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vivwritesfics · 2 days

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Hungry Like The Wolf

Chapter Seven

She hadn't seen her best friend, Lando, in years. She didn't run into him the last time she was visiting her father and she doubted she'd see him this time. Things were different now. She wasn't aware of his furry little problem. Just like she wasn't aware of the vampires plaguing the town.

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Vampire!Oscar x Reader x Werewolf!Lando

Series Masterlist

"What the hell do you want?"

Oscar stared down at Lando. He was taller than the werewolf, but not by a lot. Lando wasn't intimidated by his height, that much clear by the way he snarled.

But Lando dropped the snarl. "I think we should talk."

It wasn't what Oscar was expecting, not in the slightest. Maybe for Lando to launch at him, try and rip out his throat. A sigh left his lips as he let Lando into the house and led him through to his bedroom.

He might have been the first werewolf to step foot in the vampire house. Nest, some would call it. But Oscar hated that word. It made them seem less... human. But, really, how human were they?

Lando didn't much look around his room when he walked in. He sat on the bed and pulled his hoodie up to better cover his neck, something that wasn't missed by Oscar.

"What do you want?" Asked Oscar as he sat by the window.

He'd never seen Lando like this. He was always hot headed, pouncing before he could really think. But now he was quiet, contemplative. "You kissed her," he said.

Oh, that was what this was about. "I did," Oscar sat as he leaned against his extensive bookshelf (at least one hundred books filled it yet he hadn't touched a single one since the invention of the PlayStation).

"And then you kissed me."

He nodded, watching for Lando's reaction. That was something he'd always been good at, reading people. He waited for a look of disgust to cross Lando's face, but it was never there.

"And then I kissed her."

Oscar hadn't quite been expecting that. It wasn't exactly a surprise, just unexpected. "You did, huh?" He asked as he wiped the dust from one of the shelves with his finger. "Took you long enough."

Suddenly, Lando was standing, eyes flashing. "I kissed your girlfriend, who I just so happen to have been in love with since I was a kid, and that's your reaction?" He yelled. If the rest of the vampires in the house weren't listening before this, they certainly were now. "Be fucking human for once."

Oscar schooled his features, remaining cool and calm. "How'd you suppose I do that, Lando?" He strode towards him as guilt flashed behind Lando's eyes. "Is it such a fucking crime that I have a thing for the both of you?"

It, admittedly, wasn't a possibility Lando had taken into consideration. But then again, he hadn't thought he'd like kissing a male vampire as much as he did. Didn't expect to find himself wanting to again.

"Well, what are we supposed to do? March up to her house and say 'hey this is a bit out there but we both want to date you and we also want to date each other. Also he can't die and I turn into a fucking dog once a month'? If she doesn't kick us out her dad would get his gun," Lando said as he sat back down.

Oscar stared at him. For a full minute, as he went over Lando's words. "Did you just say you want to date me?"

"Huh?"

"You just said 'we want to date each other'."

"I said a lot of things, Osc."

Now, the two had never been in close enough proximity without tearing at each other for Lando to call him 'Osc'. He might have been a pale, undead being, but a blush still rose to his cheeks.

And, suddenly, Oscar was kissing him. He stepped closer and kissed him, dragging his pointed canines across his bottom lip. Lando didn't push him away. No, quite the opposite. He ran his hands through Oscar's hair, tugging enough to pull a whine from his lips.

But then Lando did step away. Rather breathlessly he stepped away from Oscar. "You gotta start warning me," he said as he wiped at his mouth. "Look, Osc...ar, I like kissing you. I think that's kinda clear. But dating you is a whole other..." He waved his hands around as he searched for the words. "But I'm not saying never. Take a guy out for a drink first, you know?"

The giggling laugh that left Lando's lips, Oscar could have listened to it forever. "Should we go tell her?"

"What are we gonna tell her?" Lando asked. His hand brushed against Oscars but he quickly shoved it into his pocket. They weren't quite there yet, and that was okay.

Oscar shrugged his shoulders as he led Lando out of the house. "What you said, I guess. That we want to date her and we also might one day want to date each other."

"And the bit about us being..."

"Leave that out for now," Oscar said quickly. He knew from the moment he kissed Lando, from the moment he started dreaming about the three of them together, that this conversation wouldn't be quite so easy for him.

Lando was a werewolf. A big, dangerous wolf who could come across as cute and cuddly. But Oscar? He had to kill to stay alive. How could he ever be loved?

He didn't let his thoughts stray as the two made their way into town. Crossing into the werewolf side of town didn't feel quite as illegal with Lando by his side. Lando, who was making talking so easy. Lando, who was still a little wary of him. Lando, who pushed past that wariness.

But here they stood, in front of her door. Oscar sucked in a breath, his pose mirroring Lando. Both of them with their hands shoved into their pockets. "Do you want to?" Oscar asked as he gestured to the door.

Lando looked up at the bedrooms. "We could just go to her window," he said.

"Yeah, and have Toto try to murder us."

"What're you so worried about? You literally can't die."

Oscar knocked on the door. It was hesitant and slow, and probably a bit ominous. But Susie didn't look wary as she pulled the door open. "Hello, boys," she said, stepping to the side to let them in.

"Hello, Mrs Wolff," they said in quick succession as they came to stand in the foyer. They wiped their shoes on the mat by the door and looked around the house they'd both been in many times before.

"She's upstairs," Susie said before returning to the kitchen, where she had her laptop open for work and Jake sitting beside her, colouring in a race car.

The boys looked at each other. This was it. They were really doing this. The two apex predators were terrified.

Lando led the way up the stairs. He kept his gaze fixed forward, only to keep his feet moving in the same direction. The steady, thumping bass of music filled his ears as he approached her door.

When he knocked, the music switched off. The boys spared a glance at each other, but only for a second. Because then the door was pulled open, and the minimal amount of courage they'd built up on their way up the stairs had flown out of the window.

Surprise was written on her face as she looked at them. "Hey guys," she said, brows furrowing. "I... thought you didn't know each other."

Oscar couldn't stop himself from looking at Lando. Lando, who looked guilty. "You told her we didn't know each other?"

