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thetriumphantpanda · 9 months

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two is better than one | joel & tommy miller

Summary | Frustrated that whatever you're trying to do still isn't working, you decide to give it one more try with Joel before cooling off for a while. Tommy is back to keep an eye on the both of you this time, but what happens when he starts to feel a little left out, watching his brother bring his girl over the edge more times than he cares to count?

Warnings | I swear I always start this the same way so here we go: Tommy getting cucked but also getting involved this time 👀, Joel being a fucking menace, dirty talk, oral sex (F&M receiving), face sitting, breeding kink, unprotected PiV sex, talk of infertility, no use of Y/N

Word Count | 3.8k

Authors Note | Whew. When I tell you this little threesome has been rotting my brain, I'm not lying. This is the only thing I can focus on, hence them being updated so fast! I just wanted to say a huge thank you to you all for the continued love you're giving this series - it honestly blows my mind every time that it's something you guys enjoy, that my writing reaches so many people and that they lap that shit up. I'm so grateful to everyone who has taken the time to comment, send me asks, reblogs and those who have slid into my DMs with all the love. I see you, I hear you, and I love you all - thank you. I hope you enjoy this next part just as much as the rest - it's a doozy. You know the drill, if you did like it, please consider reblogging, commenting or sending the love to my ask box, it's what keeps me going. And if you'd like to leave me a tip (of course no pressure!), then here's my Ko-Fi.

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Another month and another fucking negative pregnancy test. You knew it was irrational, but you were starting to think that maybe you were also part of the problem now. You’d been doing everything right, following all the advice in the books you’d bought almost a year ago when Tommy and you had first started trying for a baby. You’d been exercising, eating as healthily as possible, tried to keep yourself a stress-free as possible. You’d been keeping a close eye on your cycle and still, nothing to show for it.

When you clambered down the stairs, test in hand and flung it in Tommy’s direction, he already knew. He could see the heavy set of your shoulders, the quiet sniffling of you trying to hide the fact you were crying. Tommy had settled you on the couch, covered you in a blanket and made you some tea. Then he’d made your favourite meal for dinner, even driven to the store and picked up Diet Coke, emptied a can into a glass filled with ice and lime juice like you loved, but none of it really helped to soothe how upset you were.

The TV was on low, and he had your head in his lap, slowly stroking the strands of your hair as you tried to calm yourself down. Remind yourself that even the most fertile of couples needed to try for months sometimes before they had their first baby. It was stupid to think you’d be any different.

“You’re thinkin’ way too loud, sugar.” Tommy muses, letting his hand run up and down your arm instead.

“Sorry,” You mumble, “Just thought it would be easier.”

“I know,” He coos, “We can take a break for a while, if you want.”

You turn so you’re led on your back, looking right up at him, “I just want a baby.” You feel a tear slip down your cheek to pool near your ear.

Tommy uses his thumb to brush away the tears that have started to fall, bobbing his leg up and down gently to try and soothe you, “It’s still fresh,” He speaks softly, “Let’s give it a couple of days and see what you want to do, okay?”

You nod in agreement, feeling the beginnings of a headache pooling behind your eyes. You push yourself up into a sitting position and turn around to press a soft kiss to his lips, “I’m gonna go to bed,” You announce, “Headache.”

He lets you go, it’s still early and you know there’s the game highlights he wanted to watch. In bed, you can do nothing but toss and turn for a few hours. Every time you’d try to close your eyes, all you could see was vision of you and Joel, in all the different positions he’d put you in so far, and all for what? When the bedside clock hit 10:30, you head out to use the bathroom. As you near the door at the top of the stairs you can hear Tommy talking to someone, through the phone because his is the only voice you can hear.

“I know, brother, she’s just really beat up about it,” You hear him say, “I don’t know how to make it better.”

You lean against the closed bathroom door, wondering if perhaps you should leave Tommy to talk to Joel. There’s a pause where you can hear Tommy humming along to whatever Joel is saying on the other end of the phone.

“I dunno man,” Tommy sighs, “You managed to knock Sarah’s mom up on a one-night stand, guess I thought it would be easier for you.”

There’s another pause, then he’s speaking again.

“No Joel, all of her tests came back perfect,” Another sigh, “I was always the problem.”

You’re about to push down the handle to go to the bathroom when Tommy speaks again, “I don’t know, maybe we should just cool it for a while, we’re all gonna work ourselves up otherwise.”

You decide you don’t really want to hear the rest of the conversation. You sit on the toilet and let your face drop to your hands in frustration. Why couldn’t you just be normal? Why couldn’t you have been a nice, normal couple, having a baby in the most natural way possible? Why did this have to come along and fucking complicate everything? And why did Joel have to be so fucking good to you every time?

You wash your hands under the tap, water as scalding as it could go, just in order to feel something that wasn’t frustration before you head to bed. There’s no longer the sound of voices as you pad back across the hall and get back into bed, shutting off the lights and curling onto one side, knees as close to your chest as you can manage to get them. It’s not long before you can hear Tommy shuffling around upstairs. He pushes open the bedroom door quietly, obviously thinking you’re already asleep. You can hear him undressing before he's slipping onto his side of the bed, pulling your body close to his under the covers as he spoons you.

You let your own arm cover his over your waist as you lean back into the comfort of his chest, letting his breath fan across the skin of your shoulder as he presses a kiss to your skin.

“I wanna try again,” You speak softly into the dark, feeling Tommy’s arm’s squeeze you tighter, “Once more and then we cool it for a while.”

“You sure?” He asks into your ear, lips pressing to the sensitive skin behind your ear.

“I’m sure.” You respond, turning around in his arms to capture his lips in yours.

When the time comes to try again, it’s you who greets Joel at the door when he knocks. Tommy already upstairs and situated in the chair he had taken the first time you’d done this as a three. Joel leans down, lips just millimeters from your own, but instead of kissing your mouth, he places a soft kiss to your cheek instead.

“Hello, darlin’.”

You step up onto your tiptoes to press your own kiss to his face, just shy of the corner of his mouth – the kisses from last time still a secret between the two of you.

“Evening handsome,” You smile, pulling away from him to close the door as he steps inside, “You ready?”

“To give you what you want?” He smirks, “Always, pretty girl.”

You feel that telltale heat flush across your cheeks as Joel pulls you into his side, hand dipping down to squeeze your ass over the fabric of the robe you’d thrown on moments ago. God, why did he have to be so fucking intoxicating around you?

You take hold of his hand in yours, leading him up the stairs behind you. Tommy was reading a book as you entered the room, folding the corner of the page before setting it down on the nightstand closest to the chair. You can’t help but snigger as you watch him and Joel give each other the typical male greeting of a curt nod of the head.

You drag Joel by the arm to the foot of the bed, pushing his shoulders down so he sits on the edge. Then you take a step back and tug on the belt of your robe, letting it fall open and off your body to leave you completely naked in front of him. You watch his face as he trails those beautiful brown eyes over your body, letting out a low whistle of approval.

“Beautiful as ever, darlin’,” He compliments, reaching out a hand for you to take, “But you’re worked up, ain’t ya? And not in the good way.”

Your eyes flit to Tommy in the corner of the room, who has that smug ‘I told you so’ look on his face. You’d been itching for Tommy to arrange this since that ovulation test said you were in the zone, but Joel had been working away for the past two days, and now you were worried that if you didn’t hurry the fuck up, you’d miss your chance.

Joel reaches out and puts his hands on the back of your thighs, pulling you into him, he’s looking up at you, pressing hot kisses to the skin of your tummy, “Gotta relax babygirl,” He moans, “I’m tryin’ my damned hardest, but you just gotta let nature take its course.”

“Just frustrating.” You mumble.

“I know baby, I know,” He’s got his hands palming your tits now, “Long as I need to, I’ll keep fillin’ you up, y’hear me?”

Your breath catches in your throat and all you can do is nod as he moves himself back on the bed.

Joel leans back on the bed, his head just shy of the pillows, “Sit on my face, pretty girl.”

You’re almost embarrassed at how quickly you scramble yourself onto the bed, moving up to straddle his hips – even Tommy is chuckling from his chair.

“Can’t get enough of Joel’s mouth on your pussy, can you, sugar?” He speaks in a low voice.

Joel has his hands on your ass, guiding your naked body to hover over his face before his hands are slipping up to your hips to pull your cunt to his mouth. He wastes no time in getting straight to business, wide tongue licking stripes from your entrance, where he laps up your slick like a cat would cream, to those deliciously tight flicks of the tip of his tongue to your clit. You can hear him groaning into your pussy, your hand coming down to anchor itself into his hair to hold him still as you start grinding against his face.

You can hear the obscene slurps that he’s making underneath you, it’s half the reason you think it takes you no time at all to reach the edge, because he fucking enjoys this just as much as you do, he loves tasting you, loves making you feel good and you can feel that, can feel it on his mouth.

As you throw your head back as Joel’s tongue swipes perfectly across your clit, you catch Tommy in the corner of the room. He’s palming himself through his jeans as he watches you, your body writhing as his brother’s mouth brings you closer and closer to the edge. It wouldn’t hurt, would it? You think, if you asked if he wanted you to help him out.

“You feeling left out baby?” You coo, reaching your hand out for Tommy to take, “Joel gets my pussy tonight,” You punctuate with a grind of your pussy down onto his mouth, “But I can help you, if you want.”

He’s standing at the edge of the bed in minutes, his hand pressing into the back of your neck, not unlike how he tries to work the knots from there when you watch TV together. It’s soft and it’s loving and a complete juxtaposition to the vice grip that Joel’s fingers currently have on your hips.

Your lips are impossibly close to Tommy’s, you could easily lean forward and kiss him, instead, you have a demand, “Take off your pants.”

Tommy’s hands start to undo the belt holding his jeans up, so you turn your attention back to Joel between your thighs. He is expertly holding you right on the edge, you’re mewling and whining as he tongue works you to the edge, and then pulls away, moving down to gather more of your slick on his tongue.

You drop your head and catch his eyes looking up at you, “You gonna tease me all night, Miller?” You ask, voice cracking as he makes a point to suckle on your clit, making you cry out, “Fuck, make me come, please Joel.”

All of a sudden, Tommy’s hand is on your face, pulling your mouth to his own in a searing kiss as he guides your hand to his cock. You’re moaning, a combination of the fact that any second, Joel’s mouth is going to have you screaming and the fact that it’s Tommy kissing you, his cock you’re currently pumping through your fist. It’s delicious and it’s filthy and it should feel all shades of wrong, but it fucking doesn’t.

You feel it in your legs first, the way they begin to shake and pulse and your thighs clamp around Joel’s face. Then you feel it in your abdomen, like a knot unfurling all at once as pleasure bursts over every inch of your skin. Your mouth detaching from Tommy’s, so you can cry out his brother’s name as you feel yourself almost collapse onto him.

“Such a good girl,” Tommy breathes into your ear, your hand still firmly held around his cock, “So good when you come for us like that.”

You feel Joel’s hands tapping at the cheeks of your ass, telling you to lift yourself off his face which you do, dragging yourself down enough so that you’re sat across his chest, not caring that your leaking pussy is dragging slick all over him. His face is covered, covered in you. He’s grinning up at you like the devil, tongue circling his mouth to clean your taste from wherever he can reach.

“I gotta be inside you, pretty girl.” You can hear his gruff voice speak.

Tommy immediately moves back from you so you can settle yourself down on the bed. You start on your back, but Joel moves you to lie on your side. He’s still fully clothed behind you, but when he presses himself up against you, you can feel his thick cock straining in his jeans.

“Take your clothes off.” Is all you can manage to whine as Tommy settles on his knees on the space in front of you, taking the back of your head in the palm of his hand to bring your mouth to his cock.

Joel shuffles away from you and you feel the mattress lighten as he gets off the bed to shed his clothes. You almost wish you could watch, there’s something about the way Joel reveals his body to you that drives you wild. The way he drags his shirt off to reveal his broad frame, chest peppered with hair, or the way his cock bounces when he finally pulls off his underwear. But right now, you’re focused on making your man feel good.

You’re making sure that you’re doing it exactly as Tommy likes, almost telling him through the ministrations of your mouth how grateful you are for him, for this being his idea, for loving you enough and trusting you enough to let someone else give you what he cannot. You’re giving all the attention of your tongue to the head of Tommy’s weeping cock, tasting the salt and musk of his pre-cum, using one had to pump the base of his cock.

You can feel Joel settle back behind you, pressing his entire body against your own, hard cock slipping through the slick folds of your cunt as he settles himself in the right position, then, he’s taking hold of your leg, hand in the crux of your knee to pull it up, baring his prize. He slowly inches his cock inside your tight heat and suddenly it’s all a little overwhelming.

You’re giving the love of your life the kind of head you’ve only ever seen in porn, Tommy taking most of the control to thrust in and out of your mouth. You’re pretty sure the tears falling from your eyes are a mixture of his length hitting the back of your throat and the overwhelming emotion, love, and admiration you feel for both the men who are crowding your body, owning it, taking what they both want, one of them hopefully leaving you with what you want.

You pull your face away from Tommy’s cock for a moment, still giving his length the attention it needs, but you let yourself lean into Joel behind you, his cock still moving languidly inside you. He’s got one of his arms snaked under your neck, your head leant against his arm like a pillow, his other hand holding your leg up so that every time his cock brushes inside you, it’s hitting that damn spot that makes you want to cry.

“Look at you, lucky girl,” Joel growls into your ear as his lifts your leg up higher, pushing it almost to lie flat aagainst your side, “One cock in that pretty little pussy, another in your mouth,” You let a moan, muffled by the fact that Tommy is currently doing a slap-up job of fucking your throat, “He’s a lucky man,” Joel speaks again, “Bet that mouth feels divine.”

“You ask nicely, she might oblige you, brother.”

You feel him puff air through his nose in a chuckle, “I’m quite happy right where I am,” He speaks, pumping his cock so deep inside you that you actually think you can see stars, “You’re a lucky son-of-a-bitch gettin’ this for the rest of your life.”

“She’s special, I’ll give you that.”

It’s like you have to prove him right now. You can feel the walls of your pussy clenching around Joel as he picks up his pace. You can feel his balls slapping into your skin with every thrust, the power behind them causing your mouth to take Tommy cock deeper into your mouth every time.

“Sugar, I ain’t gonna last much longer.” You hear him speak from above you.

You pull off him, again letting your hand work him as you look up at his through your lashes, “You want me to swallow for you, baby?” You asked, wondering what you must look like when he looks down at you, fucked out from his brother, begging for him to come down your throat.

“There’s an offer I cannot refuse,” Tommy grins, letting your mouth take him back inside the warmth, “Such a good girl.”

He only lasts a few more seconds, cum hitting your tongue and seeping down your throat. You swallow down every drop, grinning up at Tommy. He leans down and plants a kiss to your lips, and now your focus is on Joel, thick and solid, pumping his cock in and out of you.

“You focus on Joel now, sugar,” He croons, “I’m gonna sit back and watch you have fun.”

As soon as Tommy has moved away from you, Joel is pulling his cock from your pussy, turning you onto your back before he’s crowding his frame over you, settling between your thighs. You’re pliant and you move easily when he hooks your legs over his shoulders, folding you back as he slips his cock back inside you.

You’re gripping his arms as he fucks into you in earnest now, tip of his cock bruising your cervix with every thrust, you know he’ll have half-moon shaped marks on his arms come the morning, they’ll match the bruises he always leaves on your hips, the shape of his fingertips indented into your skin.

“God fuckin’ damnit,” Joel groan, head falling to the column of your throat to graze teeth and lips over your delicate skin, “Gonna come so deep in this fuckin’ pussy it won’t have a choice but to take, you hear me, pretty girl?”

“Fuck!” You exclaim, as he shifts just enough to change the angle that his cock is spearing into you, “Joel please.”

“Please what?” He teases, “What do you want, babygirl?”

“Inside,” You breath out, “Want you inside.”

“Yeah, want me to make you a mama?” You can feel tears pooling in your eyes, “No need to cry, pretty girl,” He leans down, folding you in half even more, almost uncomfortable, to kiss away the tears, “Gonna give you what you need.”

He thankfully moves back a little, stopping your bones from screaming at you for being folded so inhumanely, then his thumb is on your clit, “Only gonna make you a mama if you come with me,” Joel smirks, “Deal?”

“Oh god – fuck – whatever you want,” You cry, “Please, give me what I want.”

His thumb is relentless on your already sensitive clit, those tight circles have you clenching around him and when you look into his eyes you know he’s just as close as you are, “That’s it baby, you keep those big, beautiful eyes on me,” Joel’s hips are snapping into your with a force you didn’t know you could feel, it’s entirely too much and entirely too little all at the same time, “Can feel that tight little pussy suckin’ me in,” You cry out as his thumb falters and drags across your clit in a way that has that not threatening to unfurl yet again, “It’s alright baby, if you come, I’ll follow, yeah?”

That’s exactly what happens. His thumb traces wet circles over your clit and you do exactly as he says. You keep your eyes wide open, staring directly into his own, as your mouth falls open with a screech as your vision clouds. Whatever happens, Joel is right behind you, his cock pounds into at most, twice more, before he’s growling your name through his teeth, cum painting every inch of your pussy. He drops your legs from his shoulders, and falls forward, letting his head rest in the crook of your neck as you both fight to catch your breath.

You wrap your arms around him but it’s all too soon before he’s pulling himself out of you, a kiss to your cheek as he does so. You’re spent and you’re aching and if you’re honest, a little overwhelmed. Joel dresses quickly, and you wish you could ask him to stay, wish he didn’t feel the need to run away, but you know it’s for the best. Tommy tells you he’ll see him out and come to bed, so you roll over and pull yourself under the sheets, trying to warm yourself from the cool air that’s spattering across the sweat of your skin.

