the door and Arthur opens and immediately hugs me and I hug him back, and in short moment his mom and brother are also hugging me.

“Did you see what happened?” Arthur asks me. I take a look at sleeping Charles

“No, and honestly I don’t think I want to see it right now”

I don’t let them know how difficult it was for me to help him and not get my emotions overtake me, it would sound unprofessional in-front of them, even if they are like my family.

Two hours later Arthur and Lorenzo went home to change clothes and will bring some for their mother, who stayed and is now sleeping in the corner.

I’m admiring Charles, he has growing out his beard a little, he looks more mature. When suddenly his head moves and turns in my direction and his eyes open slowly.

“Y/n…. Am I in heaven?” Seriously, to all the things he could say and it's that.

"I'm not dead, you know..." I put a big smile on my face, happy that he is alright and awake.

"I know, but you look like an angel" Oh, I look away from him and I can feel my face heat up. He must feel rave from the crash.

He looks around to check where he is and notices his mother sleeping next to him.

"Maman..."

"Would you like me to wake her up?" He turns to look at me and shakes his head.

"What happened? Why are you here?" Charles asks as he looks at the bed and the room, the second question although it shouldn't it hurts me.

"I can go if you want me to" I start to get up, of course, he doesn't want me here, it's been 10 years stupid. When a hand retains me by the wrist.

"Please stay, don't go" He puts on a puppy face for me not to leave him. and I sit back down.

"There was a car crash during the race, you got a concussion and we gave you heparin. You are still under supervision, and I'm here because I was the doctor in charge of your case" He puts on a sad face and immediately asks if anyone got hurt in which no one else got hurt thankfully. And also asked who was the winner but the race was suspended.

Right after that his mom awakens and starts showering him with kisses and a minute later his brothers arrive with clean clothes for him and his mother.

"You are in good hands, I will get going home" While still talking with his family he cuts the conversation and looks at me.

"Y/n, you live here?" He asks surprised.

"I live and I work here, I'm back home" Charles changes his worried face to a more relaxed one, with the thought of home.

"Please come again tomorrow" He says it like a command but immediately rectifies himself "If you don't have any other plans obviously" I smile at his response.

"I don't work tomorrow but if you want me to I will come to visit and I will also take advantage of it by checking your vitals" With a smile on everyone I get out of the room and go home to rest.

The next day in the morning I had to run a few errands and I also went to buy Charles a few things from the supermarket, flowers and a nice bracelet I saw in a shop window and immediately thought of him.

When I get to the hospital there is a lot of media waiting to get any news on him or to see him leave the hospital and bombard him with questions.

I put on my white coat, even though I don't work today, and I walk to Charles room. When I knock and get in it surprises me to only find Charles in the room eating a pudding.

"How are you feeling today?" I asked while leaving his presents on his feet.

"Are you asking this as Dr. y/l/n or as y/n?" He asks me while grabbing his presents and leaving the pudding to the table. "Also you didn't have to bring all of this"

"I'm asking as both" he looks at me with a friendly smile "Oh that it's nothing, I know the hospital food is trash and that it just reminded me of you"

"I find that pudding quite good actually" I laugh at his comment and he smiles back at me.

"I missed it"

"What?" I asked while I'm sitting on the chair

"Your laugh" I blush and look away and immediately try to change the subject.

"I thought the room will be full of people"

"Oh" he says looking all his room full of flowers and presents "It was, at 7am the first to come was Pierre"

"I know, he told me" He puts a questioning face and I reply to him and explain to him we bumped into each other on Friday.

"I know, he told me too" I sigh at his response

I check at his vitals and the notes the nurses put on the document and I notice everything is fine.

"Seeing everything is alright and no complications occurred, and as I'm your doctor, I can give you the discharge and you can be out in a couple of hours"

He puts on a sad face as soon as he sees me talking about work, but that's the main reason why I came here. Wasn't it?

"Can we talk first? I haven't known anything of you for years and I would love to catch up"

"I would also love to catch up in your life"

"Since my fabulous doctor gave me the discharge today" says as he laughs "We can meet up at my place tomorrow morning? Is that good with you?"