"That was before..." He did that thing where he waved his hands because he couldn't find the word.

She let them into her room, shut the door behind them and sat on her bed. They could have sat, but they didn't. No, they stayed standing by her desk. "What's going on with you guys?" She asked as she folded her arms over her chest.

They couldn't say anything. Lando coughed. "After you," he said and nudged Oscar.

"No no," he said. "After you."

Lando sucked in a breath. "We... aren't human."

"Lando!"

Well, that certainly didn't go to plan."

a/n: this might be my favourite chapter i love these silly little guys

Taglist: @biancathecool

@rewmuslupin

@prettiest-at-the-party

@hellowgoodbye

@minseok-smaus

@formulaal

@darleneslane

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Series taglist (CLOSED): @cmleitora

@booksandflowrs

@evie-119

@annispamz

@neilakk

@ginsengi

@lighttsoutlewis

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gi4hao · 1 day

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ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི₊ ⊹ ˎˊ- how they make you feel beautiful

ot13 x reader — some mentions of insecurities

a/n: don’t mind me pushing the taking-pictures-as-a-love-language agenda for wonu, as always

— seungcheol: with gifts

with him, gifts for no particular reason are much more frequent than gifts for a specific occasion. he doesn’t like to come home empty handed and always says you deserve all the pretty things in the world. if he ever buys you a piece of clothing or jewelry, then he’ll be the happiest man on earth every time you wear it, showering you with compliments a little bit more than usual just because he loves spoiling you <3

— jeonghan: with specific compliments

every variation of color in your irises, the micro expressions on your face, the way your laugh slightly varies depending on what’s provoking it: whether it’s something new or not, jeonghan will compliment the slightest details in your appearance or your personality. sometimes he begins with a “did i ever tell you…”, and you know you’re about to hear the sweetest thing ever. like, “did i ever tell you how dreamy you look in that light? i can’t stop looking at you,” and even though he’s just talking about the orange-ish hues of your bedside lamp, you know he’s being 100% honest.

— joshua: by saying it out loud

“you’re the prettiest” while you’re brushing your teeth, “you look so gorgeous” when he’s picking you up in his car, or just your usual “hey beautiful” when you wake up in the morning. he never gets tired of saying it and you never get tired of hearing it. he barely uses your name anymore because he’s so used to calling you ‘beautiful’. the man is so smitten he could spend hours flirting with you, years into the relationship. and it’s even better if you’re easily flustered because he loves how shy you get when you hear those words…

— jun: with cuddles

there’s something about the way his fingers mindlessly trace your silhouette that makes you feel like the most delicate sculpture ever. you could just be cuddling in silence, reading a book or scrolling on your phone, and his hands will gently brush against your skin like they were made to do that and nothing else. sometimes you feel like returning the favor, but although he doesn’t mind it at all, it’ll never come close to how much he loves cherishing you with his cuddles.

— hoshi: by being your #1 hypeman

even though you’re someone that brings hoshi a lot of peace and serenity, your mere existence also gets him very excited for no apparent reason. the way he hypes you up whenever you’re getting ready to go out together is similar to the way people cheer for their favorite sports team. he’s celebrating two things: you being absolutely gorgeous, and him being lucky enough to be your partner. “honestly, if i saw you walking down the street without being the one dating you… i think i’d start crying.”

— wonwoo: by taking pictures

it’s not just him taking pictures that makes you feel beautiful, it’s the way he treats his photographs as if they’re the most precious things he owns. he regularly makes sure that they’re synchronized on his personal icloud account in case he ever loses them (it’s very serious to him). but also, he keeps a picture of you on his desk, in his wallet, as his phone wallpaper… and everyone thinks it’s the sweetest thing ever. the guys tried to tease him for it at first, but they quickly gave up because even they had to admit it’s an adorable way to express his love for you.

— woozi: with meaningful looks

it’s a rare occurrence to catch woozi in the act of being incredibly down bad for you. but it sometimes happens when you notice him looking at you with heart-shaped eyes and a smile tugging at his lips. you could be sitting on the other side of a room and his gaze would still find you in a second, lingering for a few seconds just to appreciate your beauty. he said so himself actually, when you asked him why he was looking at you so frequently. “everyone likes looking at beautiful things,” he replied very naturally, not picking up on the squeal you had to hold back.

— dokyeom: by talking about you

“y/n would love that”. “this would look amazing on y/n”. “oh look, y/n just sent me a pic!”. it’s a daily occurrence, and everyone knows they just have to deal with it. some boyfriends might try to gatekeep their partner: that’s not dokyeom’s case at all. in fact, people better be complimenting you in front of him! to be honest, he was talking about you non-stop before you guys even started dating, which is why you barely had to introduce yourself to his friends. you’re one of his proudest accomplishments and he wants the whole world to know about you!!

— mingyu: with kisses

there’s nothing like being kissed by mingyu to feel a sudden boost of self-confidence. his hands gently cupping your cheeks, the way he looks at you in between kisses and the growing smile in his eyes and on his lips… everything in his behavior seems tailor-made to make you feel like a vision of heaven. it doesn’t always have to be kisses on your lips tho, sometimes it’s on the back of your hand, on your shoulder or on your temple. but no matter where his lips touch your skin, they always convey just how much he cherishes you and every inch of your body.

— minghao: by drawing you

no other representation of yourself makes you feel as self-confident as minghao’s drawings of you. at first you were a bit taken aback by the feeling of seeing yourself through someone else’s perspective in such a raw way. but you got used to it pretty quickly, mostly because of how often minghao uses you as a reference. when you take a closer look at them, you realize his drawings are filled with details that not only depict your looks, but also traits of your personality. slowly but surely, you start to believe in the beauty he consistently finds in you, and that’s enough to let him know he’s doing a perfect job.