Tommy is back within minutes having seen Joel off. He shed his clothes and moves right up behind you, gathering you into his arms. He takes some time to press kisses into your neck and across your shoulders and for some reason, it sets your belly on fire. How have you been fucked so thoroughly by another man, this man’s own brother, and now you’re aching for this man behind you.

“I love you so much, Tommy,” You whisper into the dark, clutching at his arms wrapped around you, “So fucking much.”

“I love you too baby,” He whispers into your ear, stilling your hips as they grind back into him, “Enough of that, I’ll give you what you want tomorrow.”

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nyoomiin · 1 month

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roommates: part two.

your new roommate is... odd, and recently, so are your dreams. still, despite the secrecy, the mystery, and his ice cold exterior, you have the feeling you'd waltz right into love with him. (maybe you already have before.)

pairing. scaramouche x gn!reader

tags. no warnings, slice of life, fluff, slowburn, friends to lovers, reincarnation au, post irminsul erasure

prev. masterlist. next.

You don’t think your roommate likes you very much.

It’s been a week, and you’ve yet to learn his name. Hell, you’ve barely even caught a glimpse of him since he had slammed the door in your face. He seemed hell-bent on avoiding you — he leaves before dawn, locks himself in his room after dusk, and on the off-chance you do see him, he always avoids your eyes.

Though, you did catch sight of his Vision once. It was but a quick flash, but that angelic glow was unmistakable. You wonder what life he must've lived to have received Celestia's blessings. Certainly not an easy one, for sure. Maybe that was why he was so standoffish.

You harrumph, setting aside your embroidery before you prick yourself out of frustration. It wasn’t as if you had called him ugly or anything. You did the complete opposite. Shouldn’t you be the one dying of mortification instead?

Standing, you were in no mood to sew anymore. You'd finish it another day, then.

“Haitham, when did you start seeing me as a friend?”

You had gone to bother Alhaitham in his office after putting off your sewing. Anyway, that commission was due in two weeks, and you were halfway done, which meant that you still had time.

Alhaitham doesn’t even spare you a glance from his book. “Why do you ask?”

“Y’know my new roommate? I think he thinks I’m weird. But he’s so cute — I want to be on speaking terms, at least.” You wail pitifully, dramatically slumping into your seat. Tugging on his sleeve, you beam in reply when he shoots you his signature deadpan stare.

He sighs.

“You are a good friend, though whether or not you are a good roommate is not my place to judge,” he says, trailing off at the mention of a ‘roommate’, and you just know he’s cursing Kaveh in his mind. “Whatever the case, there is no point in pursuing someone with no interest in you.”

“It worked on you though,” you point out.

You had been classmates with Alhaitham before you dropped out of the Akademiya. The scholarly life just hadn't been your calling, despite your parents’ wishes. Somehow, you managed to bother Haitham into becoming one of your best friends — and you still think you deserve a medal for that.

“And I wonder why myself.”

You scowl, smacking him. Then you hiss, shaking the sting off your palm. Damn his muscles.

“I think he just needs some time to warm up to me. He has a vision, y’know, and when have you seen a normal vision wielder? I couldn’t see if it was a Hydro or Anemo one, though.”

You look at him with wide, hopeful eyes like the delusional person you were. ‘It’s not as if I can stop you,’ his face seems to say. He chuckles, just the slightest. “Good luck.”

And that was that.

( “It is quite uncommon for a person to be reborn with an appearance identical to that of their previous life,” Nahida muses. “Though, it would be best to keep in mind that while they share a soul, without their memories, they are still two different people.”

“You think I don’t know that?” he snaps.

He knew you. Or, the ‘you’ of the past, to be precise. Of course he did — for how could he not? And if you were the person he knew all those years ago, you would’ve recognised him. Yet you didn’t. You looked right at him and didn’t even know him.

“Is this a joke?” he asks, almost snarling the words. “Or a cruel scheme?”

That shitty god giggles. “Look on the brighter side! You could think of it as a second chance. Be it coincidence or fate, to have been reunited with a loved one… Is there truly no happiness in that?”

Happiness? He scoffs. Yea, right. How fucking happy he must be, to be haunted still, by a past he thought he had completely erased.

He smiles at her sharply, dripping with nothing but malice. “I'm overjoyed.” )

taglist. (send an ask to be added.)

@franaby @dragontammerz @ainnofinway @sketcheeee

#—stellaronhvnters.#scaramouche x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact #genshin #did anyone catch the stucky reference or am i js being delulu #also idk why but haitham wld make one of the best best friend characters

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jennaimmortal · 6 months

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Musings on OFMD Season 2

I’m feeling a bit sad today for the OFMD writers. After rewatching S1 & 2 a couple times, it’s become blatantly clear to me that Izzy’s arc this season was a very obvious love letter to both Izzy fans & the great Con O’Neil. Izzy was very clearly written to be an obstacle to Ed’s healing & personal growth, a snare that Ed needed to be freed from, albeit with plenty of nuance hiding under the surface. It would have been much easier for them to kill Izzy off while he was still the toxic, abusive, sadomasochistic terror of S1E10.

Instead of taking the easy route, though, the writers flipped the trope on its head! They utilized every bit of the potential buried beneath Izzy’s super fucked up shell. This season Izzy got

• a fully fleshed out redemption complete with terrible consequences of his 1x10 actions

• a realization of the possibility of another way of thinking & existing that he’d spent all of S1 running from & trying to destroy,

• genuine love & support from his crew mates which he was actually able to accept,

• exploration of the long abandoned softer side of his nature,

• an apology from Ed w/o first offering one of his own,

• a powerful, devastatingly poignant speech that mentally demolished a new nemesis, and finally

• a beautiful, meaningful death in the arms of the man he’d dedicated so much of his life to, known that he was truly loved by him & completely accepting of the fact that Ed’s love was not in the form he’d always hoped for.

It was so much more than we could have hoped for, and was very obviously done in service to the MANY fans that had fallen in love with Izzy even after S1, as well as to give Con a storyline worthy of his immense talent. Considering the face that Izzy was never going to end up becoming the show’s third protagonist, it was more than we could have hoped for!

OFMD has two protagonists, Stede & Ed. All the secondary character narratives that haven’t directly involved Ed and/or Stede have been icing on the cake, but the cake has always been the Gentlebeard love story. I feel like some people forget this, expecting them to treat the secondary characters as if it were an ensemble show instead of a show with leads.

Izzy’s arc really was an amazing gift! The writers gave us this incredible journey for Izzy this season, and what did a disgraceful number of people do? They attacked David directly, insulted the entire show, the writers, & other characters, even wishing actual harm & misery to other characters or even to David himself!

While I know that comparatively speaking, the percentage of show fans who reacted this way was relatively small, it was still an astounding amount of hatred & vitriol thrown at the people who had obviously worked very hard to give Izzy fans something beautiful to hold on to after his inevitable death. Much of the discourse honestly shocked me, considering the fact that OFMD isn’t even an adaptation of another work.

When fans get angry at shows written as adaptations of books, it’s a bit more understandable for them to have extreme reactions. They’ve had certain ideas and headcanons about characters they’ve felt very strongly about for a long time. It can be really jarring & painful when expectations like that aren’t met, the characters or plots are taken in totally different directions, or even excluded entirely.

OFMD, however, is an original creation. This is David Jenkins’s story. These are David Jenkins’s characters. He knows his story, his plotlines, his characters far better than anyone else does because they came from HIS brain! So while we as fans can have our own interpretations & head canons, they are always going to be at risk of being proven totally wrong by the ACTUAL canon.

One of the worst aspects of fandoms, in my opinion, is the way people become so proprietary over the story & characters, insisting that their own interpretations & theories are the only correct ones, which is exactly what happened with Izzy. Fans’ individual & collective interpretations, theories, hopes, & other head canons became concrete & true in their minds. So much so that when the actual story didn’t meet those expectations, so many of them lashed out in some truly unpleasant, sometimes hateful ways.

My only hope is that the rest of the fandom’s love, appreciation, constructive criticism, heartbreak, pain, joy, & excitement has been enough to drown out the deluge of vitriolic comments directed at David & the other writers.

If you stuck with me through this unintentionally long diatribe, thank you! Maybe take a moment to give the writers some comments or replies on social media, showing your love! I know I will!

#our flag means death #ofmd #ed teach #ofmd s2 spoilers #ofmd season 2 #ofmd s2 #ofmd izzy #izzy hands

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sapphire-writes · 11 months

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Thin Ice (modern!HOTD)

pairing: Aegon x Reader & Cregan Stark x Reader

summary: The end of the fall semester is a week away! One game left before winter break, and you decide to send Aegon a message.

rating: 18+ (detailed warning below the cut)

series masterlist

previous chapter ~ Ch. 7: Superstitious ~ next chapter

warnings: p in v, choking, thigh riding, angst, spanking, hair pulling, language

note: hope you enjoy this chapter! don't hate me too much for the angst you know I can't help myself!!

dividers by @firefly-graphics

“I have to go home,” Helaena tells you, dropping her bag and joining you and Sara on the blanket you’ve laid out on the quad.

Sara lowers her sunglasses. The days have turned significantly colder with the end of the semester looming, but today the sun had decided to show itself, leading to many students skipping their afternoon classes to sunbathe on the quad.

“What are you talking about?” Sara asks, eyebrows furrowing together with confusion.

“There’s still a week left before winter break!” you exclaim, motioning to the books you held in your lap.

Finals season. Finals season was killer.

Aegon had passed his midterms. He’d sent you an appreciative text that sent you spiraling and then hadn’t texted you since. It had been a couple of weeks. You were sure he’d reach out, especially after his annoyance at you avoiding him.

But he hadn’t.

You wished it wasn’t eating away at you, but it was. Even when you hung out with Cregan, went on several more dates to dinner, the movies, and ice cream. Your mind constantly wandered back to Aegon.

Bastard.

“My dad’s getting worse,” Helaena admitted, crossing her legs as she sat.

You and Sara exchanged a pained glance. You knew Helaena’s father wasn’t doing well, his health had been steadily declining the past few years. He seemed to be pretty stable the past year, Helaena hadn’t shared any updates.

Aegon hadn’t shared anything with you.

Not that he needed to. What were you even? Friends? Classmates? Lovers? You cringed internally at the thought.

“I wanted to stay for Egg’s last game before winter break,” Helaena said, shaking her head,

“But..I don’t know. I just have a feeling.”

“What kind of feeling?” Sara probed.

Helaena pursed her lips, eyebrows knitting together. She looked past you and Sara as though seeing something far away that the both of you could not see.

“Just like…it may be sooner than I thought,” she tells you both, “and I want to be able to say goodbye.”

“What about Aegon?” you blurt out, unable to stop yourself.

Helaena glances at you, but there’s no suspicion in her eyes even as she takes in the blush blooming on your cheeks.

“He’s in the family group chat,” she tells you, “He sees Mom’s texts. I can’t corral all my brothers, they can come if they want to.”

You nod, pulling your eyes away from her gaze.

“Has he mentioned something?” she asks.

“What?” you answer, “To me? Why would he mention something to me?”

Sara grimaces at the defensiveness of your tone. You can feel sweat beading on the back of your neck.

“You’re his tutor, aren’t you?” she questions.

“We sort of stopped that.”

“Oh,” Helaena says, picking at a loose thread on her jeans, “That’s a shame.”

“Is it?” you ask, “Aegon wasn’t super serious.”

“He was really proud of his midterm, look,” Helaena says grabbing her phone.

She turns the screen to you and you’re greeted by a selfie of Aegon holding the blue test packet up next to his grinning face. His eyes are crinkled with how hard he’s smiling, and his finger points to the B- written in red on the top corner. You can’t stop the smile that tugs at the corner of your lips or the way your heart begins to beat furiously in your chest as you stare at Helaena’s phone.

“He worked really hard,” you tell Helaena, “But my tutoring days are over.”

“Maybe Lydia will help him,” Helaena muses, swiping through her notifications.

You tilt your head, curiosity gnawing at your insides.

“Lydia?” you ask, trying to keep your tone neutral.

Sara flicks her gaze toward you, raising an eyebrow. Helaena hums, still scrolling through her phone. Sara bites her lip, fighting a laugh before making a curious face.

“Are they dating, Hel?” Sara asks, and you widen your eyes at her.

Sara merely shrugs.

“Um, well Egg doesn’t really date, but they’ve been spending a lot of time together since formal,” Helaena tells her, finally glancing up from her phone, “Why do you ask?”

“I’m curious about all the hot men on campus,” Sara says, smiling.

“Gross,” Helaena answers, “Shouldn’t you only be concerned about Jace?”

“I’m very concerned about Jace,” Sara says, placing a hand over her heart, “Concerned about his gorgeous, thick, co-”

“Enough!” Helaena interrupts, covering her ears.

Sara snickers and you rise from the blanket, gathering your things.

“Where are you going?” Sara asks, watching you pack your bag.

“Class.”

You head out, leaving your friends on the quad without saying another word, stomach churning at the thought of Aegon and Lydia.

You don’t see Aegon as you’re sitting with Sara in the bleachers before the game. Both of you are clad in Cregan and Jace’s jerseys.

It’s tradition, the last game before winter break, the end of the first half of the season.

“You’re dating the goalie, you wear his jersey,” Brandon Karstark had told you.

“Silly superstition,” Arryx argued.

“It’s not like she’s his girlfriend,” Reese Bolton had said.

It was true. You and Cregan had been on several dates and made out in his car, but you hadn’t gone any further. In any way.

“Doesn’t matter,” John Umber told his friend, “She still has to wear it.”

I see you at another game in his jersey, I’m fucking you in it.

When the team comes onto the ice, the crowd roars, the sound of cheers almost deafening. You watch the team do a lap around the ice, Cregan sparing you a wave, and the flash of a smile, Jace close on his tail. You spot Aegon, he’s hard to miss, at least to you.

I see you at another game in his jersey, I’m fucking you in it.

His threat lingers in your mind, sending an ache between your thighs. When he looks up at the stands, his violet eyes meet yours. You cross your arms over your chest, trying to make sure your face doesn’t give away any of the mixed emotions you’re feeling.

Aegon drags his eyes down your face to your chest, drinking in the outfit you’re wearing. You dressed it up, the jersey falling right to the middle of your thighs completely covering the biker shorts you paired underneath. Fishnet tights decorate the rest of your legs and Aegon’s gaze hungrily follows the pattern down to your ankles.

As he brings his eyes back up to meet yours, you can feel your cheeks burning. Aegon grins, showing all his perfect, pearly white teeth, cocking his head to the side. No words are exchanged between you, but you understand what that look conveys.

You fucked around, you’re about to find out.

Naturally, after the team wins they head to the hockey house. You’d hoped to cling to Cregan at the party to avoid Aegon, but your plan came crashing down in the last five minutes of the game. A fight broke out on the ice leading to a broken nose and Cregan headed to the ER.

He insisted you not wait around for him.

“These things take hours,” he told you, voice muffled from the soaked rag pressed against his face, “Seriously, not the first time not the last. Don’t waste your night in the ER.”

So you ended up clinging to Sara instead, effectively cockblocking your best friend to her dismay.

“Where are you going?” you ask Sara, as she heads upstairs.

“I’m just running to Jace’s room, will you chill?” she tells you, “Aegon is nowhere to be found. You’re good.”

“Sara,” you begin, but trail off.

What are you supposed to say? Aegon threatened to fuck you, and you went and poked the bear?

“Relax,” Sara tells you, “I’m going to grab my coat, grab Jace, and then we can go back to the apartment.”

“Promise?” you ask.

“Give me five minutes,” she says and disappears upstairs.

Five minutes go by.

Then ten.

Then fifteen.

You text her several times. Nothing.

“This fucking whore,” you mutter, heading up the stairs.

You’re not sure which room is Jace’s. Last time you were in the hockey house you were wasted before you passed out in Aegon’s bed. You try the first door. Locked. You bang on it for a moment, hearing only giggles, none of which sound like Sara. You move down the hall.

An empty room, a bathroom, two girls who throw a shoe at you when you interrupt their rendezvous. And then a silver-haired boy, sat on a small couch next to his bed, violet eyes meeting yours when you open the door.

Aegon.

Shit.

“Hey bunny,” he says casually, closing the book on his lap, and tossing it onto a side table.

He leans back, arms spread over the back of the couch. He’s freshly showered, hair still slick with water, droplets falling onto the white t-shirt he wears. He grins at you, eyes falling to Cregan’s jersey you’re still wearing.

“I’m looking for Sara,” you tell him, going to close the door.

“Funny you should say that,” he says, standing suddenly.

You frown, trying to avoid glancing down, instead focusing on the dark black of his pupils.

“Why?” you ask.

Aegon walks toward you, slowly, like a lion stalking its prey. He makes his way in front of you, reaching behind you and pressing the door shut. He’s so close you can feel his breath on your cheek, feel the warmth from his chest.

“I think she’s preoccupied,” he tells you, grimacing.

“Do you and Jace have telepathically communicate?” you ask, frustrated, “Seriously? Why is he so okay with your scheming?”

“He’s my bro,” Aegon says, feigning offense.

You roll your eyes.

“Where are they?” you ask.

“Don’t interrupt their fuc-”

“I don’t care if he’s balls deep Egg!” you say loudly, “Where are they?”

“Your apartment, jeez,” he says, laughing at the groan you release, “They left out the back.”

“I’m going to kill her,” you tell him.

“Don’t be mad, bunny,” he says, reaching for your hand.

Aegon laces his fingers through yours, watching them for a moment before bringing his eyes back to your face.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you tell him, but you don’t pull your hand away.

“Like what?” he asks, swaying slightly.

“Like you’re going to fuck me,” you tell him, “Not happening.”

Aegon sinks his teeth into his lower lip.

“If you didn’t want me to fuck you,” he begins, “Why did you wear that?”

Your face flushes as he motions to the jersey.