"It's good for me"

"Perfect, it's a date then"

Part 2

A/N: I know there is not much of Charles in it and is a little long but I feel like the background of the MC is important for you to understand her.

@livinghappy10 @mekraycom @mrscevans @dreamer-grl @gwynethhberdara

#charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc x y/n #charles leclerc #cl16 #ferrari f1 #ferrari #f1 imagine #driver x reader #charles leclerc x reader

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the-valiant-valkyrie · 9 months

Text

one of the more tragic things about wigfrid's 'death of the old self' thing that wx and maxwell don't have to deal with is the fact that the other two took a sizable chunk of their 'old self' with them into the 'new self'.

william was a struggling magician- meek, worthless, embarrassing. maxwell is mysterious, and clever, and darkly alluring; maxwell can do real magic, and he can do it very well. woodrow was nothing more than some poor sod, enlightened enough to know that humanity means nothing in the face of machinery, and unfortunate enough to have been born of meat and skin. wx is an error rectified, free to pursue their passions without the since-abandoned biases of the flesh.

thing is, maxwell and wx changed for themselves. wigfrid did not. wigfrid changed for the approval of others. she was content with herself until her audience wasn't, and only then did she feel the need to change. and as a result, her priorities wasn't on what she wanted, but what the people around her wanted.

the only part of her past life that she took with her was wigfrid- the character, the persona. she left almost all of her stage life behind, and what's worse is that even mentioning it would be a breach of character.

consciously she is forcing herself to ignore and forget the stuff that used to make her happy, while her subconscious is actively struggling against her. she falters when she catches herself making references to her past life, but it's so instinctual that it can make it past her lips before her brain is any wiser.

wx can stomach recalling wagstaff because they knew him while they were wx. maxwell can make effortless references to moments of his life before the constant because in most of them he was still maxwell then. they have painless access to flickers of their past that wigfrid has made inaccessible.

she loved it. she clearly misses it. and she can't have it, because she took it away from herself. she disavowed herself the joys of her passions.

#damn its kind of been a little while since i did my whole. nuance thing #you'd think i'd run out of stuff to say by now. unfortunately for you i haven't yet #wigfrid dst

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gaywriterdude · 19 days

Text

I was asked so here’s some of my favorite post-lawsuit angst recs for you @keepingmyoptionsfluid

Never Say Never by @Buddiesmutslut

11,595 Words | Rated G | Complete

Athena Grant gets a call from the hospital on her day off, claiming that she needs to come in to discuss options for Buck, as his emergency contact.

A lot of information is reveled, and she finally understands what the boy she's come to see as her own has been through.

Or: Buck throws another clot, calls the 118 & Maddie out on their shit, lets Athena hold him as he cries, and then finally talks to Eddie.

I love this fic, I absolutely love angry!buck and the 118 getting the scolding they deserve

there are so many lines that I've crossed unforgiven (i'll tell you the truth, but never goodbye) by @generalbordomnstuff

19,393 Words | Rated T | Complete

Buck loves music. After the lawsuit, he finds the time to express everything that’s happened into song form, building a safety net of lyrical prose. What he doesn’t expect is that his music takes off, skyrocketing him to fame under the alias “Evan Buchanan”. When Bobby forces him to use all of his vacation time, he decides to embark on his North American tour. As his absence in the station grows, the 118 realize how much they ruined Buck. As Buck’s last performance at Dodger Stadium approaches, can the team rectify their mistakes?

I really like this one because it talks so much about how much the 118 hurt Buck (the mass amounts of Taylor Swift lyrics also help)

Think I Forgot How to Be Happy (Something I'm Not, But Something I Can Be) by @renalovestowrite

43,116 Words | Rated M | Complete

Buck should have seen this coming. He only has himself to blame. The lawsuit had been just another thing he can add to the list of impulsive things he has done…another way he caused pain to those he loves. Buck only wanted to get back to the job he loves and the people he found a family in. At the time, he thought hiring a lawyer and filing a lawsuit was the only way to go about getting back to where he belongs.

To not be left behind.