— seungkwan: by complimenting your insecurities

he doesn’t do it that often because he doesn’t want it to be the only thing he compliments you on. but seungkwan is very attentive to the way you perceive yourself so he will guess your insecurities even if you don’t talk about them out loud. therefore, he’ll find subtle ways to compliment them without making it too obvious. sometimes it’s not even out loud, it might just be by gently brushing against a body part you’re not confident in, or hyping you up in an outfit that doesn’t hide your insecurity. no matter how he does it, it always comes with such kindness and love that you have no choice but to feel a bit prettier than you did seconds ago.

— vernon: by paying attention

it sounds silly but it’s true. vernon pays attention to everything, from the colors you look most confident in, to what kind of compliments seem to work best on you. and later on, he’s able to adapt his behavior accordingly, to make you feel as good as possible in any situation. “you always know exactly what say, i don’t know how you do it,” you once told him, almost teary from how sweet he was being. “well, the fact that you strongly underestimate how beautiful you are is an insanely good motivation,” he replied, gently wiping the tears under your lash line.

— dino: by showing you off

he considers you the rarest gem of all, so yes of course he will show you off to whoever’s near! he’s the type of boyfriend that will enter a room before you just because he wants to do jazz hands for your entry. and he has such a smug look on his face when you two are out together, it’s like he’s in a permanent state of pride just because you’re holding hands in public. and although he’s not huge on pda, he has no problem complimenting you out loud in front of other people, and you find yourself on his instagram stories on a regular basis, which makes your self-esteem go up a notch every single time.

REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

#seventeen x reader #seventeen fluff #scoups x reader #jeonghan x reader #joshua x reader #jun x reader #hoshi x reader #wonwoo x reader #woozi x reader #dokyeom x reader #mingyu x reader #seungkwan x reader #minghao x reader #vernon x reader #dino x reader #seungcheol x reader

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chuuyanakaharalegalwife · 2 days

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My Mess (Dazai x Reader)

In which we clean blood off him after a mission

Read my other dazai oneshots here, here & here :] (peep the turtle smile)

Impulsively wrote this today after a crying session

Bye now - Mars ♡

Dazai came home bloodied and bruised. He stumbled into your apartment, seeking you out from where you were on the couch engrossed in your book. Not caring that he was messing up your couch or clothes, he flopped down onto the couch, burying his face into your stomach with mumbles of words you have a hard time figuring out.

“Osamu, what happened?” there’s an urgency in your voice as you assess your boyfriend’s state, propping him to sit up, but he’s stubborn and bury his face into your chest. “Sit up, please, for me?”, you’ve found over the years of dating Dazai that he doesn’t allow himself the freedom of emotions. He doesn’t love often, but when he loves, he loves.

Reluctantly he sat up, looking at you with a smile, a fake one. The one he gives everyone when he so effortlessly slips into his overdramatic happy persona. But you know better. Of course, you know better when your soul is a hopeless mess without his and vice versa. It’s what happens when you spend so much time with someone, when your days and laughter blend into theirs and your body trusts them so much that sleep comes naturally, even for the sleepless like him.

“What happened, ‘Samu?” you ask again, voice so gently it takes the form of a whisper, brows frowning softly as your eyes search his for an answer, or explanation, or something. Anything he’s willing to give you. Anything of truth. No pretenses.

“Had a mission today”

That you knew. He’d told you before he left for work, thinking you were willed away with slumber, but you heard the sweet melody of his voice through your dreamland. A sickeningly sweet tune luring your soul back to its body, to him. To him.

His face was exhausted, eyes darker than usual. His hair matted with dried blood and his bandages stained red from the thick crimson. Whether his or someone else, you were unsure of.

“Wanna tell me about it?”

“No”

‘Okay”

You hummed, standing up and urging him to stand too. “Let’s get you cleaned up”

You made your way to the bathroom, Osamu practically slumped over you. You guide him to sit on the stool you kept in your bathroom for shaving.

“May I?” you asked softly, your voice honeyed to not startle him. You’d seen Osamu without his bandages before though it wasn’t plenty of times. You didn’t want to rush things with him, founding yourself liking what you had with this man.

He also liked, and appreciated, your understanding nature. He loved how gentle you were with him and most of all he liked how you let him figure his shit out. Never wanting to save him, just be there for him whilst he saved himself.

He nodded, closing his eyes, and resting his head on your shoulder. His hands found themselves around your waist, if only loosely.

You gently unwrap his bandages, taking a washcloth and wetting it with some warm water, pressing it against his skin. The warmness of the water softens the stubborn dried blood. The silence overtakes you both, it’s comfortable. No need to fill the space.

You continue to wipe him down, only slipping away to run the bath for him. Filling the tub with warm water and dropping a bath bomb to dissolve in it. Stepping back over to him, ridding him of the rest of his clothes as you help him into the tub.

Osamu rested his head over the edge, whilst you wetted it, adding the shampoo and conditioner to soften the matted mess of a bird’s nest that has become his usually silky hair. You noticed he closed his eyes, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his forehead, along with words of affection.

Dazai opened his eyes and looked up at you, a soft smile graced his lips. “Bella…” He spoke, “Join me”

You smiled, ridding yourself of your clothes and slipping into the waters with him. Body straddling his as you brought your hands to cup his cheeks. “Worries me when you come home like this” you confess, words shaky as you bit your lower lip to hold back the emotions threatening to spill over.

“M’okay, Bella” Osamu soothes, “See, right here, safe and sound” he whispers, drawing you closer for a kiss. A simple soft kiss, you feel him. Tongue slipping into your mouth, hands wandering down to your waist, one slipping lower to squeeze the fat of your ass.

You gasp softly against his lips, Dazai’s mouth swallowing all your sounds. “Always come back to you, baby, don’t worry that pretty little head” he rasps against your lips, swollen lips.

Dazai’s mood stabilized as his darling tended to him. The soft touches of your fingers and words caressed his soul and hardened his cock. The rawness of your worry is something he loves. Because it shows you care, genuinely. It silences his mind that tries to tell him that you don’t, that all of this isn’t real and that any day you’d up and leave him.

So when you stay and tend to him as he comes bloodied and hurt instead of running away scared and frightened and disgusted, as he expected you to be, it relieved him greatly. It affirms the unspoken truthness of your relationship. You love him. You love him. Maybe just as much he loves you, he hopes.