“I was very clear,” he tells you, “And you’re a very smart girl.”

You swallow as he brings his hand to the collar of the jersey, rubbing the material between the pads of his fingers.

“You just trying to be a tease, bunny?” Aegon asks, eyes roaming down your figure, “Cause you look fucking amazing. You know how hard I was on the ice?”

Your breathing has turned shallow, coming out in short pants.

“You wanna feel how hard you make me?” he asks softly, bringing your hand to his crotch.

You can feel him, hard and wanting, straining against the jeans he’s wearing. Your lips part slightly as he rocks his hips against your hand.

“You want to go?” Aegon asks, “This is your chance.”

He rocks against you again, pressing himself against your hand. You can already feel the heat pooling between your thighs, the dull ache beginning. You stare at him and swallow the lump forming in your throat.

“I don’t want to go,” you breathe and Aegon smiles.

He looks up at you as he begins to sink to his knees. He places a kiss on your stomach, down the tops of your thighs, on your knees, before parting your legs. He drags down your biker shorts, throwing them to a corner of his room.

“I’m going to tear these off with my fucking teeth,” Aegon murmurs, mouthing the fabric of your fishnets, swirling his tongue along the smooth skin of your inner thighs.

You squirm against his mouth as he presses a kiss to your barely clothed core. You grab a fistful of his hair, yanking him away from you suddenly. Aegon looks up at you, the picture of perfection, an angel on his knees for you.

“Get up,” you tell him, and he moves to his feet, his hands never leaving your thighs, traveling over the swell of your hips, up your ribs.

You move his hands off of you, pushing a hand against his chest to push him down onto the couch. He sits, head tilted back watching you as you straddle his lap. Aegon wraps his hands around your waist and you remove them once more.

“No,” you tell him, holding his hands above his head.

You know you must be blushing furiously, you’ve never been this domineering in bed before. Aegon looks up at you as you grind yourself against him, feeling him grow harder beneath you. His jaw is slack, violet eyes are blown black with lust, never leaving your face with every roll of your hips.

You tilt your head to the side. Fake it till you make it, that’s what Sara says. Pretend you’re confident.

“Why should you get to touch me?” you taunt, wetting your lips.

Aegon’s eyes widen slightly, surprised by your sudden dominance. He smirks, a small laugh leaving his perfect lips.

“Oh, you’re so gonna get it,” Aegon says softly, fire in his violet eyes.

He doesn’t stop you though, doesn’t twist his wrists from your grasp.

“No, I don’t think so,” you tell him, “I don’t share with anyone. Got it?”

“There’s no one else,” Aegon answers immediately, “No one but you.”

You tilt your head to the side, a smirk sliding onto your face.

“You’d lie to my face?” you tease, “I know you’ve been seeing Lydia, Hel told me.”

“I’m not seeing Lydia,” Aegon tells you, “Well, I’m not anymore.”

You narrow your eyes at him.

“What about you, hypocrite?” Aegon asks, tilting his chin up at you, “Still walking Cregan like a dog, I see.”

Then he tugs his wrists free, snaking a hand around the back of your neck, pulling you closer so his lips ghost the shell of your ear.

“He fuck you like I do?” he murmurs, pressing a hot kiss below your ear.

Your eyes flutter shut as his free hand moves to grab your ass.

“He make you cum as hard as I do?” he asks, kissing a trail down your neck.

You wet your lips, fingers tangling in his hair pulling him closer.

“Yeah, he does,” you breathe and you can feel Aegon smile against you.

“Fucking dirty little liar,” he says, pressing your lips against his.

The kiss is hungry and desperate; Aegon’s hand holds your neck so you couldn’t move away even if you wanted to. Not that you want to. When Aegon kisses you, you want him to consume you completely.

He slips you almost completely off his lap, so you’re straddling his thigh. Your eyes widen as he presses you down against him.

“C’mon ride it,” he tells you, “I know you know how.”

You meet his eyes and he grins. He fucking knew. Of course, he did.

You roll your hips against him, just like that first night at the hockey house. His hands cup your ass, squeezing and kneading the soft flesh as you grind against him.

“Just like that, there’s my good girl,” he purrs, dragging a hand up your back.

You whimper as he wraps his hand around your throat, squeezing just enough for your air supply to be deliciously depleted. The friction is perfect as his jean-clad thigh presses against your warm center, every roll of your hips sending sparks of pleasure dancing throughout your body.

“You gonna cum? Or do you need an audience like last time?” he teases, referencing the party.

“Fuuuck,” you choke, as Aegon tightens his grip and your curse turns into a high-pitched keen as your orgasm floods through you.

Aegon releases your throat, picking you up and standing, moving to throw you on the bed. He roughly turns you onto your hands and knees. You push onto your forearms as Aegon’s hands move near your center, tearing through the fabric of your fishnets.

“I liked those!” you hiss, feeling him move the lace of your thong out of the way.

You hear him chuckle darkly, hear the zipper of his pants and feel the tip of his fat cock sliding through your slick folds.

“You’ll like this more,” he tells you, “Promise, bunny.”

Then he’s sinking into you and every witty retort you can think of slips from your head. Aegon rocks his hips against yours and your hands clutch the comforter seeking purchase. You grit your teeth, trying to not give him the satisfaction of a moan.

“Oooh, you are mad at me, huh?” Aegon teases, delivering a harsh thrust.

You bite the inside of your cheek, falling from your forearms, cheek pressing against the bed as Aegon continues to pound into you, bringing a hand down to slap your ass. The mark stings and Aegon rubs his hand over it before delivering another blow.

A whimper escapes your lips when he angles his hips just right, the head of his cock bullying into your sweet spot. Your eyes nearly roll back into your head when he leans forward, focusing on the spot he’s located.

“C’mon tell me how good it feels,” Aegon says, snapping his hips.

He brings his hand to the back of your head, pulling you up by your hair.

“Tell me,” he whispers in your ear.

“Fuck,” you moan, unable to help yourself.

“Touch that pretty little clit, right now,” he demands, and you bring your hand between your legs.

You rub nice slow circles around your aching clit, fingertips brushing against Aegon’s cock each time it slides in and out.

“There’s my good girl,” Aegon croons, “Even when she’s mad she listens so well.”

Gods there’s something about his voice, something about the way he talks you through it, it has your back arching, moans and whines spilling from your lips as you’re thrown over the edge once more, cunt spasming around his cock.

Aegon slows his thrusts as you cum, still painfully erect as he pulls out, tapping the side of your ass. You turn around, laying on your back, panting as you look up at him.

He holds his tongue between his teeth, eyes falling to your chest.

“Take that fucking thing off,” he tells you and you move the jersey over your head.

“And that,” he says motioning to your bra.

That lands on the floor as well, leaving you in your ruined fishnets and thong. Aegon climbs on top of you, dragging his mouth across your breasts, stopping to roll your nipples between his teeth and tug on them harshly.

He continues to worship your body with his mouth before he slides himself back into your warm, tight center. You lock your legs around his waist, raising your hips to meet his thrusts.

“Do I fuck better than him?” Aegon asks, “Tell me.”

You meet his eyes then, and you know your facade has faded. Aegon smiles then, showing all his teeth.

“You haven’t even fucked him, have you?” Aegon asks.

You don’t answer, trying to capture his lips in a kiss. Aegon turns his head from your needy lips.

“You are my good girl,” Aegon tells you, sending fire pooling in your belly.

“Yes,” you whimper, “Yes, I am.”

Aegon kisses you then as a reward, slow and sensual as he thrusts deeply into you. He’s so deep inside you, your denials from earlier spill past your lips.

“You fuck me so well,” you whimper, “No one could fuck me like you.”

You know you might regret the confession, but you can’t find it in you to care at the moment.

“I know baby, love fucking you,” he murmurs against your mouth, “God this pussy, fucking made for me.”

“Fuck yes yes right there-!” you whine as he presses himself into you.

Tears blur your vision as your legs begin to tremble with the promise of your third release.

“Oh god, oh fuck-” you squeak as your third orgasm rips through you, Aegon never slowing his merciless pace all the while.

“So fucking good,” Aegon moans as your pussy clenches, milking his cock until you feel him twitching inside you, the warmth of his release painting your inner walls.

He kisses you slowly and passionately, with his cock still nestled deep inside of you. As he pulls out of your warmth he keeps his arms around you, dragging you to lay across his chest. Your breathing returns to normal, your limbs feeling like jelly as you listen to the steady drumming of his heartbeat.

“You can’t have it both ways, you know,” you tell him, not looking into his eyes.

You expect to feel him tense beneath you, to tell you to stop being jealous. Or dramatic. Or not as easygoing as other situationships. Something Jason would say. Something Jason had said to you.

“You can’t get mad at me for seeing Cregan and then go screw Lydia Tyrell,” you continue, nervously chewing on your lip.

You feel Aegon’s hand on the back of your head, smoothing your hair.

“I know,” he tells you, chest rumbling, “I just wanted to see you sweat a little.”

You lift your face, resting your chin on his chest to look at him. He glances down at you, a sly smile on his face.

“What?” he asks.

“You’re not seeing Lydia?” you ask, heart beating erratically.

Aegon shakes his head and you whack him on the chest.

“Ow!” he says, wincing.

“You’re such a dick!” you tell him and he rolls until he’s on top of you.

He presses his lips to yours and the rude words slip from your mind as his tongue caresses your bottom lip. Aegon presses his body against yours, the weight of him against you bringing a fresh way of arousal to your center.

“I’d like to be seeing you,” he murmurs against your mouth.

Your fingers tangle in his hair as he nips your lower lip, eager for him to sheath himself within you once more.

“Helaena is going to kill us,” you tell him, kissing him back nonetheless.

“We don’t have to tell her,” he murmurs between kisses.

You freeze suddenly, pulling your lips from his.

A secret. You’re going to be a secret. That’s almost worse. Shame twists in your gut, and Aegon senses a shift in your mood as you rise, slipping Cregan’s jersey back over your head and your biker shorts back on.

Aegon sits up slightly, cocking his head.

“What?” he asks, but you shake your head.

“Nothing,” you tell him, running a hand through your hair, “I just have to go.”

“Now?” Aegon asks, his voice breaking into a whine, “Y/N, stay with me-”

“No I have to go,” you insist, grabbing your shoes.

Your tights are ruined, hanging on you in tattered pieces but you don’t care. You need to get out, need to leave before the tears blurring your vision spill over.

Aegon’s brow creases, he stands up taking the bedsheet with him, clutching it against his stomach to cover himself.

“Y/N what did I do?” Aegon asks, concern lacing his tone.

You sigh, hand on the door before forcing a smile on your face and turning to him.

“Nothing. You’re just being Aegon,” you tell him, “Forgot who you were for a minute, it’s all good.”

Pain flashes across his features for a moment and a tear escapes your eye. You wipe it away furiously before pulling his bedroom door open.

“I’ll see you around,” you call, not looking back as the dam within you breaks.

You hurry down the stairs and out of the hockey house into the cold night air, hurrying down the quiet streets of your college campus eager to get back to your apartment.

You can’t help but cry, cursing as you pass a group of drunk girls who stop when they see you, insisting you tell them what’s wrong. Finally, you make it home, walking into your dark apartment. You’re greeted by Baela on your couch, who rises as you enter.

“Y/N-” she says, biting her lip.

“Bae? What's wrong?” you ask.

“Helaena called…her dad…” Bae starts, tears falling, “He passed away tonight.”

Your heart nearly stops beating. You dig mindlessly into your purse for your phone, hands shaking.

8 missed calls.

She tried calling you. For the past hour or so. The entire time you were with Aegon. Guilt pours through your limbs and you’re sobbing earnestly now, Baela holding you against her. There’s one more missed call, more recently, just about ten minutes ago.

Aegon.

note: I hope you enjoyed my loves! Again, don't hate me too much for the angst I truly cannot help myself!

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grimoireofhayley · 8 months

Text

Of Friends and Horror

Stu Macher x Fem!Reader x Billy Loomis

WARNINGS: Graphic content, Smut (MINORS DNI), Language, Talks of SA, Cheating, Obsessiveness, Gore, 18+ Content, Stalking, Possessiveness, Dirty talk, Religion talk, Suppressed Mental Health problems (I.e., reader has some issues that she isn't aware of)

Word Count: 1.2k

Taglist: @ev3ningrain @nerdytif @fanfic-enjoyer123 @darkenwolfie @juda-the-simp @colsons-baker @junnniiieee07 @ok-boke @ren-ni @katie-tibo @bruce-yamada @kenma-izhu @cookielovesbook-akie @elevenpurple

A/n: I hope this chapter was just as good as the others, I feel like it was somewhat sloppily done, but I'm not too sure, I'm just so freaking hot in my room, I am sweating bullets and can't think, lmao.

All chapter links!!! 👇🏻👇🏻👇🏻

OF&H Masterlist

Chapter 13

You were sprawled about on Tatum’s spare bed she had in her room, whereas Sidney was tummy-first on her inflatable, seemingly lost in her own thoughts.

“God, I loved it.” Tatum giggled, pulling her blonde hair into a tight ponytail, whilst looking at you, her eyes filled with admiration. “I’ll send you a copy… BAM!” She punched a stuffed bunny that was next to her before picking it up, flinging it all over the place in excitement, “Bitch went down.” She laughed, “The insults had to be my favourite part, though.” She gleamed, tossing the stuffy elsewhere.

You rolled your eyes at her exaggeration, “Tatum, it wasn’t a movie, there shouldn’t be any favourite parts. I punched a person, let alone insulted her outside a police station…”. You sat up from the bed, sitting criss-crossed, propping your arm up on your thigh and resting your chin in the palm of your hand. “I could have been arrested!” You chortled, snorting in the process.

Tatum completely ignored that possibility, her exhilaration being her only muse.

“I’ll send you a copy—BAM! (Y/n), superbitch.” Tatum repeated and in her best you voice she said, “Now, if I were you, I would put that book on hold and shut the fuck up for once.” She placed her hand on her hip, contorting her face into that of someone who was extremely confident.

Your lips formed a thin line, shocked at how she managed to recall the event word-for-word. “I’m actually surprised you were able to remember all that, was it really that impressive?” You quirked a brow, tilting your head, ignoring the sudden pain in your hand.

“Uh, yeah.” She tsk-ed, “I’m certain you’ll be the talk of the school tomorrow.” She giggled. “You’re so cool.” She beamed, batting her lashes.

“I thought you might want some ice for that right hook.” Dewey suddenly appeared in the doorway, tossing you an ice pack.

You caught it with your sore hand, wincing slightly, regretting your instinct to catch it with your dominant one.

“Thanks, Dewey..” You warmly smiled up at him, placing the pack on your knuckles and instant relief was felt.

You laid back down, your head hitting the pillow.

“I’ll be right next door. Try to get some sleep, girls.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Tatum groaned, waving her hand at her older brother, motioning him to leave.

You turned on your side, looking at Sidney and a ping of guilt washed over you, yet again that night.

She was distraught, and she looked uncomfortable, most likely because of the argument you both shared with each other earlier at school, and how you gave her the cold shoulder at the Police Station, silently scolding her for the ridiculousness of believing that her own boyfriend would try to kill her.

You frowned, a wave of gloominess lingering in the air as you let the ice pack fall to the ground.

“Sidney?” You whisper, trying to get her attention.

She shuffles, not wanting to talk, but she soon groans, turning to face you.

“Yeah?” She questions.

“I’m sorry.” You pout, rubbing at your orbs. “I shouldn’t have said those things at school, and I shouldn’t have scolded you at the police station.” You mumbled, “You’re a person; you have feelings and those feelings are valid and they always will be.” You finished.

Sidney’s eyes grew, not sure how to process everything, but she soon smiled, and for once, she didn’t feel like you were the bad guy and that everything will be okay.

“It’s fine, (Y/n). Apology accepted…” She trailed, “Though, you were right, I had no business to go through your journal and call you names when my mother was something else…” She gulped, “I don’t know what got over me… and I am truly sorry.” She twiddles with her thumbs, looking at you with hopeful hues, as if she was begging for your forgiveness, and in ways, she was. Afterall, you did punch a woman for both her sake and yours.

Tatum cheered, glad that her two best friends made up. “Jeez, I’m thankful you both apologized to one another because I was starting to get bummed out in my own home.” She laughs. “On a more serious note…” Tatum changes the subject, her curiosity getting the better of her. “Do you really think Billy did it?”

Sidney’s smile soon faded, “He was there, Tatum..” Her voice trembled.

Tatum rolled her eyes, “He was destined to have a flaw, I knew he was too perfect.” She whined.

Knock… Knock…Knock…

Rapid knocking at Tatum’s bedroom door was heard and this caught everyone's attention.

Tatum looked at the door, seeing it open, revealing her mother, Mrs. Riley, “Telephone, honey.”

“Who is it?” The blonde asks.

“It’s for Sid…”

“Is it my dad?” Sidney popped up from off the floor, looking over yours and Tatum’s bed.

“I don’t think so.”

“Take a message?” You chirped in.

“No, um, I’ll get it.” Sidney looks at you and Tatum, indicating for the both of you to follow her.

“Gotcha..” You mouthed at her, grabbing ahold of Tatum’s hand, forcing her to get up and follow you towards Sidney and the three of you went out the door.

Sidney placed the phone up against her ear, her nerves screaming to be let out, “H-Hello?” She stutters.

“Hello, Sidney.” The killer spoke.

“NO, NO!” She yells, gripping the sides of her head.

You and Tatum rushed to her side, holding her, keeping her from freaking out anymore.

“Poor Billy-boyfriend.”

Sidney quickly placed the phone down, clicking the speaker button, so everyone could hear.

“An innocent guy doesn’t stand a chance with you.”

“Leave me alone!” She yells, starting to hyperventilate.

“DEWEY!” Mrs. Riley rushes off to get her son.