The hurtful, betrayed looks of his team, his family as his lawyer spoke nothing but the truth regarding how utterly different Buck was treated compared to his co-workers was enough to churn Buck’s stomach. He had to physically swallow down the nausea that threatened to escape as every single fact was laid out for all to bare. Nevermind that a majority of the information Buck’s lawyer used was a part of public record; information Mackey had dug up when Buck became hesitant on the amount of details he was asked to share.

I just love this fic. It’s basically “yeah buck sued you guys, Bobby was being a dick, and Buck was prey to that’s scummy lawyer” and I love it so much

A Last Minute Switch, A Lifetime of Relief by @GothRaven89

57,332 Words | Rated T | Complete

Buck is back at work but no longer back in the good graces of his family. Besides Hen, everyone else is still bearing a grudge, especially Bobby and Eddie. Buck decides to take a break and go out of town, but what happens when he comes back to find everything is chaos. A switch at the last second, human error, a switched off phone, and relationships forever changed.

This one hurts fair warning, but there is a happy ending. I really like it, the firefam thinks Buck is dead and realize they never got the chance to make things right.

A New Family by @Angelwingsoffire

124,717 Words | Rated M | Complete

After the lawsuit, Buck wanted to go back to work, back to his family, and put everything behind him. He knew things wouldn't be the same, but he did want them to be good. But they weren't. He wasn't welcome, he wasn't happy, and he didn't want to stay. So when an old friend gives him the chance at a new family, he takes it. Will his old family realize they fucked up?

This is 125k words of Buck choosing himself and his happiness (plus some Eddie groveling) and I love it more than anything

#911 abc #buddie #ao3 fics

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zeciex · 5 months

Text

A Vow of Blood - 48

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 48: The Stag that Rages

AO3 - Masterlist

TW: Domestic Violence, Threat of Rape, Threat of loss of Freedom, Threat of forced Pregnancy.

The resonant snores suddenly ceased, indicating that her husband had roused from slumber. Daenera was perched at the table, partaking in her morning meal. Delicate morsels of cheese and bread graced her plate as she engrossed herself in the letter that had arrived from Storm’s End, while her long tresses were brushed through by Jelissa.

Daenera Velaryon,

I trust this missive finds you in good health and of a forgiving heart.

I must offer my deepest apologies for the actions of my brother. His grievous misdeeds have tarnished the honor and reputation of House Baratheon, and I will not have it so. His affair and the subsequent birth of his bastard son with a baseborn whore are not only a dishonor to himself but also a stain on the legacy of House Baratheon.

Rest assured, dear sister-in-law, I hold steadfastly to the belief that the title of Lord of Storm’s End must never be passed to a bastard. Our house has stood strong for generations, and I shall not see it weakened by such a foolish mistake. I am fully committed to ensuring that the only legitimate heirs of House Baratheon shall inherit our ancestral seat.

I implore you to understand that my intention is to maintain the unwavering alliance between our two great houses. The strength of our bond must not waver, and for that reason, I expect my brother, my heir, to rectify his errors swiftly and unequivocally. The future of House Baratheon depends on it, as does the continued solidarity between our families.

Only the son born of you and my brother shall inherit Storm’s End and for that reason, I ask your forgiveness for my brother. I will ensure that he understands his position, and that he will fulfill his duty as your husband.

With utmost respect and sincere regrets, Lord Borros Baratheon of Storm’s End

The letter bore the unmistakable mark of Storm’s End’s Maester. Lord Borros Baratheon was, after all, not known for his literacy, and she doubted that he would have been able to construct such an eloquent letter without his Maester’s interference. Daenera let the letter drop to the table and picked up her book.

In the hustle and bustle of the chamber, Patrick scurried across the room, intent on aiding Boris in his morning rituals. His partially completed smock was left behind, a silent testament to the urgency of his duties.

Boris emerged from the bedchambers, clad in a loosely-fitting shirt and trousers. His eyes were burdened with heavy bags, their usual sharpness dulled by exhaustion. Patrick hurried to assist him, offering his lord his belt. Boris accepted with a gruff nod, swatting the young boy away without a word.