#dazai osamu #bsd dazai #dazai x reader #bsd x reader #dazai fluff #bsd fluff #bungo stray dogs #marswrite #osamu fluff #osamudazai

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endless-ineffabilities · 1 day

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But Daddy, I Love Him (chapter one)

Daemon Targaryen x f!reader

synopsis : the reader is a daughter of the Lord of House Arwen - ever so dutiful and mild-mannered. Slated to be the lady wife of some highborn Lord, someone who is noble and decent. Not the volatile Rogue Prince. Not Daemon Targaryen.

in this chapter : The Rogue Prince and the reader meet. Their fates entwine. A fool is made out of a Lady.

themes/warnings : Daemon being Daemon is a warning in itself, Daemon has a superiority complex, highborn!reader, House Arwen is my own creation (name inspired by lotr!)

series list : chapter one - chapter two - chapter three

word count : 2k ▪︎ masterlist

a/n : the title and the series concept inspired by the TS song ofc <3

Dutiful daughter, all my plans were laid. Tendrils tucked into a woven braid...

Your chambers. The Godswood. The library.

Every day is the same. The mornings start with your ladies in waiting helping you prepare for the day. Running your bath, carefully pressing your frocks, lacing you up in your bodice. Making sure each lock of hair is in place, the right amount of rouge dabbed against the apples of your cheeks.

You were once a perfect little girl, now a perfect little lady.

Soon a perfect little lady wife.

This is your story, already woven, already told time and time again. The same story for all ladies of your standing.

All you have to do is to be good. And so you are.

Thank the gods for the stories you read, enabling you jump into different lives. Adventures and romances you know you will never have, not truly. But you are happy to play the fool with every page turned.

The library has become your safe haven, your home within your home. Nestled high in the sprawling castle of House Arwen. Nothing can disturb you here. No one.

Or so you thought.

The very first words you hear Daemon Targaryen say to you come across as rather rude. You will find in time that he does not mean to be rude. Not all the time, that is. This is just how he is.

"I have always found that story rather dull. Amusing how you seem to be so engrossed in it, my lady."

"Excuse me, but I will you have you know - " you raise your head, taking in the visitor. Or intruder.

"Prince Daemon," you rise from your seat, offering a well-practiced curtsy. An instinctive move of obeisance for a lady like you.

He barely acknowledges your gesture, his face flat and impassive. "That book. I was forced to read it in my youth. Our Maester all but shoved it down my throat."

You immediately do not take to his approach. That book is one of the most famous tales from Old Valyria. He should know, being of Valyrian blood and all.

"I believe there is much to like about this book, my Prince."

"Such as?"

"Well, it depicts a warrior knight of Old - "

"Some warrior knight," Daemon scoffs, not even letting you finish your statement. "He gave up his powers for the love of a wench he knew for just a fortnight. He had every chance at glory but he squandered all of it away. For what?"

"For... for love?" comes your response, though you know he did not really want one.

For someone who claims to dislike this story so much, he sure knows it well.

He mindlessly taps his fingers on a nearby shelf, eyes lazily reading the titles. Drifting through the room with the unmistakeable disdain of someone who is used to having so much, the world practically by his feet, but is disinterested with it all.

You think that you could fall dead right then and Daemon wouldn't care. Wouldn't even bat an eyelash. He rolls his eyes at your mention of love, and it does not help your impression of him.

"There are only two things worthy of love in my eyes, my lady, and that is power and blood."

"Blood? Well, my prince, family is one of the most important - "

"Blood is not the same for me as it is for you. My blood carries a legacy of fire and magic, being of Old Valyria. You would not possibly understand how I hold my blood in high regard."

Oh may the gods strike him down now.

Your hands clench into fists, pressing against your skirts, but you don't have it in you to notice the unladylike gesture. All you can think of is letting him have a piece of your mind. "A family can have a flock of sheep or a horde of dragons, my prince, and it makes no difference to me. Your family is your family, your blood is your blood. But whether you choose to love them does not solely depend on blood."

It is as if he sees for you for the first time then, the moment you show that you have your own voice, and that you will not simply cater to his whims.

He turns eager to press you further, make you break, make you cave in. "What of you, my lady? What is it that you find worthy of love? Family, I presume, from your poorly formed argument? What about a lord husband?"

"I do love my family," you nod. "And when I do wed, I am sure I will love my lord husband just as dearly."

He walks closer, but does not stop in front of you as is the polite thing to do in conversation. He circles you, and you feel exposed by the way he openly takes you in. "Oh, but how will you know? You do not have a choice, do you? How can that be love?"

You do not answer right away, for the prince has just voiced one of your biggest fears. What if you do not find love in your lord husband? What sort of life would that entail? One which you have been preparing for since you entered womanhood, one you always thought you would be willing to accept. It is your duty, after all.

So you say just that. "It is my duty, and if I am able to fulfil my duty, then I am certain that will bring me happiness."

Daemon scoffs, his lips forming a self-righteous sneer. "In the story, do you then think that the warrior knight would have been better off fulfilling his duty and abandoning his love?"

"It is not the same."

"It is exactly the same."

"No," you emphasize, "because he had a choice. I do not."

He had stopped right in front of you, a bit too close for comfort, almost as if he needs to lean in to scrutinize you fully. "Love is the death of duty, my lady. Take my word for it, you would be far better off playing your role. If you truly wish to honour your family, you would not fall in love at all."

He's so close that you can feel his breath fanning your face. If you didn't know any better, you would believe that simply being so near Daemon Targaryen is the reason why your body feels like it is on fire. He gives off heat like a furnace, like a dragon.

Maybe he is a dragon. Is that not what they all say about Targaryens?

You open your mouth to take a breath, lest your throat also burns from the dry warmth, your stomach curling adding to your nerves. It prompts you to ask, "What about you, my prince? Has duty stolen every chance you have at love?"

His eyes draw downward to your lips, and his faint blonde lashes catch the light. The Rogue Prince does look otherwordly. Everything you have heard about him has been inadequate.