“Looks like you fingered the wrong guy…Again.”

“Who are you?”

“Hang up, Sid.” Tatum ushers her friend as you rubbed her arm, trying to support her.

“Don’t worry, Sidney. You’ll find out soon enough. I promise.” The killer gloats, taking a heavy-breath. “Oh, and (Y/n), Sweetheart, I hope you found the gift a real heart stopper~”

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#fanfiction #scream 1996 #billy loomis #billy loomis x reader #scream franchise #billy x you x stu #stu macher #billy loomis x female reader #billy x stu #ghostface x you #ghostface x female reader

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musings-of-miss-j · 16 days

Text

no rest for the wicked (nor the foolish)

part seven: in which the obscenely wealthy resident makes himself a permanent fixture to your list of problems, even after you find comfort in the normality of Snezhnaya's city (and its firewater)

a harbingers x gn reader series!! (includes dottore, childe, arlecchino and pantalone x reader. the rest of the harbingers will most likely not be romantic interests)

notes: cuz i set fire to the rain but rain won't fucking catch fire fuck's sake (slowburn), gn neutral sarcastic legend sick of ppl's bs reader, slightly suggestive

series masterlist

author's notes: *throws this chapter at u like its crumbs and ur pigeons on the pavement*

reblog the crumbs my pigeons <3

word count: 5134 words

* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚** ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚** ੈ✩‧₊˚*

Snezhnaya was so cold. Bitingly, piercingly, mercilessly cold. But the city was warmer, more welcoming. Despite the icy wasteland surrounding it, the rows of shops and frosted-over streetlights boasted an almost friendly atmosphere, tinny music trickling through the cracks of some of the doors and stalls advertising ‘the greatest hot chocolate ever sold!’. Childe took hold of your hand under the guise of not wanting to lose you when you passed through a particularly busy street, but neglected to let go even after the crowd dispersed. You let him, and dragged him into a cosy bookstore piled high with well-loved stories. He insisted on carrying every book you chose while you browsed, following you through the shelves with hardcovers piled high in his arms, leading the owner of the shop to shoot the two of you a knowing glance you didn’t particularly like. A clothes shop nestled into a corner also caught your eye, and after a pleasant half hour of perusing the finest selection of furs and suits and dresses you’d ever seen you left with a brand new cloak to replace your lost one, black with silver clasps and a fur trim that would have been expensive enough to haunt you for a week or so, if Childe hadn’t sneakily paid for it the moment you picked it up. He led you to the city’s landmarks; the frozen fountains and an ice rink you refused to step onto, and you even let him drag you into a tavern.

“Eleven, please. I’m far from a good drinking partner.” Your protest sounded weak even to your own ears; you were quite curious to try the infamous Snezhnayan firewater, and the tavern was wonderfully warm.

“Don’t shoot it ‘til you’ve tried it,” he cheerfully replied, pulling you through the door by your joined hands and steering you towards a table near the window. The place was rowdier than you’d expected; a bard sang and danced on a tabletop, strumming a ukulele while the clattering of coins hitting the surface melded with the people’s laughter and clapping hands. You were reminded of the irresponsible, green-clad bard from Mondstadt who’d avoided you at every turn yet shone onstage. Before you knew it, you were laughing and knocking back a drink yourself, leaning back in your seat and letting your voice join the cheers and chatter. Childe marvelled at how much more relaxed you were outside of the palace, the tenseness in your shoulders gone and the sceptical furrow between your brows softened, one arm hooked around the back of your chair while you swirled your drink with the other hand.

“Say, Eleven,” you half-yelled to be heard over the ruckus. “What possessed you to join this Archons-forsaken association?”

“Quickest way to become a better fighter.”

You laughed under your breath, downing the rest of your drink. No more for you tonight, that was certain; pleasantly tipsy was one thing but you were far from keen on being flat-out drunk.

“Is that so?” You quipped back, appraising him thoughtfully. “You know, Eleven, I’ve heard some gut-churning things about you,” you mused, leaning forward to rest your elbows on the table. “That you’re a bloodthirsty maniac. A murderous villain. That your only home is the battlefield.”

His breath caught in his throat. Here you were, tearing out any last semblances of goodness he still thought he had and laying them before him, tattered and bleeding. And you did it all with that small, thoughtful smile. The ambience of the tavern flickered like a faulty speaker, his ears filling with anxious static.

“I think you’re more than half-decent, though.” Alcohol certainly loosened tongues. The cacophony of the bar came rushing back.

You stacked a few coins on the table to pay for your drink, heedless of the relief coursing through his veins like the most potent drug. You knew. He didn’t know how, but you knew about the savagery lurking so near to the surface of the charm that had once come so naturally to him but now took an effort to maintain, and you didn’t hate him for it. More than half-decent. You might as well have called him a prince. He felt giddy, drunk on your praise.

Breaking out of his trance, he firmly pushed your mora back in your direction and paid for the drinks himself despite your objections. You bickered over the matter the entire trek back to the palace, settling into the easy familiarity of squabbling back and forth with him. He accompanied you to the dining hall, too, claiming he had nothing to do at all even though Pierro was getting impatient at the lack of progress he’d made on tracking the Geo Gnosis; after all, what significance did godhood hold compared to you and the divine splendour of your laughter?

You found Arlie idling just outside. Preposterous, that she’d be reduced to dawdling around in hopes to see you, but there she was nonetheless, with the last plate of your favourite dessert that she’d snagged before a poor recruit could get his hands on it to boot. All damning evidence of her budding affection. Pleasantly surprised to see her, you made to introduce her to Childe.

“Oh, Arlie! I didn’t expect to see you today.”

She and Childe’s gazes met over the top of your head, the latter stupefied at seeing one of the most high-ranking Harbingers being referred to so casually, and by you, upholder of titles, no less, while the former shot him a formidable glare that warned him to hold his tongue lest she rip it out for him. She nodded shortly at your introduction.

“Childe and I are familiar.”

You hummed and pursed your lips. Surely this was ample confirmation that she was a Harbinger.

“Lovely, we’re all friends here then,” you said with just a touch of sardonic humour. “Why don’t we take lunch together?” You suggested, mostly as a way to further observe their dynamic and gather more evidence to support your theory. Arlie handed you the plate without ceremony.

“I’ve already had lunch, but I’d be happy to accompany you.” Even if she found Childe exuberantly foolish.

“I could eat,” Childe seconded, slinging an arm around your shoulders, not missing the way you beamed at her little gift.

Thus you found yourself seated under a gazebo in the palace gardens, pointedly ignoring the strained tension between your two companions while you admired the snow you’d once lamented and contentedly ate the berries from your pavlova. What a funny situation. You weren’t quite sure how you’d ended up befriending two higher-ups from a supposedly dangerous organisation and willingly spending time in their company over a plate of such exquisite dessert, but you supposed life had a way of being funny like that.

“Do enlighten me as to how the two of you know each other,” you said, waving your spoon vaguely. They let an ear-splitting silence fall, tense and rigid. You pointedly ignored the on-edge atmosphere, taking another bite of your pavlova.

“Well?” You prompted.

Childe clenched his teeth momentarily. “We were assigned on the same mission this reconnaissance cycle.” Arlie offered a non-committal hum of agreement.

“Interesting. And why is it that you seem on the verge of lunging at each other with the intent of causing as much bodily harm as possible?” You asked in a deceptively innocent tone. Childe wished you weren’t so clever sometimes, while Arlie turned her head away to hide her smile.

“Enough about us,” she interjected, leaning forward slightly to adjust the insignia you had pinned to the shoulder of your new cloak. “Tell me how you liked the city.”

“Snezhnayan firewater certainly lives up to its reputation for being extremely potent,” you replied with a shrug, setting aside your empty plate. “And Lord Eleven has similarly scandalous reputation outside the palace,” you added slyly, just to push his buttons. A bit of payback for not telling the truth about how he knew Arlie.

He choked on air. “What?”

Arlie raised an eyebrow. “What, indeed. Care to explain, Childe?”

“Not really,” he responded airily, tugging at his collar and clearing his throat. One advantage of Arlecchino being disguised like this was that he could somewhat safely dodge her authority under the guise of protecting her alibi.

Childe was saved from describing the reason for his less-than-ideal reputation when a young recruit, barely eighteen from the looks of it, came marching hurriedly towards you. Apparently the Director of the Harbingers himself was requesting Childe’s presence, and he left with more than a little reluctance and a wave goodbye. Arlie watched him rush off and allowed herself a moment’s satisfaction at the timely intervention. You touched her shoulder to catch her attention again, a small leather box in hand.

“I bought you something from the city,” you said, offering it to her. She stared at it in silence for so long you feared you might have offended her, when really her mind was spinning with the implications of you buying her a gift.

You swallowed nervously. She still hadn’t accepted the gift from your outstretched hand, staring blankly at the little box.

“Do you not want it?”

“I do,” she all but snapped, finally taking it. “I was… surprised, is all.”

A four-leafed brooch lay inside, gleaming black metal inlaid with red gemstones that glittered as they caught the light.

Her silence left you a little nervous, and you found yourself rambling uncharacteristically to fill it. “The merchant was adamant that it’s crafted entirely from the finest silver, but I didn’t test it in the lab yet. But I can confirm that the jewels have a purity of at least seventy five percent, and it’ll fetch a handsome bit of mora if you choose to sell it”-

“Thank you. It’s…” Stunning? Lovely? Beautiful? Arlecchino was truly at a loss for words, and fought not to stare at you. What a warming thought, that you’d spotted a little trinket and your mind had conjured her as a recipient for a gift. How lovely, to think that she occupied your thoughts enough to become a regular visitor. “It’s exceptionally well-made.”

You beamed. “I’m glad to hear that. You seem to prefer black and white clothing, I think the red will serve as a striking contrast.”

“Indeed,” she agreed mechanically, offering you the barest hint of a smile. You could tell her the sun rose in the west and paper was inflammable and she’d probably agree at that moment. A part of her despised how much power that gave you. You took out your pocket watch.

“Ah, perhaps we should go back inside,” you suggested, rising from the bench and brushing away the layer of snow on your shoulders. “According to my observations, the temperature drops quite rapidly at around this time, and I have a few letters to write.”

Arlie quickly excused herself once inside the palace (to ruminate alone over her gift), leaving you to take a pile of your best parchment and a pot of your smoothest, most pigmented ink to the Regrator’s library. It took a moment of fumbling with your stationery to kneel and get the door open, but the sight within was as rewarding as it had been the last time you stumbled upon the place; bathed in the late afternoon’s pale golden light, the fire crackling merrily and glinting off the silver etched into the bookshelves, chairs comfortable and inviting. You gladly dropped into one of them, sighing contentedly as the plush leather enveloped you, and began penning addresses onto envelopes with magnificent blue and purple quill you’d received from your friends as a graduation gift. You still didn’t know where such a large, vibrantly coloured feather could have come from.

Sumeru – Sumeru City – The Akademiya – Scribe Alhaitham

Mondstadt – Mondstadt City – Mona Megistus

Inazuma – Watatsumi Island – Sangonomiya Kokomi

Liyue – Wangsheng Funeral Parlour – Director Hu Tao

Fontaine – Opera Epiclese – Duellist Clorinde

With some reluctance, you also marked an envelope Inazuma, Narukami Shrine for Yae Miko. The contract you’d signed all those years ago to provide her publishing house with what she called ‘light novels’ would never end.

How far-flung your friends seemed, scattered throughout Teyvat with seemingly no rhyme or reason. Maybe you’d take to travelling again once your diploma was finished, a vacation of sorts to see everyone … You filed that thought away for later contemplation.

For a while, the only sounds in the library were the scratching of your quill on parchment, the slight rattling of the stained glass windows as the late afternoon breeze whooshed by and… faint talking? You frowned slightly, glancing up from your writing. Two voices, vaguely familiar and gradually rising in volume; an argument, then. How irritating. You ignored it for as long as you could, until the shouting was clearly decipherable and loud enough to make your quill pause every few sentences to rearrange your thoughts (you and Lisa’s correspondence was mainly in the form of original poetry, and the distraction was making it even more difficult to find a rhyme for ‘Harbinger’.) The noise grew unbearable, and with an aggravated huff you left your things laying on the armchair to ascertain the source and perhaps ask them to quiet down.

Honestly. People’s utter disregard for a library’s rules is intolerable.

After spending some time weaving through the towering bookshelves and past iced-over windows, angry voices growing louder and louder, you finally located the culprits.

It seemed you wouldn’t be asking anyone to quiet down, considering the argument was between Signora and the Regrator. Just your luck, really. Resigned to sealing the envelopes and finalising the calculations of your lab report back at the dorm, you turned to leave only for them to fall silent.

“(Name?)”

You cursed under your breath and pivoted on your heel to face the mortifying situation you’d found yourself in.

“My lord, my lady,” you managed after a strained moment of trying to collect yourself. “I heard shouting”- Signora and the Regrator shot each other a heated glare- “and thought it might be wise to investigate.” You conveniently left out the part where you’d gotten so riled up that you were quite prepared to admonish whoever it was. They didn’t need to know that.

“Nothing to worry about,” the Regrator assured smoothly, brushing invisible dust off his shoulders. He wore velvet today, supple and sophisticated, while Signora sported a lavish fur collar that she angrily swept back around her neck. You had to admit her elegance indisputably came naturally to her; even with her face twisted into a frown and no one to impress, she still radiated an effortless air of refinement and superiority.

The Regrator was different. Those endless eyes, that deliberate half-smile, his tasteful-bordering on-excessive attire, the guarded disposition… all of it hinted at a man who’d started low and clawed his way to the top. You were willing to bet he still had the blood under his fingernails to prove it, and wondered if it haunted him at all. There wasn’t any hint of remorse in his polished smile or fathomless eyes. An apprehensive shiver ran up your spine, and you averted your gaze.

“If you’ll excuse me”-

“No, no. Sit down, little one, we could use a mediator,” Signora cut in, gesturing towards an empty chair with a tilt of her head, never once breaking the intense glare she pointed at the Regrator. You sighed, thinking of your yet-to-be-delivered letters and the lab report that still needed writing.

“As much as I’d love to act as the referee for your dispute”- the Regrator had to suppress a genuine laugh at your carefully derisive wording, while Signora let an imperceptible, fond smile take over her face- “I’m afraid I have some rather urgent matters to attend to.”

“Surely not so urgent that you’d risk upsetting us?”

How he managed to sound so innocent yet sly was beyond you. The mischievous slant of his lips betrayed the true intention behind his deceptively benign tone; to embarrass its recipient for his own entertainment. Not to mention how breaching etiquette felt akin to throwing yourself to the sharks when it came to him. Something about the Regrator exuded propriety and demanded a similar demeanour to be maintained, unlike the rest of the Harbingers around whom a certain degree of sarcasm could safely be upheld; Childe could even be described as friendly, and despite the Doctor’s terrible reputation and a justifiable ego thanks to his unparalleled intellect your mutual inclination towards scientific progress made him more approachable, while Signora had yet to berate you for any lapse in politeness, instead regarding you with a sharp smile and an air of superiority that made it quite clear to you that she found you funny. Demeaning, really.

Still, your current problem was how to escape the cage of social obligation Regrator had managed to weave.

“I’m afraid so, Lord Regrator,” you confirmed drily, offering him and Signora a shallow bow. “Here’s to hoping your dispute comes to a swift and satisfying end.”

You moved to leave, gladdened by your evidently inoffensive departure. He couldn’t have that, of course; you’d caught his interest and he’d decided to indulge in his curiosity.

“Allow me to join you,” he proposed, falling into step next to you. Signora let out a very audible tsk. You couldn’t help but agree with her.

“I really don’t think that’ll be necessary”-

“Many of the best things in life aren’t,” he responded, guiding you towards the door with a hand on your back. Annoyed by him trying to steer you, you sped up and went to collect the letters; the Regrator, undeterred by how you’d shrugged away his touch, took the stack of envelopes from you. Wary of accepting any help from a Harbinger, you attempted to retrieve them with an array of pleasantries such as ‘there’s really no need, I can carry them myself’ and ‘you’re really too kind’.

To no avail; in the end, he even managed to nick your satchel right off your shoulder and carry it the entire way back to your dorm, much to your embarrassment. You supposed it was only polite to invite him inside, not that you’d expected him to graciously accept your invitation and make himself comfortable in the armchair across the fireplace. You didn’t miss the way his fingers traced the patches of embroidery you’d painstakingly made along the seams, rows of tiny colourful flowers stitched for the purpose of improving your dexterity before a particularly finicky experiment and maybe even to leave a mark of your stay here; the fact he’d noticed them at all indicated an impressive attention to detail that made you wonder what else might stand out to him about your living space. Perhaps he found your accommodations excessively modest. The thought amused you no end; a rich boy out of his depth would never not be funny, after all. He seemed utterly at ease, though, content to watch you shed your new cloak and pick out leaves and cups for tea without any conversation, those dark eyes following your every move.

“You’re staring quite intently, my lord,” you remarked, handing him a cup of tea and wrapping your gloved fingers around your own.

“Beauty should be appreciated, no?”

You laughed under your breath, hoping you weren’t blushing at such a clichéd line. “I suppose I walked into that one,” you conceded, resting your weight against the edge of your desk and wondering how best to broach the topic of why he accepted your invitation to come inside. He smiled and lifted the teacup to his lips, as if aware of your internal dilemma. You cursed every aspect of his polished personality for making you feel like you had to be especially polite.

“Is the tea to your liking?”

“Delectable,” he assured. That vexing half-smile on his face was starting to get on your nerves; it was as though he was contemplating something awfully hilarious about your countenance that you weren’t aware of.