“When I returned you weren’t in bed.” As Boris gruffly settled into his seat, the room seemed to hold its breath for a moment, the tension rising to a palpable level. The single boot Boris slipped onto his foot bore the marks of wear and tear, a testament to the rugged life he often led. Patrick, ever the diligent servant, scurried back with the other boot, holding it out for Boris to take.

“I had trouble sleeping,” Daenera replied, her voice casual and unconcerned. She set her book aside, her fingers gently closing the pages. Her blue eyes held a hint of something unreadable as they studied her husband.

“A walk…” Boris repeated, an accusation in his tone.

Daenera’s gaze remained locked on Boris, her eyes steady and unflinching. The room seemed to shrink, its walls pressing closer as the tension between them thickened.

“Yes, I took a walk,” she reiterated, her voice firm. “My husband wasn’t home to keep me company, so I took a walk in the gardens.”

Boris’s skepticism hung in the air like a storm cloud, dark and foreboding. His next words crackled with accusation, thundering almost. “You walked the gardens alone at night?”

A subtle shiver passed down her spine as she sensed the brewing tempest, like the surge of the time before a tidal wave crashed ashore.

“Fenrick was with me,” she replied, ehr tone laced with a deliberate calmness, as if daring Boris to question her further.

The room held its breath, every object frozen in place, as if waiting for the impending storm. Boris’s clenched fist came down upon the table with a resounding thud, a stark punctuation to the charged atmosphere. The clatter of cutlery and Jelissa’s surprised squeak added discordant notes to the chaotic symphony that had suddenly erupted.

Fear clung to the air as Boris’s gaze bore into her, a tempestuous sea of emotion threatening to drown her. Daenera could taste the bitterness of dread at the back of her throat as she faced the storm she had inadvertently seemed to provoke.

“Out,” Boris ordered, his voice low and menacing. “Out. All of you.”

Patrick’s gaze darted between Boris and Daenera, and Jelissa paused in her brushing, a disquiet frown on her face.

“Do not look at her!” Boris' voice rumbled with anger, a storm within a storm, as he barked his command. His clenched fist struck the table once more, the sound echoing through the room like thunder. The flush of indignation colored his cheeks a deep shade of red, so close to turning purple. “Get out!”

Daenera made a subtle nod, silently granting permission for the servants to retreat from the chamber. They exchanged anxious glances, then withdrew, closing the door behind them. The room suddenly felt much more intimate, the downpour of the storm beginning to crash around them in the silence.

Unease began to fester within her as Daenera watched the door close, leaving her alone with Boris.

“What’s bothering you so?” Daenera tried to maintain her composure, her voice steady despite the tension building between her shoulder blades. “You’re not usually in a sour mood when you’re going hunting.”

Boris shot her a venomous glare. “Where were you last night?”

“I already told you, I took a walk–”

“Do not lie to me! I am not as stupid as you might think,” Boris’s voice crackled like a whip, his anger violent in its presence. He swept his plate from the table, sending it crashing to the floor. The room reverberated with the clatter of metal against stone, and the food scattered across the floor. The ambiance of their chambers turned hostile, as the storm broke into thunder and lightning, unleashing its fury within the stone walls of their chambers.

Daenera’s eyes widened in exasperation as she watched his tantrum unfold, her attempt to defuse the situation met with resistance. “I don’t believe you’re–”

“Did you truly believe I wouldn’t notice?” Boris interrupted, his voice laced with seething anger. He abruptly rose from the table, advancing towards her like a charging bull. Towering over her, his eyes bulged with fury, spittle clinging to his beard. Daenera had no time to flinch as he seized her by the face, fingers digging into her cheeks with a painful force that made her mouth purse. The skin of her cheek grated against her teeth, threatening to split open from the pressure. Her heart raced within her chest as fear coursed through her veins.

“I don’t know–what–you’re talking–about,” Daenera managed to force out through her mouth, each word making her teeth scrape against the fragile flesh of her cheeks.

“You’ve been having an affair! You’ve been spreading your legs!” Boris accused, his finger pointing at Daenera with such force that his hand quivered. His eyes blazed with a violent rage, and every gesture he made appeared exaggerated and pent-up, as though he teetered on the edge of an explosive eruption–as if he hadn’t already exploded. It was evident he struggled to contain his anger, his teeth grinding as he glared at her menacingly, the wild expression in his eyes deeply disconcerting. “Did you believe I wouldn’t question the marks on your body?”