His violet eyes meet yours once more. "I would not bother with such frivolity. As I said, my lady, power and blood are all there is."

"Perhaps so. Perhaps true love only exists in the stories that I read."

"You are learning," he nods, and offers what might be his first genuine smile to you.

"Nevertheless," you step away from him, and carry your book back to the shelf. "I do not fault the warrior knight for choosing love over glory. I would choose as he had done, if that were a possibility."

His response is glib, but not meant to offend. "Then you are a fool, my lady."

"I wish I were a fool, my prince," you smile, lowering your gaze. "Aren't all fools happy?"

"You wish nothing more than to be mere mummer who has found happiness in love."

"If only," you say. It's surprising how easy you're finding it to engage in conversation with him. It feels like you have known him for many moons and not only for this moment.

The Rogue Prince, of all people. Which begs the question, what is he doing in the library of House Arwen?

"Pardon me, my prince, but why have you graced us with your presence this morning?"

He turns serious, almost bored, that he has to acknowledge the reason for his visit. "My brother, the King, has sent me to relay an official decree to your Lord father. He is to accept the position of Master of Coin for the small council."

"He... he is?" you swallow. This would mean that you have to go with him and live in the Red Keep. This also signals that your betrothal to Tyland Lannister is afoot. Your father had recently paid a visit to Casterly Rock to arrange for your marriage to Tyland or Jason Lannister. If it is to be with Jason, you would be sent to Casterly Rock. If Tyland, your father would take the offer to be part of the small council. You are to accompany him and begin courtship with the Master of Ships.

At least it will be Tyland and not Jason.

"Yes, I am supposed to meet your Maester here in the library to deliver the royal decree," Daemon replies, the task so insignificant to him, unaware that he has just delivered news that determines the course of your life.

Not that it makes any difference. Your father has always wanted to join houses with either the Lannisters or the Baratheons. Forge a true Westerosi alliance. It seems that he will finally get his wish.

Your thinking gets the better of you, and you stand unmoving, the weight of duty suddenly feeling too much to bear.

Daemon's face scrunches in what can misconstrued be concern. But surely he isn't. He must only be uncomfortable at your sudden silence and blank expression.

"Is something the matter? Are you not pleased that your father is graced with an opportunity such as this?"

"Of course. I am sure that he would be delighted."

"You do not seem to be."

No, you aren't. While you have met Tyland Lannister before, there was never any attraction there. From your side and his. Yours would be a marriage of convenience, for the benefit of both Houses.

How I wish I was the warrior knight.

"It matters not how I feel, my prince."

There is movement by the doors, and the old Maester rushes in all out of breath.

"My prince!" He calls out immediately. "My deepest apologies that I have kept you waiting."

Daemon pays him no mind. His attention is solely on you. Conscious that the Maester observes the exchange, you clear your throat. "I shall take my leave, my prince. The Maester will see to you now."

You tilt your head and curtsy in farewell. As you pass by Daemon, your hand brushes against his, the pads of his knuckes rough against your own. The first and likely the only time your skin will come into contact with his, you strangely think with regret. Still, it catches you off guard and you feel a sensation like needles pricking all the way up your arm.

"My lady," he greets, and under his breath, making sure the Maester cannot hear, he adds, "my lady fool."

Another smile is shared between the two of you.

Love is the death of duty, he had said. Sooner rather than late, you will find out just how it rings true.

Supper with your Lord father is but another constant. You have always been grateful for it, especially since the passing of your late mother.

He is the only family you have around, with your elder sister already married off to some Lord in the Riverlands. She has already done what was expected of her, securing an alliance for House Arwen and bearing children for her Lord Husband.

The mantle has been passed on to you. It was never something to ponder over, as it is not something in your control.

Do your duty. Play your role. Pray that you never fall in love at all, Daemon said.

But might I fall in love with Tyland? Should that not be what I aim for?

"I heard that you encountered Prince Daemon this morning," your father says. "I trust that you acted accordingly as befits his station."

"Of course, father."

"Though it matters little to me how that rogue prince fares." The derision in his tone cannot be contained. Your father has never held Prince Daemon in any regard, viewing him as a waste of his titles.

"The Prince was gracious enough to exchange pleasantries with me."

Pleasantries. Never mind how he mocked your story, your family, and by extension, you.

"Careful, daughter. Prince Daemon is never loathe to chase after the nearest skirt that catches his fancy. I feel for his newly betrothed, the Lady Laena Velaryon. Far too good for him, that one."

"Daemon is betrothed?" you ask, unable to hide your surprise. Last you heard, his wife Rhea Royce passed in a tragic hunting accident. You also heard the whispers that she perished by her husband's hand.

After finally meeting him, you would not count it as an impossibility. But some part of you does not want to believe that he could be capable of something so vile.

"Yes, Prince Daemon has been betrothed once more. No doubt the most fruitful union for their Houses," your father confirms. With all this talk of betrothals, you already know what is coming, but your stomach sinks all the same when he adds, "as will be the union of House Arwen and House Lannister, dear daughter. You should consider yourself highly fortunate. I have toiled considerably to bring about your betrothal to Tyland Lannister."

"Of course, father." The words are empty, worn through, forever echoing in your ears.

Of course. I will do my duty. What is love after all, but a passing fancy, mere fiction entombed in between pages?

The red scales of the infamous Blood Wyrm glisten under the bright sunlight.

Caraxes lets off an ear-splitting screech as Daemon guides him across the skies.

"Daor tolmiot sir." The Valyrian smoothly comes from Daemon like a song. Not far now.

Not far from the seat of House Arwen in the Westerlands. His destination, for some unknown reason.

Just the seventh day after he was sent to deliver the decree, he finds himself returning once more. It is the day that your Lord father, yourself, and the rest of your envoy are set to ride for King's Landing.

And Daemon has decided to extend an offer to you, the Lady Arwen, one that might infinitely expedite your travels.

There were a myriad of justifications floating around in his head. He found out that you are betrothed to Tyland Lannister and his actions on this day would no doubt ruffle the preening lion's mane.

Anything to needlessly anger a Lannister, Daemon would enjoy.