You offered him a nod of acknowledgement, turning to sort through the pages upon pages of calculations you’d made for your next experiment. It pertained to the various elemental crystals that apparently gave Vision holders extra power; a relatively recent discovery you’d made in your last year at the Akademiya and one you were quite proud of. It still needed further testing before you could guarantee the benefits of using them and how to do so, but the theoretical efficiency you’d calculated was very high at a whopping ninety-four point seven per cent. You really were quite proud of this potential breakthrough, and were excited to share it with the Doctor, someone who’d appreciate the complexities of an experiment even before it came to fruition. Maybe you’d gift Childe a gemstone of the Varunada Lazurite variety after the testing stage was concluded, since he was so incessantly obsessed with improving his combat prowess. You doubted Arlie’s illusionary magic would benefit from such a crystal, though. It didn’t quite shock you as much as it should’ve that you were so casually thinking of gifting a Harbinger something, as though you were friends. Perhaps you did consider them friends. Your brows furrowed infinitesimally. How bizarre.

The Regrator interrupted your musings with a slight laugh.

“I must know what’s on your mind to have such a puzzled expression cross your face.”

Embarrassed by his scrutiny, you cleared your throat and neatly stacked your paperwork into the wooden case to avoid looking at those eyes.

“Nothing at all,” you insisted. “Just my research.”

It was becoming a familiar lie.

“Well then, do enlighten me,” he said, peering up at you over his glasses. You paused in the act of rewriting a horribly complex chemical equation with the correct stoichiometric ratios. You couldn’t believeyou’d made such a foolish mistake, and you grimaced at the thought of the ridicule you would’ve no doubt received from the Doctor if you ended up submitting it.

“I doubt it’ll be of much interest to you, my lord.”

“I suspect I may surprise you yet,” he replied, gazing up at you expectantly.

You drummed your fingers against the wooden surface of your desk, deep in thought. From your perspective, common sense dictated that you should not under any circumstances share the details of your research lest someone apply for a patent of the invention before you, and thus take all the credit for the discovery. You suppressed a shudder of revulsion at the thought. No, the Regrator was not to be trusted with the minutiae of your research.

Celestia’s sake, he’s a banker. He’s not to be trusted, period!

You turned to face him, the beginnings of an idea just barely discernible in the quirk of your brows, the smile on your lips that was a little too devious to be written off as merely polite.

“Why not enlighten me with details about your work instead?”

You sly little trickster.

He surveyed you with a half-smile not unlike the one on your own face, impressed by your deflection.

“Hm. Seems we’ve hit an impasse,” he remarked, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back in the armchair, the picture of immovable and infuriatingly self-assured calm. A side effect of being rich, you supposed, watching him get comfortable with mental sigh. You’d hoped he’d be on his way soon; evidently that would not be the case. “We’re both unwilling to part with the secrets of our trade.”

“Yes, quite,” you agreed with a laugh you couldn’t suppress. It was amusing to think that the Regrator, a man who obviously dealt in meticulously worded phrases with a penchant for hiding his true intentions behind walls of elegance, was being forced to get straight to the point with no purposeful stalling whatsoever. Because of you, no less. Oddly enough, he found himself not quite as incensed as he would’ve expected at being the subject of your hilarity. Perhaps that had something to do with how agreeable mirth looked on you, softening the ever-present suspicion even if only for a moment.

What an interesting little thing you were turning out to be.

He watched as your eyes began to wander in the silence that followed, first to your window and the glowing flowers sprouting from the cracks around it, then to the fire in the hearth where it lingered for a little longer, along the walls, tracing the silver lines engraved on them, before finally resting on his hand. He wondered which of his many rings you were so fixated on.

“Perhaps we should both retire for the night, my lord,” you suggested, tearing your gaze away from the diamond ring you were still quite interested in testing. He raised his eyebrows, his smile turning devious.

“What, together? I didn’t think you were so forward, (Name.)”

You almost wished his insinuation was lost on you. It wasn’t, tragically, and you had to contend with the mortifying ordeal of flushing crimson and briefly debating on whether to say the first thing that came to mind, if nothing else to rile him up as much as he did you (‘Well, I wouldn’t oppose to the idea unless you did.’)

Damned banker and his damned dirty mind…

His fingers were still running over your little garden of embroidered flowers, eyes crinkling ever so slightly at the corners from the wideness of his smile. Abandoning any semblance of courtesy, you opened the door and gestured pointedly at him to leave. Your fear of the Harbingers seemed inconsequential compared to the sheer magnitude of the frustration they caused you. You could only maintain a façade of perfect grace for so long, after all.

“With all due respect, my lord”- (how wonderful you sounded without anything to filter your opinion of him in that moment. Even if said opinion was decidedly negative) – “I’d like you to leave. You’re disturbing me. And there’s a cursed redox apparatus I need to wake up at an ungodly hour to check on.” You muttered the last part testily under your breath, dragging a hand down your face and lamenting the fact you hadn’t waited until later to set it up.

“Come, now. Surely you won’t just kick me out like this?” Regrator implored, sounding more relaxed than upset. “The night is young. Let us at least have a proper conversation.”

How you longed to understand why he insisted on pestering you. Surely he had better things to do. Although, you mused to yourself as you openly sized him up, maybe he’ll leave if I talk to him. Just for a while.

“What would you have us speak of?” You asked wryly, folding your legs to perch cross-legged on your desk chair. “It doesn’t seem likely that we’ll find a shared topic of interest.”

“Why ever not?” He returned, raising his eyebrows. “Do you have such a negative impression of me that you think I can’t keep up with you in conversation?”

“Of course not. I never implied that, my lord.”

He laughed at your swift denial. Clearly you were still apprehensive of his status as a Harbinger, not that he blamed you.

“I hear you’ve received an invitation to the annual gala.”

Your face contorted at the reminder, brows drawing inwards and a frown tugging your lips further away from a smile as your jaw tensed.

“Ah, yes. I’d almost forgotten about that. Lady Eight was so kind as to invite me.” Your real meaning was clear despite the unwavering civility of your words: Lady Eight could very well eat her left shoe. Beautiful women can really get away with anything, you mused to yourself.

“Yet you seem less than overjoyed by the situation,” he remarked, sliding one of his rings up and down his finger as he watched you.

With a sigh, you rested your elbows on your knees and your chin in your hands, proper posture be damned to the lowest ring of hell. “It’s just not my scene, I suppose.”

“Uncomfortable with large crowds of people?”

You scowled at the floor in response to his mocking tone. “Displeased by the public’s general idiocy, more like,” you muttered under your breath, hating the Regrator just a little more for coaxing you into revealing your weakness then taunting you for it.

The Regrator was beginning to think that he enjoyed your scorn even more than your artificial flattery. He’d be hard-pressed to think of a more artful way ridicule his opponent in a verbal altercation without being too direct and ruining the element of subtlety he so valued.

“But you’ll still be attending, no?”

“Unless divine intervention occurs for the first time in this century, yes, I will.”

“Good, good,” he all but purred, relaxing even further back in the armchair. You glowered at the floor. Your armchair. That he was sitting in. He effectively snapped you out of your trance of gradually building wrath with his next question.

“Would you do me the honour of a dance, when the gala does roll around?”

It took a moment of unconvinced staring for you to realise that he was, in fact, being serious.

“If you insist, my lord.” You were confident in your ability to sneak off and prevent such a thing from ever happening, in the unlikely scenario that he even remembered. He smiled entirely too cunningly for your liking, as though he knew exactly what you were planning. You shook off the feeling, rising to your feet when he did the same and throwing a mental celebration when he made his way to the door.

“Let’s not make this our last conversation,” were his parting words before he left. You consoled yourself with the fact that speaking to the Regrator was intellectually stimulating if nothing else, what with having to constantly dodge his questions and avoid offending him too much while making sure your own pride didn’t end up bruised. A raven warbled outside your window, and you cracked the window open despite the sigh of frigid air that sneaked its way into the room to feed it.

“Hello there, pretty,” you murmured, scattering an array of seeds and nuts across the windowsill and watching as the raven, one of the flock you’d so tenuously befriended, hopped across the stone and pecked at your offerings. You hadn’t expected them to be so open to human interaction, but the ravens were quite comfortable with waking you at dawn with their incessant squawking and arriving at your window in a flurry of black feathers to demand more food. You liked them, with all their melancholy glory and sharp little eyes and the symbolism of death they were so often associated with. There were worse visitors clad in ebony to have, you decided, an image of the Regrator appearing in your mind’s eye.

* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚** ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚** ੈ✩‧₊˚*

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strawbeerossi · 11 months

Text

Daydreaming || 1/3 ||

Part two || Part three

Pairing: Fem!reader x Aaron Hotchner

Description: When Jack makes a new friend at school, Aaron is happy to listen to all the stories his son shares about their days together. At another child's birthday party, Aaron gets to meet him as well as his mother.

Content Warnings: Fluffy fluff fluff with a pinch of angst, Jack and Finn are happy to tell all of their parents' business, the two boys try to play matchmaker, reader is a widow, mention of parental death, mention of unspecified illness, mentions of guilt, smiley Aaron (!!!)

Word Count: 1.6K

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My first Aaron fic! Y'all let me know what you think! I'm considering making this a series depending on y'all's thoughts!

Aaron had heard enough about Jack’s new little friend Finn Y/L/N to write a book, it seemed. He liked dinosaurs, liked to read picture books, and he was great at making pretend food. The father loved hearing the tales his son would come home with from a busy day at school. It started with him talking about his day, giving his father all his graded papers for the day, and he had to read for twenty minutes for his reading log.

After that, he was more than happy to gush about his day with all his friends, Finn being the newest and most exciting. It seemed like they got along well, lord knows he got enough notes from Jack’s teacher about his talking and joking while he was supposed to be paying attention.

Aaron hadn’t met the little boy until Jack was playing with him on the school playground when he was coming to surprise him by picking him up early after a gruelling case.

The cases with children always made him hug his son a little tighter, so this wasn’t too out of left field. He could remember a little blonde boy hurrying behind Jack to the fence, the little boy already seeing his father from the parking lot that was next to the playground.

“That’s my daddy!” Jack gushed, the seven-year-old letting his small hand poke through the fence to point Aaron out. Finn looked like a cheerful kid, waving quickly at the black-haired man who couldn’t help but smile as he noticed his son’s excitement. “Hi, Jack’s daddy.” The blonde greeted, his hand opening and closing in the sweet form of a smaller child’s wave.

“My name is Finn.” He spoke confidently, a beaming smile on his face with dimples making their grand appearance. “Are you really a superhero? My mommy says that my daddy was one too!” He spoke, head tilting to the side.

Was.

Before he could answer, the boys’ teacher had already caught notice of the familiar father. “Hello, Mr. Hotchner!” She spoke, greeting the father. The older woman offered a content smile. “Nice to see you. Jack, buddy, go get your things. Finn, come play, honey. Your mom should be here soon.” She mused, watching the blonde wave at Aaron again before he was rushing off.

That afternoon, he was taking Jack to get ice cream while sitting across from him. “Hey, buddy..” Aaron began, now curiosity taking over him. “What does Finn’s dad do?” The words came out a little softer. Jack knew about death, being familiar after losing his own mother at such a young age.

“Well, he said that his daddy used to drive a firetruck.” Jack responded, dipping his spoon in his ice cream before putting it in his mouth. “But he got sick one day, and he died.” The bluntness of children was something to behold. “He was a little baby so he can’t remember.” He added soon after.

After the encounter with the older male, Finn was opening up to Jack more in school about his own father, telling him stories that he’d heard from his mother at some point.

Talking about the death of his father also prompted Jack to open up about his deceased mother as well. They spent a lot of time sharing stories from either their surviving parents, or even sneaking pictures to show one another on the playground.

As the days turned into weeks, it wasn’t long until the first child in their class was having a birthday party. Aaron made it a point to take the day off for that, mainly because his son was over the moon since Finn had already told him at school that he was going. Jack had dragged Aaron around the store for what felt like hours, the two looking at suitable gifts for the birthday girl and even a nice card that they signed.

Jack was holding the gift bag in his hand, proudly walking alongside his father up the driveway while his other hand was safely held by Aaron. “Come on, daddy.” He began, quickly hurrying to the front door, having to stand on the tips of his toes so he could ring the doorbell. The father behind the door looked cheerful enough, despite the house being full of children who were already excited enough, the sugar later going to make them bounce off the walls more.

As the party was moving to the backyard, it wasn’t long until quite a few parents were already talking amongst each other. Aaron felt strange, if he was honest. He couldn’t put his finger on why exactly. “Sorry we’re late.” There was a woman’s voice sounding through the other side of the fence, unlatching it before making her way inside with a smile, Finn by her side as he was quickly running to join the party.

The woman in question was captivating, a smile on her face as she was carrying a gift bag on one arm, leaning down to hug the birthday girl with the other. So she was a parent who was involved. Aaron wished that he could have the luxury of knowing everyone in the class, already being familiar with his son’s friends.

“Daddy!” The word pulled Aaron from his thoughts as he was turning to look at his son, a smile on his face. “What’s up, Jack?” He asked, now kneeling down to get on his son’s level. “That’s Finn’s mommy.” The child whispered, stating what Aaron had already pieced together. “We should go say hi.” He spoke, which Finn had already gotten his mother’s attention as his hand was tightly holding onto hers as he was happily tugging her behind him.

The minute that the two parents were finally brought face to face, both of their son’s looked more than satisfied. “Hi, you must be Mr. Hotchner. I’m Y/N, Finn’s mom. It’s very nice to meet you.” The woman offered a smile as she was holding her hand out for him to shake.

“He’s a superhero.” Jack spoke up, making the two parents laugh. “Is that so? Well, are you Spider-Man or Batman?” Y/N asked, a wide smile gracing her features while Aaron just couldn’t help but match that smile.

She was beautiful.

“She has a crush on Spider-Man.” Finn cut in, looking up at Aaron as if to signal for him to say that.

Were these two little shits trying to play matchmaker?

“Unfortunately, I’m only an agent with the Behavioral Analysis Unit.” Aaron responded with a chuckle, much to their sons’ dismay. “Oh, with the FBI.” Y/N recognized the name while offering a smile. “I write for the paper. I’ve written so many articles about your team and the good that you all do.” She confirmed, a smile on her face.

“I’ve spoken to Jennifer Jareau on several occasions as well when it comes to pushing out stories in order to help you all catch the local people you catch.”

She was surprised she didn’t recognize who he was, however it made sense considering she didn’t come face to face with the team too much, only speaking with the communications liaison when she was needed.

The two boys were facing one another before shrugging, slowly growing bored of the adult conversation before they were heading off to go play with their friends. “I’ve heard a lot about Jack. He’s such a sweet boy.” Y/N smiled. “I was worried about Finn starting at this new school. He was going to a smaller, more private institution last year but.. He just wasn’t happy there any longer and I know I’d hate to be stuck somewhere that I don’t like.”

Aaron smiled while nodding along with her words, giving her his full attention since their children were off playing. “Yeah, Jack was telling me about that. He told me something about a teacher there who wasn’t so nice.” Aaron added on to the conversation, making the mother nod. “You’ve got no idea. I don’t know why she bullied a six-year-old but.. Mama put an end to that fast.” Y/N shook her head as her hands were in her pockets.

“I don’t mean to come across as rude for putting my nose in things that aren’t my business,” Aaron spoke while he was looking at the woman in front of him. “But how do you do it? How do you make being a single parent look so easy?” He asked, making Y/N offer a small smile.

“I’ve been a single parent for a long time. To be honest with you, I used to feel selfish for getting pregnant even though I knew my husband at the time wasn’t going to survive what he was going through.” She admitted. “I make it look easy but I can promise, it never gets easier.” She said softly.

“I um.. I heard about your wife from Finn. I truly am sorry, even if it was a while ago. I know it’s hard losing the one person who you thought would be around much longer.” Her words were soft, a small smile on her face. “And I hope you know that you are doing a really good job. I know your life is busy and your career can be a headache but that little boy loves you. He looks at you like you’ve hung the moon.”

It was something he needed to hear, something that Aaron appreciated. They had a deep understanding of one another in that aspect, the knowledge that there is hope of moving forward after tragedy. It was a long road but they both handled it like pros.

“After the party, me and Finn were going to go get some lunch and have a little picnic in the park, if you and Jack want to join us. I think that he would be absolutely over the moon to invite you both.” Y/N spoke, which there was now a smile gracing Aaron’s features once more as he was looking back to his son.

“We’d love to.”

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 10 months

Text

Comet Donati [Chapter 4: Temporary Fix]

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

Chapter Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+), drugs, alcohol, smoking, crepes, mental health struggles, the Cookie Monster pajama pants are removed...😏

Selected Chapter Quote: “I will push you off the Eiffel Tower.”

Word count: 6.7k.

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

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“Our father never cared about us,” Aegon says at the rooftop bar in Kansas City, a full year before you meet Aemond, a full year before you know him as anything other than a face to be printed on t-shirts and keychains like profiles stamped into coins at a mint, things to be acquired, traded, hoarded, lost. Aegon is swirling the ice cubes in his Salty Dog with a green plastic stirrer shaped like a pirate’s sword. He’s glowing from his sunburn, but he glows from within too; you have the sudden and distinct impression that he’s made of weightless luminance, slice a vein and he’d bleed daylight. A year later, you’ll find yourself thinking that if you cut Aemond, storms and rogue waves would come pouring out.

“I’m so sorry,” you offer, knowing it will not help. But it can’t hurt either, unlike those platitudes that well-meaning but ignorant people like to besiege him with: Of course your parents love you. I’m sure they did their best. You’ll understand how hard it is when you’re a dad someday.