With a roughness that almost sent her tumbling from her chair, Boris released her. Daenera’s tongue traced the contours of the inside of her cheek, exploring the gloves where her teeth might have left marks. Her voice, now steady and cold, sliced through the charged atmosphere. “You have the audacity to accuse me of infidelity when you’ve sired a bastard with a whore.”

Boris charged towards her, his furious steps echoing through the room, but Daenera’s palm slammed down on the table with a resounding bang, the impact emphasizing her anger. Her hand grabbed onto the prongs on the table, holding it up threateningly as a sneer curled her lips, and her voice dripped with venom. “You will not strike me again!”

She released an unamused breath as her fingers tightened around the prongs. She had grown tired of portraying the submissive wife, enduring her husband’s humiliation in silence, keeping up the appearance of a happy marriage.

Daenera continued, “And you have the boldness to threaten me with legitimizing that bastard, making him your heir. Do you truly believe your brother would accept soiling your house with the blood of a whore?”

Boris ground his teeth, the veins in his throat bulging with rage as his eyes darted toward the prongs in her hand, seizing her up.

With a half-hearted shrug, her mouth twisted into an upside-down smile that spoke volumes of her defiance, she flicked her hand dismissively towards the letter, the parchment laying unfolded on the surface of the table, displaying the black stag at the corner. “I can assure you he wouldn’t be pleased. Perhaps he’d allow you to legitimize the child, but he’d never risk incurring my family’s wrath by favoring a baseborn heir over a trueborn one.”

Boris looked at her in utter disbelief, his sneer revealing his shock. “You wrote to my brother?”

His tone was filled with incredulity, carrying with it a hint of petulance that seemed more suited to a child. He made it sound as if Daenera had tattled on him, revealing a grievous secret to someone he knew would bring him to account. It was almost an inadvertent admission of wrongdoing.

Daenera’s eyes narrowed angrily as she responded, her tone firm, “Of course I did. You risk the wrath of House Targaryen–”

“I don’t bloody care about the wrath of House Targaryen!” Boris roared, his fury echoing through the chamber. “You are my wife. You belong to me . I am your lord husband, and I demand the respect I deserve!”

“Respect is earned, not given in demand.”

His voice took a cold, malicious tone as he continued, “You shouldn’t hold my son’s status as a bastard against him, I have not held it against you.”

Daenera stared at him, her anger blazing incandescently in her eyes. “Are you calling me a bastard?”

“Do you believe the whole realm is blind to your true nature?” Boris sneered, gesturing dramatically as if to encompass the entire world beyond their chamber walls. “If the King weren’t so willfully blind, he would recognize that his daughter is a whore. A trait that his granddaughter appears to have inherited.”

“The King will have your tongue for that,” Daenera responded with a dark undertone, wishing for nothing more than to see it true.

“What do you suppose they would say once they discover you’ve been spreading your legs like some common whore?” Boris harshly yanked open a drawer in a nearby side table, retrieving something which he then thrust into her face. “I stumbled upon this in our own bed .”

Boris extended his hand, his forefinger and thumb pinched together. It took a moment for Daenera to recognize the long, fine strand of hair, distinctively Valyrian in hue. She swallowed thickly, forcing her face to remain still as she glared at her husband, letting a furrow crease her brow.

“You’ve been fucking one of your uncles,” Boris hissed at her, his words dripping with venom. “And judging by the length of the hair I found, I’d wager it’s Aemond.”

Daenera shot a sharp, incredulous glare at her husband. “You’re accusing me of adultery based on a single strand of hair in our bed? We reside in a castle filled with silver-haired individuals! Did it not occur to you that you’d find their hairs scattered everywhere?”

Boris closed the distance between them, his face almost purple with rage, his eyes wide and thunderous. “In. Our. Bed.”

“Helaena–” The sharp crack of his hand against her cheek sent her and the chair tumbling to the floor.