He would revel in the pleasure of bespoiling such a prim and strait-laced Lady such as yourself. It would be like sport to him.

It must also not be forgotten that this would rouse the ire of your Lord father, who has never held any love for Daemon and vice versa.

All these reasons make complete sense to Daemon. All but one which he does not allow himself to entertain.

That he wishes to see you.

Who are you, if not just another proper wench with your honour and your faith for the Seven Gods up your arse? Daemon has much more discerning tastes, from dragonrider to tavern whore, but never one with your disposition.

You are nothing to Daemon. No one.

But that does not mean he will refrain from indulging in the pleasure of causing chaos.

The clouds part as Caraxes dips lower, revealing the outline of your meagre castle.

"Sepār ilagon konīr." Daemon refers to the inner courtyard where a line of carriages await, precious possessions being lugged onto them by footsoldiers.

Caraxes dives down with precision, his wings casting a shadow over the courtyard as he suddenly descends, leaving everyone startled.

Daemon's boots heavily crunch against the gravel as he jumps down, and he scans the wary crowd for his prize.

Soldiers rising to attention, bowing their heads to their prince. Ladies-in-waiting openly ogling him as he draws nearer. The Maester and his apprentices approaching him with rushed greetings springing from their mouths.

And then, there you are.

Standing just behind the small crowd, whispering hurriedly to your companion. You shush when you spy Daemon heading right for you.

"My prince." You perform the usual curtsy. Daemon thinks the movement does not suit you. He much preferred it when you were getting riled up at his remarks back at your library.

"My lady," he greets. "Lovely weather we are having, is it not?"

You appear confused, your eyes narrowing and nose scrunching for but a brief moment, and Daemon relishes in prompting such an unguarded expression. But it reverts back into your polished smile.

"Yes, it... it is, my prince. Forgive me, but I was not aware that we were expecting you."

No. Of course not. "Let me rephrase that. It is lovely weather for dragonriding, and I am inclined to think that you would enjoy the journey to the Red Keep."

"I am afraid I do not follow."

Daemon gets right to the point and his next words ring true, leaving no room for doubt as to his intentions. "My lady, I would like for you to ride with me."

Your posture becomes slack, and you gape at him like he has grown a second head.

"That would be inappropriate, my prince."

"No," he sneers. "It would be inappropriate if I take you for myself right there on the dragonsaddle, my lady, but I merely wish to offer a ride."

Your companion blushes profusely at his words. Apparently the image affects her so much all she can do is stare at her feet.

You, on the other hand, are unyielding. Your eyes blazing right through his own violet. A nagging voice in Daemon's mind insists that this is what he came for. Nothing else.

You finally say, "It is unbecoming of me to even entertain that notion, Prince Daemon. My Lord father and my betrothed would surely not approve."

Daemon takes a step closer, and the two of you stand nearly toe to toe. "But do you not wish it? Do you not wish to fly on dragonback? Much like the heroes in your stories I would wager."

"Those are just stories. It would be foolish of me."

Daemon laughs dryly, "My lady, is that not what you are? A lady fool who dreams of adventure and love?"

You frown when he has you cornered, your thoughts whirring in that foolish head of yours. Daemon feels the need to run his thumb over your pursed lips.

Perhaps I am the foolish one.

The Maester interrupts, breaking the impasse, nervously looking between the two of you.

"My prince," he says, "if you came to speak to the Lord Arwen, he is still in his chambers. He should be on his way down shortly."

You glance at the Maester then back to Daemon, awaiting his response, but he has none to offer.

You tilt your head disapprovingly at his outright discourtesy until he extends his hand to you. "My lady," he says with sincerity, "you shall be made a good lady wife soon enough, but today I invite you to be foolish with your prince."

It is the Maester who speaks, "My prince, the Lady Arwen must not - "

But you rudely interrupt, a newfound fire blazing in your eyes. "Is it as exhilarating as the stories say?"

"Enough to please a fool," Daemon replies.

With a smile, you fit your hand right into his, consequences be damned.

I may not write for him as often, but Daemon just might be my favourite to characterize and the most fun to weave stories with 🖤

This is a fixed miniseries, with a more or less fixed story, so it will only a three-parter.

#daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen imagine #daemon targaryen #house of the dragon #matt smith #hotd

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once-upon-the-earth · 20 hours

Text

Look I think I said it before somewhere but I need to talk about it again.

Aziraphale (in the show - his characterization differs in the book and I’m talking about show Aziraphale here) is a soft character. He started out as a soldier and he made the conscious decision to give the sword away to someone who would use it for protection, instead of keeping it to fight (leaving out the whole thing about War owning it later on cause that’s a different topic and definitely wasn’t what Aziraphale had in mind when giving away the sword). He also makes a conscious decision to look and act as non-threatening as possible, instead deciding to look soft and huggable and gay as hell a tree full of monkeys on nitrogen oxide. We don’t see him fighting anybody even when he gets the sword back - he just holds it and swings it around a little, he doesn’t even lift it when they face Satan (I think. I’d have to go back and watch again but I’m fairly sure he just stands in the background behind Adam with the tip of the sword facing the ground).

We know, or at least suspect from the scene where he fixes the hole in the wall that he’s physically strong and we know he’s still technically a soldier in Heavens eyes (Gabriel going „you’re a lean mean fighting machine“ and him having and possibly leading a platoon in Heaven) but he fully rejects that position in episode five to go back to Earth. He doesn’t want to be a soldier at all. He’s still a protector, we see this in season two with Jimbriel (he literally says „I said I would protect you and I will), but even THEN he doesn’t physically fight the demons entering the bookshop (he lights the circle but it’s Maggie and Nina throwing fire extinguishers and encyclopedias).

I know we as the fandom love badass Aziraphale. I love badass Aziraphale as well. I take a little bit of an issue with how him actually being badass is portrayed in fanfic sometimes because a lot of trying to make him physically fight demons comes across as trying to make him more masculine, more fit, less the campy, soft, kind character that he is and it annoys me. (A part of that is also how people try to make him more like Crowley, which I don’t like the undertones of either but that’s a whole different topic.) Both because I don’t like the implication that to make him badass you have to change that part of his character and because we’ve seen him being badass in the show already and it was either a) trying to protect humans/Crowley/Jimbriel, which involved a lot more threatening that him actually throwing hands or on one occasion b) him being bitchy (Furfur pronouncing his name wrong). It was him being kind and caring about people and their lives! And possibly their reading skills.