“I figured it out pretty early on. How much he preferred Rhaenyra. How I was the antithesis of everything he could have wanted in a son.” Aegon shrugs; it can’t be changed, it’s like trying to stop the rain. He sips his Salty Dog. Ice clinks; he licks his lips. “It took Aemond a little longer. Helaena was always with Grandpa and Daeron was mother’s favorite, but I remember Aemond trailing after our father like a duckling, asking him about history and books and whatever else, just desperate with this need to be noticed, to be loved. If my father was leafing through a biography at the kitchen table, Aemond would spend hours on Google trying to come up with a fact he hadn’t read yet. If my father mentioned a movie, Aemond would watch it over and over again until he had the lines memorized. I remember one Christmas, Aemond wanted the Helm’s Deep Lego set because my father liked the Lord of the Rings. Then he kept asking Dad to help him put it together. ‘We’ll do it this weekend.’ ‘We’ll do it after I get off this conference call.’ ‘We’ll do it tomorrow.’ ‘We’ll do it for your birthday.’ Never happened. Well summer rolled around and I guess Aemond figured he might as well just do it himself. So he stayed up all night putting that fucking Lego castle together and left it on the kitchen table where my father couldn’t miss it. So the old man comes downstairs the next morning for breakfast and we’re all sitting there with our waffles and orange juice, and Aemond is trying not to act too proud but he is, he’s literally shaking with impatience for Dad’s praise, even a crumb, even just a few words, the maple syrup bottle was trembling in his hands. And my father strolls into the kitchen, glances at this meticulously constructed replica of Helm’s Deep—I mean it’s like a sculpture in a museum, it’s goddamn perfect—and he gives this little snort of a laugh. He says: ‘Wow, look at that.’ And then he sits down at the table, opens his biography of King George V, and never mentions it again.”

This moment is real but it isn’t. Sitting outside in the warm, windswept Missouri midnight with a popstar you’ll never see again (an incorrect assumption) and stories you have no right to hear (so you believe).

Aegon takes another sip of his Salty Dog. “Not me,” he says with a puckish, sad half-smile. “I was never going to beg for someone to want me. I go wherever, I’m with whoever. No strings. No anchors. Nothing stays the same except the band, and that’s what bought me my freedom to begin with, so I don’t mind it so much. Me father is disgusted by me. But this is who I am. And I’d rather force him to watch me torch his legacy than break my back trying to earn love that was given away long before I was born.”

“Do you think that’s a part of why you have no interest in settling down?” you say. “I mean, commitment is a two-way street. And if you commit to someone, you have to trust that they’ll commit to you back. That they love you now, sure, but also that they’ll keep loving you. Maybe that’s something that’s difficult for you to accept. That someone could love you for more than an hour, a night, a day.”

He taps his Salty Dog against the tabletop, considering you, perhaps even marveling: wind in his blond hair, blood in his cheeks. At last he asks, teasing: “What are you, some kind of therapist?”

“Well, actually…in a year from now…” You feel uneasy assigning such significance to yourself—it feels inevitably pretentious, over-confident, unearned—but you can’t help returning his smile. “I sort of will be.”

~~~~~~~~~~

You’re laying in your bed with the French doors that lead out onto the balcony wide open. The breeze—sunny and warm and smelling of the bakery next to the hotel, croissants and baguettes and half a million different sorts of pastries—breathes in through the semi-transparent linen curtains, a great inhale, a sighing exhale. You can hear footsteps and laughing on the sidewalk outside. The tourists are a cross-section of humanity, with languages from across the globe: a sprinkling of Portuguese here, Arabic there, Mandarin and Hindi and Russian. When the wind flutters the curtains aside, you can see the Eiffel Tower across the Seine. You should be out exploring Paris, but you’re not. You can’t seem to get out of bed. It’s been almost one week since the fight in Reykjavik. You don’t speak to Aemond and he doesn’t speak to you, and everyone knows this but they don’t know why. Not the whole story, anyway. They caught snippets through the sliding glass door, but they didn’t hear what Aemond said to you.

You’re just a groupie. You’re just a slut.

And now Aegon’s words come back to you too: Whoever you are when you’re in high school…that’s sort of who you are forever, you know?

You pinch your eyes shut and roll onto your side away from the open balcony doors. Earlier you had gotten up, showered, deliberated leaving your room…and then immediately put back on your pajamas and crawled into bed. You have no idea where Aemond is now. He mopes around, he avoids you, he disappears on his 1960 Gold Star for hours, he takes notes in white ink, he takes calls on his iPhone.

There is the sound of a key—not a card, but a real, brass key, old and worthy of preservation just like the hotel—jangling in the lock of your door. Aegon steps inside. He’s FaceTiming someone in extremely poor Spanish.

“Adiós mi amor! Sí, te extraño. Claro que sí. Te extraño mucho. Vale, adiós. Hablamos pronto.” He hangs up and slips his iPhone into the pocket of his neon yellow cargo shorts. He’s wearing matching Crocs and a black Comet Donati band tank top. He pushes his aviator sunglasses up into his hair. “Hey.”

“Hey. Who were you talking to?”

“Camila Cabello. But she can wait.” He kicks off his Crocs and walks over to the bed, looking down at you quizzically. He tosses the brass key back and forth between his hands; Criston keeps the second copy of each one, so Aegon must have borrowed it from him. More likely, he thieved it. “You okay, Stargirl? You look stressed.”

“I am stressed.”

He grins, an eyebrow raised, sunburn on his shoulders. “Anything I can do to help with that?”

And you remember what he said to you back in Kansas City last June, a lifetime ago: I don’t think my worth is determined by who or how I fuck. I don’t think yours is either.

Aegon would never call you a slut. And even if he said it, he wouldn’t mean it in the way Aemond did. It wouldn’t be an insult, a belittlement, a curse. You watch him as he stands in the golden afternoon light, caring for you, wanting you in a way that is pure but not innocent. Do you want him too? Sure; Aegon’s beautiful, and you already know you have chemistry, and more than either of those things he is safe. But he’s not the one who keeps you up at night. He’s not the reason you thought, fleetingly and poisonously as you swallowed your birth control pill this morning: What a goddamn waste.

“Actually,” you say, peering up at him, your lips curling into a drowsy smile. “There might be.”

“Yeah?” He’s a little surprised but very enthused.

“Yeah.”

He whips his sunglasses out of his hair and sets them on the nightstand next to your souvenirs: the Colosseum pencil sharpener, the alabaster Apollo, the fighting bull refrigerator magnet, Portuguese soap and Austrian chocolate, the moose snow globe, the silica mud mask, the stuffed comet, the Eiffel Tower keychain you bought yesterday here in Paris, and if that’s cliché then so be it. The mattress shifts when Aegon climbs over to you, pushing up your oversized Jonas Brothers t-shirt. He touches his lips to the softness of your belly, bites lightly and playfully, gazing up at you through his shaggy hair as he works his way down to the waistline of your Cookie Monster pajama pants. And suddenly, you’re back in Kansas City a year ago, feeling the comforting, harmless heat of him in the downstairs bathroom of a rooftop bar, drenched in glowing florescence like moonlight, your back to a red wall and his mouth all over you, first above and then below, coaxing the darkness out of your veins like a shot of penicillin cures sepsis. He’s antivenom, he’s white magic, he’s a spell.

“You sure?” Aegon asks now, pausing as his fingers unravel the blue drawstring on your pajama pants like the bow of a Christmas present.

You reach down to knot a hand in his hair, wanting to be closer to him, and he smiles, knowing what you’re going to say before you say it. “I am so fucking sure.”

A resistless tug and your pajama pants have vanished. Aegon positions himself between your thighs and buries his face in the thin strip of fabric that still separates you, black lace you didn’t buy while thinking of him. Aegon inhales deep and slow. “Oh God,” he moans. “You smell just as incredible as I remember.”

His thumbs slip beneath the lace and whisk it away: the coolness of sudden air, the warmth of his tongue. You gasp, drowning in the best kind of sea, waves that cover splintering piers and razor-sharp barnacles, currents that erase memory. It’s exactly like it was before. It will always be this way with him, you know, you feel in your blood that carries all the same elements as his: iron, carbon, oxygen, nitrogen that builds DNA, hydrogen that ignites and burns. And just like that red-walled night in Kansas City, you are amazed by how quickly the ecstasy blooms in you, wispy and yet unbearably powerful, clearing thoughts and uncoiling muscles.

“Good girl,” Aegon murmurs with your wetness dripping from his lips, watching your face as he slides two fingers into you; his own eyes—murky blue puddles that hold few secrets—are entranced, rapturous. “Now come in my mouth, baby. I want to taste all of you again. I want to drown in it. Come in my mouth, can you do that for me?”

You can, and almost immediately: he plunges his fingers into you as he strokes you with his tongue and the rush is bliss yet superficial somehow, sunbeams on wave crests, without the kind of miles-deep tragedy, pining, promises that poets like to write about. Aegon notices the towel you’d draped over the desk chair after your shower and reaches for it to wipe his face with, but you stop him, drawing him to you by his tank top; and you drag your tongue up his chin and over his lips, tasting yourself on him, licking him clean. Then you take his fingers into your mouth and suck them until he looks like he’s going to pass out, like he’s going to forget how to breathe.

“Fuck,” he whimpers, and he kisses you just like he did a year ago, with an intense sort of need and his hand against your face, his flesh and blood hot and pressed to yours, palm lines on your cheekbone. He wants you in a way that is unburdened by pasts or futures; and who is anyone to condemn that? Perhaps that is the most painless form love can take.

And as the high dissipates, fog burned away at noon only to creep back in the next morning, Aemond returns to you: his words, his wrath, his flawed yet flawless face. You feel unexpectedly, overwhelmingly low. But this is not the time or place for tears; Aegon is still here.

Now I have to get him off too. Now I have to repay him. That’s fair, right?

“Just do it.” You fling one arm across your face as you look towards the balcony, breathing in Paris and daylight, spreading your thighs wider for him, anticipating the faint pressure-pain that will blossom into pleasure as his body melds with yours. “It’s fine. Go ahead. Just fuck me.”

But when your eyes drift back to him, Aegon still has his clothes on. He sits upright and traces the line of your jaw with his fingertips, studying you with uncommon quietness. “No,” he says softly. “No, I don’t think so. You look sad.”

You nod, unable to trust yourself to speak without your voice breaking.

Aegon sighs and flops down beside you on the bed, pulling you against him, whispering as his fingers twist in your hair: “Come here. Shh, shh. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t help.”

“You helped, Aegon.” Just not quite enough.

He kisses your forehead, and then your cheek, and then he looks at you expectantly. “Are you finally going to tell me what he said? That night in Reykjavik? I heard you screaming something about Missouri, but I don’t think that’s what fucked you up so bad.”

You hesitate as you lie together in the sunlit stillness threaded with distant footsteps and passing cars, Aegon twirling strands of your hair, fondness and familiarity and longing that he is politely trying to ignore. Beneath his neon yellow shorts, he is rock hard.

“Now I’m really curious,” Aegon says, smiling has he kisses your forehead again, entangled with you like tendrils of grapevines, morning glory, ivy. “Aemond’s fucked up too. He’s been lying on his bedroom floor and listening to The Script. He hasn’t done that since he and Shelby split.”

Shelby, you think desolately, flinching. “You warned me about Aemond. You told me he was full of demons.”

“Yup. I’m glad I can’t read minds. It’s gotta be like Poltergeist in there.”

But everyone has a few skeletons in their closet, don’t they? Bones that won’t stop rattling. Teeth that gnash and crave. “He called me a slut.”

Aegon pulls back, brow furrowed. He looks at you, trying to decipher which nerve Aemond hit. It is not a word that Aegon considers to be derogatory.

“But it wasn’t really what he said, it was how he said it, like…like…like because of what I’d done with you a year ago, I didn’t matter anymore. Nothing about me mattered. That he could never respect someone like me. That I had deceived him into thinking I was someone worth wanting.”

Abruptly, Aegon leaves the bed. He grabs his sunglasses off the nightstand and pads across the hardwood floor in his bare feet, steps into his Crocs, slides his sunglasses over his eyes, fluffs his blond hair that hangs in chaotic waves.

“Aegon…?”

“Come with me,” he says, nodding towards the door. He pulls a piece of cotton candy flavored Bubble Yum out of his cargo shorts and tosses it into his mouth. “Right now. Put some clothes on and let’s go.”

“Go where?”

Aegon does not elaborate. He only repeats while chomping noisily on his gum: “Let’s go.”

You rush to the bathroom and are ready in five minutes: flip flops, tousled hair, a flowing turquoise sundress you bought yesterday while shopping at Hermès with Baela and Rhaena. “Okay, seriously, where are we going?”

“Out,” Aegon says simply. You follow him through the doorway and down the corridor; like a bloodhound after evidence, Aegon tracks laughter that drifts through the hallway to Daeron’s room. The youngest Targaryen brother is playing Uno with Jace and Baela; Daeron has just made Jace draw four.

Aegon smacks Daeron’s shoulder and demands: “Where is he?”

Daeron is startled. “Huh? What? Who?”

“Aemond. Where is he?”

“I don’t know.”

Aegon smacks Daeron again. “Where is he?!”

“I don’t know!” Daeron wails.

Mercifully, Baela intervenes. “Luke and Rhaena said they were going to the Eiffel Tower. Maybe Aemond went too…?”

“Cool,” Aegon replies. And when he sails out of the room, it’s not just you that goes with him; Baela, Jace, and Daeron file after Aegon as well, chattering conspiratorially. Aegon doesn’t wait for the elevator. He races down the grand staircase to the lobby: white marble floors and Oriental rugs, velvet armchairs and chandeliers, butlers scuttling and women hauling poodles around on taut leashes. Aegon strides past all of it without any interest. You follow him into the street outside and then across it, dodging taxis and limousines. Aegon believes crosswalks are optional. Next he locates the closest bridge over the Siene and traverses it.

“Are they gonna fight?” Jace asks Daeron excitedly. “You think they’re really gonna fight?!”

You plead as you hurry across the bridge, riverboats and swans gliding by below: “Aegon, I don’t want you to say anything to him.”

“I’m not going to say anything.”

“I don’t want you to shout anything either.”

Aegon peeks back at you, smirking wickedly. You know him too well. His pace picks up as he exits the bridge; next comes the vast stretch of gardens that surround the Eiffel Tower, strewn with picnicking tourists, fountains, ferns, lilies, roses, shrubs and trees and waddling ducks.

Jace gasps, euphoric: “Oh my God, they’re gonna fight!”

“Do you really see that ending well?!” Baela hisses back. “Aegon has to be on stage tonight! That’s not going to happen if Aemond snaps him in half like a KitKat!”

“Aegon, you can’t fight him,” you say, petrified. Aemond would win. Easily. Everyone knows that.

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Aegon, please!”

“What the hell happened?!” Baela puffs as she jogs up beside you, clutching your arm, bewildered and alarmed. You shake your head. Too long a story, not one you wish to share, not one you entirely feel you have a right to disclose. You’ve only told Aegon, and how is that going to turn out? You don’t want people to hate Aemond. You don’t want to alienate him from the band any further. That might seem contradictory given his recent disregard for your own wellbeing, but it’s—however regrettably—true.

“This is going to be so fucking epic,” Jace says. “Wait, do I have time to get popcorn? I think I should grab some popcorn. Wait, wait, there’s a crepe stand right over there, just give me five minutes. Aegon? Aegon?! Man, please, just postpone the beatdown for five minutes!”

“I hope you can sing Aegon’s parts too,” Daeron tells Jace. “I don’t have them memorized.”

“Cregan can do it.”

“Cregan is going to flay you alive if he sees you encouraging this.”

“He can’t sing all our parts,” Jace replies sensibly.

Aegon battles his way to the front of the long line of people waiting to purchase tickets to go up into the Eiffel Tower. They grimace and jeer at him, hurling swears in a myriad of languages. When he reaches the ticket counter, an aghast employee begins to implore Aegon—“S'il vous plait, Monsieur, vous devez attendre votre tour!”—until she gets a better look at him. Her mouth pops open; her sky blue eyes go impossibly wide. “Oh mon Dieu…”

“You know who I am, right?” Aegon says impatiently. “Yeah, you recognize me. Okay. I need to get up there right now. Me and my friends. What can I do to make that happen? I have lots of credit cards. I can also sign your arm or tits or whatever. What do you want?”

The employee settles for a selfie with Aegon, Jace, and Daeron. Daeron smiles dazzlingly and poses with two thumbs up. Jace gives Aegon bunny ears. Then the five of you receive your tickets. This time, Aegon is willing to wait for the elevator; it’s over 600 steps to the second floor alone, and you’re all already winded from the walk here. Aegon gets off at the first level, does a lap around the tower—tall glass barriers and metal cages around the balcony, a café and a gift shop—and then reboards the elevator to ascend to the next floor. The second level is more open. There is a railing around the edge of the walkway of course, but it only comes up to your waist. Next to one of the tower viewers is who Aegon is searching for: Luke, Rhaena, Cregan, Criston…and Aemond. He’s wearing dark jeans, a black Calvin Klein t-shirt, vintage Adidas sneakers like the ones Freddie Mercury had at Live Aid, sunglasses to shield his damaged eye from photographers, and a fanny pack. He’s biting into a Golden Delicious, round and shiny; juice glistens on his lips. None of them have spotted you yet.

You hear Luke ask Aemond: “Bruh, this is really embarrassing. You’re worth like $100 million. Why are you eating apples and pecans out of a fanny pack?”

“Do you have any idea how difficult it is to find vegan food in Paris?”

Criston spies Aegon just as he’s closing in. He reads the fury on his face, his outstretched hand. “Don’t—!”

Aegon thrusts his palms against Aemond’s chest, hard, hard enough to force him back a couple of steps towards the railing. “Apologize,” he orders.

Aemond looks at you—for a moment, only a moment—and then back at Aegon. “For what?”

“You know what you did. Apologize.”

Everyone has gathered around. Criston’s dark eyes dart between Aemond and Aegon. He has a grip on Aegon’s shoulder, but he hasn’t dragged him away yet. He doesn’t know what this is about, and though he would never admit it…he’s intrigued. Cregan hovers close by; he lights a cigarette, taking advantage of Criston’s momentary preoccupation. Baela and Rhaena are gossiping in hushed voices. From behind his black sunglasses, Aemond stares at his brother, the wheels in his mind spinning. He doesn’t hit him, though he easily could. He doesn’t seem to have the spirit for it.

“Whoo!” Jace shouts, pumping his fist in the air. “Fight, fight, fight!”

Daeron mutters to Luke: “Are we taking bets?”

“Um, no?!”

“Right now,” Aegon tells Aemond, and shoves him again. “I mean it. I will push you off the Eiffel Tower.”

“Whoa, illegal!” Jace hoots. Cregan hooks a hand into the collar of Jace’s polo and yanks him back. “Hey, referee abuse over here—!”

“I will break your fucking arm,” Cregan growls.

“Okay,” Jace says. “Got it. No problem. I’m done now.”

“Apologize,” Aegon commands again, as if you’re the only people here: him, you, Aemond.

You are mortified. “Aegon, please don’t—”

“I’m sorry,” Aemond says. He’s looking at you again, and this time he doesn’t turn away. You wish you could see his eyes: windows to the soul, however clouded they might be. It’s the first time he’s spoken to you since Reykjavik. The gravity of it—his voice, his steady gaze, the gut-punch realization of how much you still want him—knocks all the words out of your skull. You sweep them up like a child collecting spilled coins in cupped hands.

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.” Aemond’s tone is benign, calm, like he’s already rehearsed this and has just been waiting for the opportune moment. “I shouldn’t have said that. I was speaking out of anger. It was impulsive of me, it was indecorous.”

What the fuck? Indecorous…? Who uses words like that in casual conversation? Incurably pretentious Aemond Targaryen, that’s who. “Thanks, I guess. You must spend a lot of time with your thesaurus.”

“Well, I write lyrics, so.”

“Yeah.” You wait for Aemond to add the most important part: that he was wrong about what he said, that it wasn’t true. But he doesn’t go there. He only apologizes for speaking it into existence, for vibrating the air with its treacherous molecules. “Okay,” you tell Aegon. “I think you got what you wanted. Can we go now?”

“Sure.” Aegon slaps Aemond across the back and gives him one final glare, swift but cutting.

“What’s a thesaurus?” Daeron whispers to Luke, who shrugs.

“Some kind of dinosaur…?”

“That’s alright, boys!” Jace says, clapping his hands. “Walk it off! Take a breather! Plenty of time for Round 2 later!” Cregan bends one arm behind his back. “Ow—!”

“No smoking,” Criston snaps, ripping the cigarette out of Cregan’s mouth and stomping it into ash.