“Do not dare lie to my face,” Boris snarled, looming over her. “Do you think this is the only thing that’s aroused my suspicion? The hair, the damning evidence on your body–did you truly believe I wouldn’t notice? I initially dismissed the warnings about you, the whispers of your true nature–no longer.”

He violently seized her by the hair, wrenching her from the floor with such force she wondered whether he’d tear the hair from her scalp. Daenera struggled desperately to keep up, the nails of her free hand dug into his hand, attempting to pry it off.

With a surge of desperation, she thrust the prongs of the fork forward, sinking them into Boris’s arm. A primal howl of pain and rage erupted from him as he reeled from shock. The room seemed to spin as her vision blurred from the strike across her face, but she clung to the fork, twisting it ruthlessly.

Boris, seething with fury, propelled her towards the bed, his grip unrelenting. He tossed her onto its edge with merciless force. The impact expelled the air from her lungs, leaving her gasping for precious breath. As her vision swam, she struggled to regain her bearings. She felt nauseous with fear, her hands gripping the blanket as she attempted to crawl away.

With an annoyed roar, Boris yanked the prongs from his flesh, creating a gruesome wound that immediately began to seep blood. The crimson stain spread across the sleeve of his arm, dark and foreboding. His curses reverberated through the room as he tossed the prongs, the steel clattering over the floor.

“I’ve granted you far too many liberties. I should have imposed discipline right from the beginning and molded you into a proper, obedient wife,” Boris seethed with anger, the unmistakable sound of his belt being undone filling the room like an ominous warning. True fear pierced Daenera’s heart like a cruel blade, and she clutched the mattress desperately, scrambling across it in a frantic bid to escape the advancing man.

“You are my wife. Above all else, you are MINE,” he growled, his voice dripping with possessiveness.

The bed creaked as he knelt upon it, his powerful hand closing around her angle and ruthlessly pulling her away from the mattress’s edge, back onto the bed. Daenera could taste bile at the back of her throat, tears clinging to her eyelashes as she kicked and pleaded. “No! No! No!”

“You have forsaken your duty,” Boris growled, mounting her with a brutal force that left her gasping for breath. He seized her wrists in an iron grip, and she struggled against his overwhelming strength, clawing and writhing beneath him in an attempt to fend him off. “You’ve forsaken your honor, you have shamed me, you have ruined yourself and your dignity, by spreading your legs for other men. You have not given me a son, and I cannot trust you to do so when you’re whoring yourself around. I will not tolerate it.”

His weight pressed down on her, threatening to shatter her hips and smother the life from her. She felt her hands bound with his belt, the leather biting cruelly into her wrists as he fastened it around the canopy bedpost, leaving her helpless and immobilized.

Boris dismounted from her, leaving the bed entirely as he strode towards his wardrobe. Daenera wisted in the bed, her wrists straining against the leather bindings as she knelt on the mattress, anxiously watching for Boris’s movements. Her body quivered, her hair clung to the nape of her neck, damp with cold sweat.

“Please,” she implored, her voice quivering with fear. She swallowed hard, struggling to inject some semblance of composure into her words. “I have been a faithful wife to you. I haven’t committed the act you accuse me of. I have not bedded anyone but you.”

Boris emerged from the wardrobe, a fresh belt gripped firmly in his hand. The sight sent Daenera’s heart plummeting into her stomach as the full weight of the situation dawned on her. She vigorously shook her head from side to side as he advanced towards her. “No, no, no. I am your wife! I have remained loyal to you. You can't do this.”

Her desperate pleas fell on deaf ears as she climbed onto the bed, causing the mattress to dip under his considerable weight. “You may be my wife, but that also makes you my possession. I can do whatever I please with you, discipline you however I see fit.

Daenera kicked out in a surge of rage, her fury bubbling to the surface as she sneered. “I am Daenera Velaryon! I am a princess. Lay a hand on me, and I’ll have you fed to my mother’s dragon.”

“There’s that fire I’ve heard about,” Boris jeered darkly.