And I know there’s a lot of hope for more badass Aziraphale in season three, because hell yeah, Heaven getting obliterated from the inside? Absolutely. But when we get to see BAMF Aziraphale in season three (because I don’t doubt we will, in some form or other) I’d much rather see him be badass by outsmarting Heaven (magic tricks anybody?) and getting away with it or threatening the Metatron or whatever than by punching somebody in the face. And IF he does have to use physical violence, then I want there to be a reason for it and I want it to be portrayed as a bad thing. Like I want I to be the absolutely lowest point of the character because we know how much he detests doing it and he hates having to do it anyways.

In that case also want it to end with the Metatron dead in a ditch.

#good omens #aziraphale #crowley #gomens #ineffable husbands #aziracrow #aziraphale is soft and gay on PURPOSE and he’s ALSO badass these things don’t cancel each other out #there’s a balance #anyways that’s just my two cents on how I want that part of his character to play out #good omens season 2 #good omens season three #good omens s2 #good omens 3 #good omens season 3 #anthony j crowley #neil gaiman #aziraphale and crowley

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dreaswrld · 1 day

Text

Where it Began

Jude Bellingham

Word count: 900 I think

Drea’s note: Wrote this a while again. Kinda short but I could turn it into a series if requested. Enjoy!

Different coloured lights emanate from outside the busy club building. It’s been booked by a few footballers from Real Madrid and you happened to be invited.

You were somewhat reluctant about joining the boys at the club as you fixed up your hair and headed out of your hotel room. You got into the car that would be taking you to the club and as soon as you got there Vini was first to greet you and walk you in. The loud hip hop music thumps around the packed building and the rhythm slowly merges with your heartbeat.

Clubbing is definitely not your thing. The mere thought of having sweaty, sticky bodies pressed against yours made your skin crawl but you pushed it away as Vini led you by hand and passed a large number of drunk bodies to the football group.

“Y/n!” Jude yelled your name excited as you appeared behind his good friend. His eyes darted to you holding hands with Vini but he pushed any assumptions away as he approached you. Jude was the one who invited you out for the night. You’d much rather spend time with your close friends watching a movie in a small cosy area like your apartment or theirs.

“Jude!” you smile and wrap your arms around his middle as he pulls you in for a hug. You and Jude were not friends per say. He met you through Vini and as you saw him more, you became more knowledgeable of each other but no clear friendship came out of it.

“How are you?” You ask as he passes you a longneck beer, you gladly take it and take a long swig of the bitter liquid awaiting his response.

His eyes concentrate on your lips enclosing the opening of the glass bottle; how he’d love to have your lips on his- concentrate Jude.

“I’m alright,” he shakes himself out of his fantasies, moving his focus back to you, “ how are you, y/n?” he yells back over the loud music but before you could answer, you’re dragged away from him by another one of his teammates who take you to a new group of people.

To your lack of knowledge, Jude curses under his breath at the disturbed opportunity to talk to you.

***

You mingle around the large group of footballers as the hours go by. You dance and sing to your favourite tracks that the hyped DJ plays and chat to the boys and a few girls that they brought along. You’re dancing to a slower track now, Vini’s hands are playfully wrapped around your waist with yours playfully around his neck as you mock a typical romantic dance moment. You giggle as he makes kissy faces to you and you slap his chest jokingly.

Jude’s watching all of this. He is quite tipsy. A mix of jealousy and anger churn in his gut as he thinks of how he should be the one holding you like that, how he should be the one making you smile, how he should be making you giggle. At some point the jealousy has gotten too much for him to handle. He’s fed up with himself for dragging what churns in his heart, so he gets up and strides to you. He places his palm to your shoulder and you turn your head with an arched brow.

“Can I talk to you?” he yells over the increasing volume of the music. You nod confused and leave Vinicius who makes his way to his friends. You follow behind Jude, pushing through the crowd of sweaty, intoxicated bodies before you finally reach the club exit.

He pushes the door open for you and you walk out. The loud music is now only a timid background noise. It’s cold outside. You wrap your hands around your chest to try to warm yourself up.

“Here,” He says, handing over his hoodie, you smile softly and accept it. His rich scent swirls in your nostrils as you put it on and look up at him. You’ve been around him long enough to know when something isn’t sitting right with him so you ask and he looks away.

“So what did you want to talk to me about, Jude?” you stare at him as you play with the hem of his oversized baby black hoodie. He turns his back to you, rubbing the back of his neck and then faces you again.

“There’s something I really, really need to tell you, y/n and I don't know how you say it.” He huffs. “I’m not very good at expressing my feelings and I might ramble and-” he huffs again.

He takes a few steps closer to you and looks down at you. You can feel the heat of his body. His heart is beating hard, so hard he fears you can hear it but he continues.

“What I’m trying to say, y/n is that I have feelings for you…romantic feelings for you and I don’t know how to deal with them,” he sniffles and rubs his nose nervously.

You look up at him and a slightly surprised expression and smile.

“Jude…”

“Yes…” he’s regretting coming out tonight now. He should have kept his mouth shut and maybe gotten drunk instead.

His eyes dart away from you and his body stiffens. You don’t say anything else and before Jude could process what was happening. You wrap your arms around his neck and press your body to his. His own body relaxes around yours and his arms wrap around your waist, completely looking forward to the new relationship that would blossom after tonight.

#football fanfic #jude bellingham #jude bellingham fluff #jude x reader #jude x you #jude bellingham fanfic #jude bellingham x reader #jude bellingham x black reader #jude bellingham x you #｡ﾟ•┈୨ drea writes ୧┈• ｡ﾟ #football blurb #football fluff

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bravevulnerability · 1 day

Note

I’m not sure if you still take prompts but tbh, I don’t even care, can you write anything you want? Doesn’t have to be long! Just craving some good caskett 😭

A/N: I was either reading a book or watching a tv show, I can't recall, but the simple words of "I'll leave early" got stuck in my brain and shot this idea into my head. Set during 4x19, ‘47 Seconds’, initially before any confessions unknowingly occur on the other side of an interrogation room window.