~~~~~~~~~~

Hours later, after soundcheck, eating dinner in the gardens under the lengthening shadow of the Eiffel Tower, dark stripes that swallow up daylight like bathwater sucked down a drain. Everyone has a crepe that’s rolled up in wax paper, as Europeans serve it…everyone except Aemond, of course. He’s sitting by himself under a 200-year-old sycamore tree and gnawing morosely on a plain baguette that’s as long as his own forearm. His iPhone rings; he checks who it is and then silences the call. Luke goes over to sit with him, dripping whipped cream from his banana and Nutella crepe all over his white shorts speckled with sailboats. You keep trying not to look at Aemond. Each time you see him is like poking a bruise; it’s nothing but pain, but you can’t seem to stop.

“Oh wow!” Baela cries, beaming as she scrolls through her phone. “The Paris Opera Ballet is performing Romeo and Juliette this season!”

“Neat!” Rhaena says. “Like right now?”

“Yeah. We could catch a show before we leave next week.” She turns to Jace. “Baby?” And when he ignores her, she rubs his shoulder, her voice honeyed. “Jace?”

He groans. “Really? Ballet?”

Baela frowns. “I think it would be fun.”

“I think you can go without me.” Jace points to Aemond, grinning. “Take him, he likes archaic things. Hell, he is one now.” New lines appear in Aemond’s brow, but he gives no other indication that he’s heard this.

“You can’t spare one afternoon for me?” Baela says; and her words have turned from honey to battery acid. “Are you fucking serious? Do you know what I’ve given up for you?”

Jace sighs heavily. “I knew you were going to make this into a thing.”

“Me?! You’re the person who’s being unfair here, I’m asking for one afternoon—!”

“There’s literally no reason why you can’t go with someone who won’t feel like they’re being tortured for three hours.”

“Torture? That’s what my life’s work is to you? Torture?!”

“Well now I definitely don’t want to go anywhere with you if you’re going to act like this—”

“Act like what, like I want my boyfriend to occasionally show even a vague interest in something I care about—?!”

As they go back and forth, everyone else stares down at their dinner, actively dissociating.

Baela asks you: “You want to weigh in on this?” It’s not really a question.

You take a cagy bite of your baked apple crepe. “Um, honestly, I don’t really have much experience with couples counseling.”

“Great. Now’s your chance to acquire some.”

“Uh…” You eat some more of your crepe, slurp your citron pressé, a sort of do-it-yourself lemonade. Baela waits. Jace smirks at you, attentive but not for the right reasons. “Well. I guess what I can say is that it’s important for both people to have their interests valued and their needs met. So for every activity that Jace chooses, there should be roughly the same amount of time spent on something that Baela wants to do.”

“Yeah but I have a lot less free time,” Jace says. “Since…you know…I happen to be in a world-famous boy band in the midst of their third global tour.”

Baela pitches back: “Exactly, which has completely taken over my life, so I think if I could get just one fucking afternoon where you show me some minuscule amount of appreciation then that might be kind of nice, you know?”

“Jace,” you say gently. You can see on the periphery of your vision that Aemond is watching you, once again hidden behind sunglasses that you know he wishes he didn’t feel the need to wear. “It sounds like this is really important to Baela.”

He sighs again. “Baela, Baela, ballerina,” Jace muses, somewhat affectionately but without respect. “Okay. We’ll see. We might have time tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Baela agrees; but already she looks defeated. And she is not a woman who defeat comes naturally to. She’s been worn down by weeks, months, years of the same rote disappointment. She glances at a street vendor who’s selling falafel. “Hey,” she says to Rhaena. “Go get us some wraps.”

“Me?” Rhaena peers nervously at the falafel cart. “What if he only speaks French? Or some other language I don’t know?”

“Then point to the sign, you’ll figure it out,” Baela replies testily.

“I’ll go too, Rhaena,” you offer. “And you can order but I’ll stand there with you and help if any charades need to be done. Will that make it easier?”

“Sure,” Rhaena says. “Okay. Deal.”

And when you return ten minutes later, along with all the other food you have one order of plain falafel: no yogurt sauce, no wrap. You bring it to Aemond, who is stunned. “What’s this?”

“It’s vegan. Falafel is vegan. So here, your dinner just got a little more exciting.”

“Well…thanks.” He takes it with tentative hands.

“That’s so thoughtful of you!” Luke says cheerfully. “Do they have falafel in Kansas?”

“Missouri,” you correct. “And not really. But I ate a lot of it when I was at UChicago.”

This captures Aemond’s interest. “You went to UChicago?”

“Yes, Aemond. Shockingly, liking sex does not make women stupid.”

His iPhone rings: Mr. Brightside. Less than ideal timing. He rejects the call.

“Who was that?” Criston yells over.

“No one,” Aemond responds irritably.

“Your mom?”

“No, Criston.”

“How’s she doing?”

“She wasn’t the one calling, Criston!”

“Okay but I’m just asking, how is she doing like in general…?”

Back at the hotel, Comet Donati is getting ready for their first show in Paris: drinks in glasses, white lines on tables, hair and makeup, cigarettes and pills. You soak in your massive jacuzzi tub and stare up at the ceiling wondering: What am I doing here? What the hell am I still doing here?

But the thought of actually boarding a plane back to Kansas City is terrifying. Never seeing Aegon again? Never seeing Aemond again? Never seeing any of them except on YouTube or Spotify? You don’t want to leave their orbit. You don’t want to zoom off to the other end of the solar system just yet.

You wrap a towel around yourself and mosey out into the bedroom to get dressed. He’s there inspecting the souvenirs on your nightstand, chuckling and pushing them around with his knuckles, wearing a sequined blazer and skin full of ink: not Aegon, not Aemond, not Cregan, but Jace. You squeal, startled, and clutch your towel tighter around yourself. Unfortunately, it’s a very small towel. A very very small towel.

“These are neat,” Jace says. “So I collect tattoos and you collect souvenirs. We have so much in common.”

“We have exceptionally little in common. What do you want?”

He smiles, but never quite kindly. “What do you want?”

“I want you to take Baela to the ballet,” you say. “And I want you to get out of my room now.”

He turns all the way around to face you. He flings your moose snow globe from Stockholm into the air and then catches it, again, again. “Do you really?”

“Yes, Jace.”

And for a minute, or two, or what feels like forever, he doesn’t move. He just stands there staring at you, not moving any closer but not leaving either. Not listening to you. Not hearing you because he doesn’t want to. And you think, your heart hammering in your chest: At what point should I scream for Aegon or Criston? Will they hear me? Will they help me?

“Alright,” Jace says at last. He sets your moose snow globe back down on the nightstand, roughly, with a loud clunk. Then he walks across your room; but before he disappears through the doorway, he throws you a brass room key. Instinctively, you move to catch it, almost dropping your towel in the process. You snatch it back into place just in time. Jace is amused. Perhaps he planned it that way. “Aegon left that lying around,” Jace says, meaning the key. “Maybe you should be more discriminating when choosing who you give it to.”

“I didn’t give it to him. He took it from Criston.”

“Sure he did.” And finally, Jace leaves, as unwelcome as a funnel cloud or a hailstorm.

Aemond spends the concert in the shadows: pacing, taking his notes, ruminating over his many grudges. You spend it in the front row with Baela and Rhaena, wearing the neon yellow gown you found in Reykjavik. You try not to scan the arena for glimpses of Aemond. You fail miserably. Comet opens their concert with an interesting choice, an upbeat cover of Third Eye Blind’s How’s It Going To Be. When you ask Rhaena about it, she says it was Luke’s idea, which in your experience means it was almost certainly Aemond’s, or at least one that he enthusiastically endorsed. Daeron begins, peppy and animated, strutting across the stage:

“I’m only pretty sure that I can’t take anymore

Before you take a swing

I wonder, what are we fighting for?”

Aegon is next, characteristically a little sloppy, a little shaky, yet getting colossal cheers:

“When I say out loud

I want to get out of this

I wonder is there anything

I’m going to miss?”

Cregan’s voice is deep, sensuous, inviting yet with an edge like a blade:

“I wonder how it’s going to be

When you don’t know me?

How’s it going to be

When you’re sure I’m not there?”

Jace is technically the best singer, rich and smooth and nearly always pitch-perfect:

“How’s it going to be

When there’s no one there to talk to?

Between you and me

‘Cause I don’t care…”

And Luke leads the harmony as guitar notes pluck out of the monstrous speakers:

“How’s it going to be?

How’s it going to be?”

Aside from the cover, the setlist is the same as it’s always been since you joined the tour in Rome…but you’re experiencing it in a new way. You are needled by jealously every time you wonder what woman, moment, day, night inspired one of Aemond’s songs; you are nauseous with envy for everyone who’s ever been able to touch him. When they perform A Girl Named After A Car—which had previously always struck you as fun, light, unserious, perhaps satirical—you are consumed by a specific conspiracy theory. After fighting it for half of the song, you Google two words with your iPhone: Shelby car. Sure enough, there’s a vintage Mustang model called a Shelby. It’s gorgeous. It’s perfect for Aemond.

“Great,” you mutter to yourself.

“You okay?” Rhaena asks.

“Yeah,” you reply, slamming your phone back into your purse. “I’m awesome. I’ve literally never been better.”

“You don’t look awesome,” Baela says, smiling. “That’s okay. I’m not so awesome either at the moment.” She takes your hands and starts spinning you around the floor. “We can be hot bitter bitches together.”

It’s tradition for everyone to hang out after the concert, but you’re in no hurry to get to Jace’s suite; you certainly don’t want to be one of the first people to arrive. You don’t want to be alone with him. You walk very slowly, taking a detour to touch up your hair and makeup. As you are wandering a quiet section of the hallway, you observe that Aemond’s door has been left ever so slightly ajar. You peer inside to find it empty…but his notebook is on his nightstand.

No way, you tell yourself. No no no. Huge violation of privacy and respect.

“Oh yeah?” you object, barely audible. “And what would you call what he said to me?”

You go to the notebook and flip it open. Matte black pages slip beneath your fingertips.

“Just the first page,” you swear to yourself. “That’s all. Then I’m leaving.”

There’s a song written there; or, rather, partially written. He’s only worked out a verse and the chorus so far. Your eyes skim over it with lightning-flash quickness, cognizant that you cannot allow yourself to be caught. At the top of the page is one word in pale gleaming ink like pearls, opal, moonstone: Magic.

(Ver1) You walk into the room and I think:

How am I going to get you out of me?

Are you an infection, a lethal connection,

Or are you a fire to burn me clean?

“Nice,” you breathe, with hushed awe you wish you didn’t have.

(Chorus) Are you a witch or are you a spell,

Is loving you gonna be heaven or hell?

Black cats and white salt, ladders and doorframes

I think of magic every time you look my way

There are drunken, giggling voices and the sound of doors opening and closing in the hallway. You scurry out of Aemond’s suite and proceed to Jace’s before anyone thinks to come searching for you.

The room is thick with label executives and hangers-on, smoke and music; Watch by Maisie Peters is playing. She’s a friend of the band. You’re reasonably sure Aegon has hooked up with her, or at least aspires to. Speaking of Aegon, he is currently flitting around with Cregan. He stops briefly to say hi to you, a chilled emerald bottle of Kronenbourg 1664 in one hand, white powder on the other. He’s there and then he’s gone again. He might as well have been slingshotted to the other end of the galaxy. Criston is standing by the open balcony doors and talking to Daeron. Jace is at the bar laughing loudly—obnoxiously, hyena-like—with some mid-twenties guys you don’t recognize. Baela is glaring at him from one of the couches, seated next to Rhaena and Luke. But when she sees you, the rage vanishes from her face. She waves you over rather frantically.

“Look, I know this probably isn’t going to help your situation, but I just wanted to let you know that I am really, really hoping you’ll be willing to stay with us a little longer—”

“Yes! Totally!” Luke seconds, nodding.

“—And it’s not like we’re going to forget about you or prefer her over you or anything—”

“No, definitely not,” Luke says.

“What are you talking about?” you ask them. “Prefer who?”

Rhaena grabs your hand and squeezes it. You follow her eyeline across the room to the opposite couch, a mirage through warm smoke and icy dread. And you think: I should have known. I shouldn’t be surprised. Of course it would be here—in this city of Instagram models and Hallmark-card romance—that she would reappear like the moon growing large again after fading to a sliver, everything back in its rightful place, nature restored to harmony.

Sitting beside Aemond—on his good side, his unscarred side—is Shelby.

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

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genshinemblem564 · 8 months

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Genshin Isekai Headcanons

These can be sagau, but they don't have to be.

• Xinyan is stoked that you love her music, and is excited when you offer to play her some music from your world, but she's confused by some of the lyrics. She understands metaphorical lyrics, like the person described in the song isn't actually a rocket, but some of them don't make sense or feel like they were added just to fill a void. Aside from that, she kinda wants to perform some of these songs, now if only she had some band members.

• Tartaglia doesn't have much to say about the guns of your world. The pyro and hydro fatui agents already use guns of some kind, and the cryo fatui agent uses, um. What would you call an ice based flamethrower? No, what he's interested in is the immense amount of new weapons that Teyvat doesn't have, or they probably do, and we just don't hear about them. Like chain blades, I don't know what else to call them, essentially a flail, but instead of a mace, it's blade. I would write something about axes, but I feel like saving that for my crossover series. A scythe is often seen as a special lance, but you tell him that it's much more complicated than that specifically pointing out the blade, and depending on your own skill, you give him a demonstration. He is way too excited to learn all of these new weapons, like a kid excited about a new toy, you can't help but smile.

• Baizhu is perplexed when he first prescribes medicine to you, as you give him a list of allergies, if any, and are more than willing to go through proper examination to learn how resistant your body is to certain toxins. He's even more surprised when you tell him that his unique practice is actually common in your world, so that's why you don't bat an eye at potentially poisonous ingredients.

• Bennett is rather surprised. When you hang out, his bad luck seems to go away. It's actually just you using a bit of foresight, like checking the date on a flyer before rushing to a sale that had already ended, but seeing that glimmer in his eyes, you decide to let his imagination roam.

• You and Cyno are reference lords. You two reference everything, Cyno, his favorite book or book series, and you, your favorite media source. Now, if only people actually understood them, and yes, you do quote Yu-Gi-Oh when playing Genius Invokation.

• If you're an artist, then you quickly catch Albedo's attention. When he sees your drawings, he is quick to ask what you used as a muse, and your answer will have great impact on his reaction. If you point to an object or animal, his response will be normal. If you draw from memory though, he is astounded, especially if what you drew was a scene of some kind, with people, animals, or what have you. Drawing all that from memory is incredible. If you say it's something you made up, he'll compare it to when he's commissioned for his own art.

• Depending on your own interests, you'll be interacting with several different characters. I can't think of anything in depth for these few, so here's a general basis. Barbara is relieved that you're so open to different views. She knows how cruel people can be when they're closed-minded, and she's happy to teach you about the Church of Favonius and Barbatos. Noelle was lamenting not being a knight yet, which led you to bring up the seven chivalric virtues. Yae Miko and Xingqiu are very interested in the stories of your world. Xingqiu hoping to learn more about your worlds code of chivalry, but he ends up learning about justice's different forms. Yae is simply searching for new inspiration. She often calls on you when her old nemesis, writers block, appears. Nahida takes interest in you right away, wanting to gain knowledge from your world, and you seem fun. She knows better than anyone how dangerous knowledge can be, so she asks you to omit potentially dangerous subjects.