As her eyes locked onto the belt again, a chilling wave washed over her, prompting her to pull even harder against the restraints. Her heart raced, pounding painfully against her ribs, threatening to shatter them entirely. Fear gripped her, her body betraying it by trembling. Desperately, she tried to evade his grip, kicking at him. His fingers once more closed around her ankle, tugging her roughly until she sprawled facedown on the mattress. Boris climbed over her flailing legs, settling on her thighs, pinning limbs down. “I won’t tolerate your disgraceful behavior any longer.”

“You bring dishonor upon yourself!” Daenera spat at him, defiantly craning her head to meet her enraged husband’s eyes, her fury matching his.

His fingers clenched around her dress, ripping the fabric apart and exposing her back to the cool air. The sudden tearing of cloth elicited a sharp cry from her, her legs flailing wildly, heels connecting with his back.

“I’ll instruct you on the ways of a loyal, honorable wife,” Boris sneered, dragging his palm down the curve of her bare spine.

Daenera felt a nauseating blend of revolt and fear coiling within her, churning her stomach and pushing bile to the back of her throat. She instinctively arched her back, desperately trying to escape his touch, but there was no escape. The leather restraints around her wrist bit into her flesh, causing her hands to throb and turn a deep shade of crimson.

Her head was yanked back mercilessly by her hair, forcing her to look up at him as he leaned closer, his breath hot and unpleasant in her ear.

“I’m simply doing what any responsible husband should do – discipline you,” he murmured, before releasing her head and shifting his weight back onto her legs again.

The initial strike of the belt lashed down across her bare back, stealing her breath and searing pain into her skin. The second followed swiftly, the pain merging with the first, making them almost indistinguishable though no less painful. But it was the third strike that finally forced a cry from her lips, tears streaming down her cheeks as her back throbbed and burned. It felt as if her skin was on fire, as if flames licked at it, relishing in the agony that made her head swim.

As the leather bit into the tender flesh, her vision blurred with pain, and she could feel the welts already forming. Her body trembled under each punishing blow, and her fingers clenched into fists, pulling at the leather restraints that bound her to the bedpost.

Boris’s voice, dripping with anger, echoed in her ears as he continued the brutal chastisement.

“When we first met,” he snarled, the belt biting into her skin with each strike, “I made it clear what I expected from you. I expected you to understand your duties as a wife. To be obedient and pliant.”

Another fierce strike, and another cry escaped from her lips. Boris roughly pushed her head down into the mattress, muffling her cries. “To show respect to your husband.”

Daenera could hardly make out his words amid the deafening throb of her own pulse within her head. The pounding of her blood resonated loudly in her ears, drowning out all else. Each word he spoke was like a distant echo, distorted and surreal, as if they came from another world entirely.

Lightheadedness enveloped her, tears blurring her vision. Each breath felt like a struggle, drawn in with ragged, labored pants. It was as if the air itself had thickened around her, making it difficult to breathe–as if she was breathing in water. Drowning was such a slow death , she thought. Her face was pressed into the unforgiving fabric of the blanket beneath her, soaking it with her tears. The sensation of the rough, coarse fabric against her cheek added to the disorientation.

Every strike of the belt against her bare back sent shockwaves of searing pain through her body, but her cries were muffled by the fabric beneath her, betraying her to keep silent.

Boris’s grip on her hair intensified, pulling her head back with a cruel force. She hardly felt the sting in her scalp. “You belong to me, do you understand?”

A spark of insolence, seemingly woven into her very essence, flared up within her with a defiant intensity. It emerged as a mirthless, almost maniacal laughter. “You’re absolutely right, husband. I have fucked another. But you mustn’t lay all the blame on me. The fault is not all mine. You see, you just couldn’t satisfy my needs.”

As he released her, a cry erupted from her, but was quickly smothered by the blanket. The belt cracked down onto her, its leather teeth gnawing at her skin and leaving it throbbing and inflamed. Another cry burst forward. Blow after brutal blow rained down upon her, and it felt as if her spine and ribs were being painted with bruised hues.

Boris exerted himself, grunting with the effort. The buckle of the belt chimed, and a sudden, searing pain exploded at the side of her head, causing her ear to ring. Warmth flowed, and blood began to drip onto the pristine white bedding, the fabric eagerly drinking in the crimson stain.