• Mona was shocked when you said that you only wanted to know the bad stuff coming your way, not that she could help you, with you being an outworlder and all. When she asked why, you told her "It's best to be prepared for all the bad coming your way, and if you know all the good coming your way, it takes away from life's natural wonder." Which was promptly followed by you asking "Where did that come from?"

___________________________________________

I'm thinking making more of that last one, like " Characters reaction to reader who is randomly philosophical" might need to work on the title a bit. Also, as stated above, these can be sagau, but can also be normal isekai, so I'll use both tags so they can be found more easily

#genshin impact #isekai #sagau #genshin headcanons #xinyan #tartaglia #childe #genshin bennett #baizhu #cyno #albedo #mona megistus

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ddejavvu · 9 months

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headcannon for Remus

I feel like remus would be the type of person to stop you (and his friends) from getting in trouble and then saying "the blame would be on me" as an excuse cuz he's trying to show he doesn't care much. We all know he's just subconsciously the responsible and logical one in the group so he'd try not to make a big deal outta it. (P.s. I do this a lot with my friends and sister, and Ik damn well that I won't get the blame)

Remus, for his own protection, acts aloof. You understand why, he can't let on too many weaknesses or else the people that aren't too fond of him would only have more to work with. But if you observe him carefully, you can see the tenderness escape his mouth through words disguised as insults.

"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard, Prongs." Remus drawls, thumbing through the pages of his history of magic textbook, in search of an answer, "You're losing your touch."

"It sounds fun!" You gush, "The freezing charm works fine, we've tested it before! And we skate on the lake all the time in the winter, what's the problem now?"

"The problem now is that you're trying to synthetically freeze the lake," He narrows his eyes at you over the spine of the book, "And you've only tested the freezing charm out on a glass of water. Do you understand how much more manpower you'll need to freeze the black lake? It means you'll need all hands on deck, and I'm not serving detention just because you wanted to ice skate in May."

"I don't buy it," Sirius decides, and Remus tucks his head slightly further towards the book, "I think you're worried about us, Moony."

"I am. I'm worried that you'll die after I choke you out for getting us caught," Remus muses, eyes stuck on a spot in the text rather than scanning the words, "And I'm even more worried about getting thrown in Azkaban for murder."

"That's bullshit!" James gawps, and you agree.

"I think you're worried it'll crack," You hum, "And that we'll fall in, and one of us might get scooped up by the squid, or dragged down by a grindylow. I think you think it's too dangerous."

Sirius and James look pleased at your evaluation, and Remus the opposite. You know the boy's heart is full of nothing but love and adoration (alright, a smidge of annoyance) for you all, but you're well used to the tough persona he puts on.

"You're delusional," Remus diagnoses, "I think you've actually gone mad."

"Don't worry Moony," James gushes, standing from his own bed and crossing to crawl onto Remus's, "We'll stay safe! We'll all cuddle up with you right here-" At his words, you and Sirius bolt for the bed as well, squeezing yourself around him on the mattress despite his protests, "-and we'll stay away from the dangerous lake."

"Promise," You croon, pressing a kiss to his scarred cheek that feels suspiciously hot beneath your lips. Sirius does the same on his other side, and James feels left out, so he tips Remus's head back to kiss upside-down at his forehead.

"Alright, s'enough," Remus snaps, grumbling as you all settle in while he tries focusing on his studies, "Dangerous lake. Forget the squid, I'll drown the lot of you."

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thegirlwhorideslikeasamurai · 7 months

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I'm having a déjà-vu that I've already posted about Yuuri's inner monologue at the beginning of episode 3 when he agonises about the stakes the Onsen on Ice has for him, but it's so hilarious that I need to pick it up again.

What cracks me up is that right after explaining that Viktor will return to Russia if Yurio wins, Yuuri goes like, "If I win, Viktor will stay in Japan and be my coach." But Yuuri doesn't think of Viktor skating in Ice Castle or accompanying him during his workout—no, he thinks of Viktor flirting with him on his first night in Hasetsu.

Yes, you've read that right: While Yuuri explains what is at stake for him at the Onsen on Ice, he thinks of Viktor flirting with him.

Note also the warm colours and the blurred lines of the image that add an atmosphere of nostalgia to the scene, like a memory Yuuri holds dear...

...compared to the actual scene in episode 2:

Seems like Yuuri isn't that opposed to Viktor's courtship endeavours, right?

Which leads me to the question: Is there anything else Yuuri wants Viktor to teach him except figure skating?

At this point, Yuuri is far from understanding sexual desire (that will come along with the discovery his Eros over the course of the story). He is also still far from being romantically interested in Viktor. To him, Viktor is a god-like creature he admires and has a crush on since he was 12, an fellow skater Yuuri copied over and over because he secretly craves to become his equal. And that is absolutely enough to be flustered when Viktor becomes flirty, even if the poor boy has no idea how to respond. (for clarification: crush, i.e. superficial fancy ≠ being in love, i.e. butterflies, wanting to date the other person, I had people trying to split hairs over this, no kidding)

Yuuri has been obsessed with Viktor throughout puberty and his entire adult life. That's long enough to have a whole library of fanboy fantasies in his brain. I believe that Viktor becoming his coach is a dream that formed in Yuuri long before the fateful banquet where he made Viktor crush on him. And what would be a better way to catch up to your idol than having said idol teach you? Where this fantasy is, there are bound to be others. After all, fantasies are a safe space, untethered from reality in the sense that the unhinged things Yuuri and Viktor would do in these are entirely decoupled from the things Yuuri would want from the real Viktor at some point in his existence because that fictional Viktor would be an abstract entity to project his fantasies upon, an ooc version of the real Viktor, and the fictional Yuuri would be an ooc version of the real Yuuri (I'm no longer talking about coaching figure skating. I'm talking about "Viktor-sensei, please teach me how to kiss!", or maybe even "Viktor-sensei, I want to do unspeakable things to you, please teach me how!", depending on how you headcanon Yuuri to act when he gets horny)

Yuuri's desire to emulate Viktor (and not necessarily being able to tell this apart from have Viktor around—yes, these two can be intertwined, and there are many hints in YOI that this is the case for Viktuuri), describes a characteristic of same-sex relationships that are depicted in other pieces of media, e.g. Bourne's Swan Lake or the novel Call Me By Your Name by André Aciman (I'd like to point you to that wonderful quote from this book).

I've digressed. My point is that Yuuri has still a long way to go until he figures out his feelings for Viktor. But this scene strongly suggests that he wants more from Viktor than keep on winning and keep on eating katsudon together, even though he might not yet be aware of the full extent of his wish.

If you enjoy my meta posts, please consider giving my blog a follow or checking out my works on AO3 (link in bio). You will find the results of my meta musings in there!

#yuri on ice #katsuki yuuri #viktor nikiforov #yoi #yoi meta #my yoi meta #anime

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hederasgarden · 2 years

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Flirting For Dummies - Part 1

Summary: Turns out the crush you have on one of the pilots that frequents the Hard Deck isn’t quite so unrequited. You’re just bad at recognizing when someone’s flirting with you. Good thing Jake’s happy to help you understand how interested he really is.

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x F!Reader

Rating: General. The second part will include explicit sexual content and be 18+ only. This part features Hangman being a cocky little shit, a shy reader (inspired by @thewhiskersonkittens post asking for Jake with a shy reader), a misunderstanding and some kissing.

Word Count: 2.1K

A/N: This is my first of hopefully many Top Gun fics. Please let me know if you enjoy this. Reblogs and comments feed the muse.

The pencil is clutched firmly between your teeth as you highlight another important passage in your book. It’s still early enough that the background sound from the bar is at a steady hum instead of the loud, chaotic energy you know it’ll morph into soon. The golden hours between lunch and the evening rush are the best time to study at the Hard Deck, it’s less stuffy than the library or the studio apartment you rent, plus you get free fries here. That’s hard to beat.

“Almost done?” One of the other bartenders, Becky, asks as she passes by you on her way to the kitchen.

“Almost,” you respond. Technically there are two more chapters you need to read but with only 15 minutes until your shift starts there’s no chance you can make that happen. You don’t really care anyway, you’re tired of studying. What you need is a break, something more than sitting alone on your couch watching true crime documentaries with a pint of ice cream.

With a defeated sigh you close your book and lean back to stretch, letting out a startled little gasp when you realize the seat beside you is no longer empty, but taken up by the handsome pilot who you’ve spent entirely too much time thinking about. He’s become a regular at the bar over the last few months, coming in like clockwork on Thursdays and Fridays. Sometimes he’s alone, just ordering dinner and a drink though mostly he comes in with a group of other people wearing the same service khakis to play pool.

You don't know his actual name, just his call sign - Hangman. He's friendly, tipping generously and has a habit of winking at you when you dropped off his drinks. That made you incredibly nervous even if you did like it. You know it doesn’t mean anything… He’s charming to all the bartenders, even succeeding in making the unflappable Becky blush once.

Penny warned you the pilots were the worst of the bunch but the others didn’t make you nearly as nervous as Hangman did. You liked watching him from afar, aware of how his type operated. They didn’t go for girls like you. You weren’t pretty like Becky or funny like Janet, the other bartender you often worked with.

Having his full attention focused on you throws you for a loop. “What?” You stammer, completely missing whatever he just said.

“I asked what you are reading about?” Hangman repeats, leaning into your space to see the title of your textbook.

He’s so close that you can smell his cologne, a potent mix of sandalwood and a sweet citrusy undercurrent. When your mouth opens to respond all that escapes is a uhhhh sound. He smirks, pressing into your space and laying his arm along the back of the bar stool. You meet his beautiful green eyes for just a second before you clear your throat and look away.

“Coastal Ecology,” you finally manage to force out.

“You’ll have to speak up sweetheart,” Hangman says, tapping on the wooden bar. “It’s loud in here.”

It’s actually not but he still leans in and warmth sweeps up your chest into your throat. You hate the way the stupid pet name makes your stomach swoop. Normally you despise all the honey, baby, or darlins you get from the men at the bar, but there is something in the way he says it that’s different. You want him to call you that and mean it, even though you know he never would.

“I’m studying coastal ecology,” you repeat, turning to look at him fully, buoyed by a brief swell of confidence.

“Smart girl, huh?” He asks, grinning. You sit up straighter at his praise. “Why are you doing it at a bar? Hoping for some attention?”

His words curdle that pleasantly warm feeling in your chest.

“I work here,” you defend, sliding off the bar stool to put distance between the two of you. “I’m in grad school and the owner lets me study before my shift.”

The urge to continue and over-explain is hard to resist. You owe him nothing so cut yourself off and focus on putting your things away, but when you reach for your book he rests his hand on it to stop you from taking it. You stare at the large ring he wears on one finger, not wanting to meet his gaze. After a moment he sighs and draws his hand back. You spot an annoyed, almost confused look on his face, which quickly dissipates replaced by a bland smile.

“Ok then. Guess we’ll take a round of beers. Over at the pool tables,” he says, stepping back.

It’s not your shift for another 10 minutes so you pass on the order to Becky and go hide in the back office until you need to clock in. Despite your best efforts you somehow find yourself looking over to the pool table and meeting the blonde man’s eyes. He doesn’t smirk like you expect. There’s a little furrow between his brows instead.

"He's hot," Becky says, coming to lean against the bar next to you while you slice up a lime. “Probably a jackass but he’d show you a good time.”

"What?" You ask, embarrassed to be caught looking.

"Mr. Tall Blonde and Built," she indicates, pointing to Hangman. "All pilots are cocky, especially that bunch.”

"Bob is sweet," you defend, thinking of the timid but endearing pilot who always stammers his way through talking to Janet and you.

"Bob is an outlier and if he wasn't so into Janet I'd love to take him home and sit on that pretty face. He looks like he’d be so eager. Like one of those golden retriever types.” She sighs wistfully.

"Oh my god, Becky," you chastise, looking over at Bob, half embarrassed on his behalf. He’s staring dreamily at Janet as she cleans off a high top. He really was adorable.

“Just be careful,” Becky says seriously.

“I don’t think I’m on anyone’s radar here,” you tell her with a sad little laugh.

“Thought you were supposed to be smart, kiddo,” she says, bumping your shoulder and grinning. “Ohhh, I spot a cell phone on the bar. Gotta ring that bell,” she tells you, taking off towards a poor unsuspecting businessman.

✥

Friday is even crazier than Thursday, the bar is packed to the gills. Although you won’t admit it, you catch yourself searching through the crowd for a familiar face. For Hangman. There’s a bunch of military types hanging around the pool table but he’s not with them. It’s stupid to feel disappointed, it’s not like he even knows you exist, not really. It’s best your crush becomes nothing more than a way to occupy your mind with what-ifs and silly scenarios. He’s probably off with that beautiful brunette girl you saw hanging off his arm yesterday.

“It’s almost 7,” Penny says, interrupting your thoughts. “Go ahead and clock out before things get too crazy.”

“I don’t mind staying to help,” you offer.

She waves you off. “You closed last night and should have left two hours ago. You’re good. Go.”

“Alright,” you agree, untying your apron, and retrieving your purse from the back room. Trying to leave the bar is like swimming upstream, you’re fighting past throngs of people who are drunk or on their way to be. By the time you break free the cool air coming off the ocean feels wonderful. You close your eyes and take in a clarifying breath, enjoying the peaceful moment. Maybe you’ll sit out on your balcony and read tonight.

“Got off late today, huh?”

You jump, clutching your purse to your chest at the sound of the familiar voice. Speak of the Devil. Hangman pushes off from the wall he’s leaning against, running a hand through his perfectly styled honey blonde hair as he approaches you. The tousled effect makes him look even more handsome. He’s out of his Navy uniform, wearing jeans and a light gray sweater that clings to the curve of his biceps.

“Becky said you got off at 5 pm today.” He taps the watch on his wrist.

Was he talking to you? You glance behind you but no one is there.

“One of the bartenders showed up late and I didn’t want them to be short-staffed.” You respond, trying to process why he’s talking to you. Was he waiting for you? “Penny was worried and I oh…” you trail off when your back connects with the brick wall.

Hangman grins, head cocked to the side while he continues to stalk towards you. You lick your lips nervously and look past him. Was this some kind of joke? There are a handful of people milling about, sharing a smoke or escaping the crowd, but they’re all caught up in their conversations. No one is looking at either of you.

“Gotta tell you, honey, it’s a real blow to the ego when a girl doesn’t flirt back with a guy like me.”

“What?” You ask sharply, looking back at him confused. “You were flirting with me? When?”

“Ouch,” he says, clutching his chest in mock pain. “You know how to wound a man, sweetheart. I was trying to be charming but I see I’m gonna need the direct approach here. I want to take you out. Tomorrow night. 7 pm.” He pauses, waiting for you to respond but you just stare dumbly at him, mind blank and body buzzing with nerves. “This is the part where you say yes,” he prods, stepping even closer.

You stare into his green eyes. “I don’t even know your real name,” you finally blurt out.

He chuckles. “It’s Jake.”

He’s in your space now, palm resting beside your head. Close enough to kiss, your mind supplies. The thought makes goosebumps break out over your skin and you let out a shuddery breath.

“No hard feelings if I’m not wanted but I have it on good authority I am,” he whispers. “I need you to say it so there’s no misunderstandings.”

“Yes.” You offer him a soft smile, feeling shy and giddy.

“Yes what?” He prods.

“Yes, I want to go out on a date with you.”

“That’s good,” he hums, inching forward until his lips are a hair's breadth away from yours. Your chest rises and falls rapidly, waiting. He smiles. “I can’t do all the work here, sweetheart. Help me out.”

Emboldened by his words and the way he looks at you, you find the courage to tilt your head up and meet his lips. He takes control of the kiss immediately, one hand sliding along the curve of your hip. The other cups the side of your face. You moan, curling your fingers into the soft fabric of his sweater. For a moment you forget where you are, letting Jake’s weight pin you to the wall as his kiss intensifies.

He parts your mouth with his, the sensation of his tongue against yours making you quake and him groan. A sharp whistle snaps you back into reality and you draw away, shaking and overwhelmed. Jake’s a little breathless too but he recovers pretty soon, looking over his shoulder at two younger men. Both are in uniform and they pale under the dark look he sends them, scurrying back inside. You shrink down, hands coming to cover your face. Your skin tingles, warming with embarrassment and the aftermath of the kiss.

“None of that,” Jake says, pulling your hands down. He runs his tongue along his bottom lip, making a pleased sound. “No hiding that beautiful face from me. You’re cute when flustered.”

You look away, his attention is too much.

“It’s ok.” He rises to his full height, shielding you from anyone looking. The hand at your waist disappears, but he rubs the apple of your cheek gently with his thumb until you find the courage to look back at him. “That was nice wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” you agree.

“Come on, let me walk you to your car.”

You follow his lead into the parking lot. When you stop at your beat up old Honda he grasps your wrist and pulls you back to face him. He brushes another kiss over your lips. Your whole body tingles in response.

"Tomorrow night. 7," he reminds you, tapping your nose lightly before stepping back.

He’s a few feet away when you realize he hasn’t said where you’re supposed to be. “Wait!” You call out.

“Miss me already?” He questions, amused.

“No, that’s not what I meant,” you stammer, embarrassed. “Where are we meeting?”

“I know, you’re fun to tease. Check your phone,” he suggests, waiting as you rummage through your purse. There’s a single text for an unsaved number with the location for an upscale gastropub.

“How…”

“Janet sold you out. I got your number and she got Bob’s. Seemed like a fair deal,” he says with a wink. “See you real soon, sweetheart.”

✥

Part 2 is here.

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