Daenera’s gaze fixated on her numb hands, which were gradually taking on a purplish hue. In her mind, she conjured a vivid image of her husband’s demise. Blood trickled from her ear, tracing a crimson path along her cheek as she envisioned him lying broken and battered, struggling to breathe as he choked on his own blood, his face contorted in anguish, eyes widening with horror at his own mortality. She imagined him writhing in excruciating pain, rendering him black, blue and bleeding. Dead. Dead. Dead.

She cursed him with her breath, cursed him with her blood, cursed him with her rage.

“I will show you,” Boris hissed through clenched teeth, casting the belt aside with disdain as it thudded onto the floor. His rough hand traced down her battered spine, causing her to grit her teeth against the searing pain on her already abused skin. “I will have you with my child. MY child. You will know no other.”

Daenera’s head hung limply to the side, her breath reduced to shallow, labored pants. The faint rustle of fabric filled her ears as Boris unfastened the laces of his trousers. Her heavy eyelids fluttered, and she summoned the strength to pry them open, turning her head to observe him. There, he knelt behind her with his flaccid member in hand, attempting in vain to coax it into readiness. Frustration etched his brow as his cock remained unresponsive, and an irrepressible laugh bubbled from Daenera’s lips.

Her laughter ran out, echoing in the room. In response, Boris forced her face down into the mattress, holding her head there as her body convulsed, deprived of the precious air it so desperately craved.

With a growl of frustration, Boris finally released her, rising from the bed. But Daenera scarcely noticed as she gulped down lungfuls of air, her body trembling from the near-suffocation she had endured.

The room stirred with movement, and then his voice sliced through the air. “I demand that you send word for your ship and prepare for our departure once I return from this hunt. You will accompany me back to Storm’s End, where you shall become a proper wife and fulfill your duty of bearing sons. Your misguided time in King’s Landing has come to an end.”

Once he had left, Daenera carefully wiggled off the bed, her knees making contact with the cold stone floor. The jolt sent a shockwave through her body, which helped to clear some of the fog in her head. With every movement, her aching back protested, her muscles frayed and bones bruised. The side of her head felt warm and sticky, though she hardly felt the throb of pain on her ear.

Remaining tethered to the canopy bed, she found herself half-leaning against the side of the mattress, balanced on both knees, her forehead falling to her arm. Her teeth clattered together as her entire body shook and trembled with the force of shock, as if she had been caught in the icy winds of the North and was slowly freezing to death. She hardly heard Jelissa enter the room.

Jelissa, her hand flying to her mouth in shock, rushed into the room, tears already welling in her eyes at the sight of the injured princess.

“Princess,” Jelissa gasped, her voice quivering, as she reached for the restraints that tied the princess to the bed.

As the leather loosened around her wrists, her arms fell heavily to her lap. The joints of her shoulders protested painfully as they settled back into position. Her hands had been blissfully numb, but now, as the blood rushed into her limbs once more, they began to throb and prickle. It felt as if a thousand needles were puncturing the skin, sinking into the flesh repeatedly. She gritted her teeth and looked up into the young maid’s face.

“Robe,” Daenera muttered, her voice raw with exhaustion.

“What?” Jelissa asked, concerned.

“The robe,” Daenera gestured painfully towards the silk robe lying across a chair.

Jelissa crawled over the floor and stretched out, gripping the robe quickly. She carefully wrapped it loosely around Daenera’s shoulders, helping her guide her arms through the sleeves. Every once in a while, she stopped to wipe the tears from her face, sniffing loudly as she tried not to burst into loud sobs.

Daenera rested weakly against the bed, her cheek pressed against the soft mattress. “Get Aemond.”

With a nervous swallow, Jelissa nodded and hurried off the carry out her princess’s command.

Her eyes fluttered closed, her breath labored and shallow as she tried not to exacerbate the pain on her back by breathing too roughly. The skin felt tightly drawn over her bones, searing with pain as if she’d been branded. A chill began to set in, nibbling at her toes and fingertips, running coolly down her spine and seeping into her bones. At the creak of the door, she pried her eyes open again, looking up as Aemond came into view. Upon seeing his face, she felt a weak sob rise in her throat.

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