The knock on the door startles him, has him jerking out of his chair and bumping his hip on the edge of the desk.

Castle curses under his breath, winces, but carries on into the living room, to the front door.

It’s late, after midnight, and he hasn’t been able to calm his mind. All he can think about is the victims of the bombing, their loss of life, of opportunity, and how it has selfishly caused him to reflect on those areas of his own life. On Kate.

He’s going to tell her tomorrow. He has to. What if - god forbid - the world were to end for him the way it did for all of those people today, and it would do so without Kate Beckett knowing he loved her? What if the time they had was so much shorter than they could imagine? What if-

Castle feels the color drain from his face, all of the bravado leaving him, as he swings the door open.

“Beckett,” he greets softly, self-consciously smoothing down the tortured strands of hair that have flown this way and that from the restless push of his fingers.

She’s in his hallway with her hair falling in those gentle waves around her shoulders, her face devoid of makeup and an NYPD sweatshirt engulfing her slim frame. Kate offers him a weak twitch of her mouth.

“Hey, Castle.” Her voice is soft but gruff, as if it hasn’t been used in hours. “Did I wake you?”

“No, no,” he assures her, stepping back and gesturing for her to come in. Her eyes flicker around the darkened space, as if ensuring his daughter isn’t at the counter, or his mother on the couch. “I was up, trying to write, but after today… I just couldn’t get out of my head.”

The door clicks quietly behind them and he steps up to her side, catches the haunted glimpse of her eyes gravitating back to him. The warm glow of his office beckons them forward, offering privacy and familiarity. She's never said as much, but he thinks she favors his office, the comforting walls of books and the sofa she often curls up on when she stays late to theorize over cases or plot points for his novels.

“Yeah.” She nods, twisting her fingers together in front of her as she follows him inside. He eases the office door closed. Just in case. The last thing he needs is Alexis's scrutinizing gaze peering in. His daughter means well, he knows, but on the topic of Kate, he hopes to maintain some distance. “I know the feeling.”

“Couldn’t sleep?” he tries, sensing there is more to her visit than she is letting on.

“No,” she admits. “I just - it’s this case. I kept seeing their faces, the crime scene, the senselessness of it. I keep thinking of the victims’ loved ones, what it’s going to do to them.”

Castle tilts his head, understanding but still curious. Her eyes fall to her feet, the worn toes of her sneakers peeking out from her jeans.

“It’s selfish, but it - it made me think of what my shooting did to the people I care about, that I love.” She purses her lips and exhales a breath that quivers. “I don’t think I ever apologized to you. Well, beyond the first time I saw you again after your book signing in the fall,” she murmurs, tentatively lifting her gaze to meet his. “For what I put you through.”

“Kate,” he huffs, but she catches the hand he tries to use to wave her off. He stares down at the slim curl of her fingers around his, the kiss of her thumb to the heart of his palm. “You didn’t put me through anything, you were shot. Besides, I’m one of the lucky ones. You’re here.”

“You know what I mean.” Her eyes harden, a fierce hazel, emboldened. “The summer, and… this. The missed opportunities and lost time. The waiting.”

His brow hitches, surprise rippling through his senses. Sure, they’ve talked around his unspoken vow to wait for her, their conversations always edging on everything shy of committing to one another without saying any actual truths. He’s not used to blatant honesty between them.

His hand relaxes within the grasp of hers, their loosely knotted fingers dangling in the space between them.

“I just - I know it’s not necessarily what you signed up for-”

“Beckett, it’s exactly what I signed up for,” he chuckles, tugging gently on their hands and drawing her a step closer. She has to lift her eyes to him without her heels, her vulnerability alive and shimmering in her gaze just a few inches below. “From the first day we met, I signed up for you.”

“We were different then,” she huffs, shaking her head, but he squeezes her hand.

“Yeah, but maybe we’ve been changing for the better.” He shrugs, watching a sliver of hope slice through her pupils. “Maybe the last four years were necessary, to prove we were capable of growing together. Seems worth waiting for to me.”

Kate’s lips quirk, white teeth appearing to contain the smile.

“You always know how to say something reassuring,” she sighs, but her eyes are dancing with light for him.

“Plus, you’re only the hottest detective in existence, so I’d be stupid to give up so easily-”

She smacks him with her free hand, her laughter quiet and mingling with his. He catches the other hand at his chest, coats her knuckles with his palm, and feels hers come to a cool rest over his heart. Kate’s laugh gentles into a sigh, her body swaying towards his, and then she’s releasing the hand that was holding his. Her arm snakes around his waist instead, her embrace tentative.

Rick's arms automatically wind around her, the movement as natural as breathing. He feels the sink of her body into his, the exhale of tension against his collarbone as she tucks her forehead against his neck.

“I love you, Kate,” he whispers, feeling the terror and exhilaration commingling within his chest as the words escape. He expects her to tense, to draw away, but she remains against him. Still, unspeaking, and possibly not breathing, but in his arms with her fingers curled into the t-shirt at his back. “I don’t need you to be ready to say it back, but I don’t want you to forget, to doubt. I’m here.”

Her arm tightens around him, her fingers curling at his chest, as if she could hold fast to the heart beneath her hand. They remain like that for a long moment and he takes the time to appreciate the shape of her in his arms, the scent of her shampoo in his nose, and her nuzzled cheek against his clavicle.

"I don't want you to doubt either," she murmurs, the heat of her breath rushing over the flesh of his throat.

Kate gingerly lifts her head, dark lashes rising and eyes finding his. Her hand splays at the small of back, her fingertips brushing his spine. He swallows hard, begging his heart to steady before she feels the gallop of it between their bodies.

"You're not alone in this, Rick." A tender smile graces her lips, encouraging yet shy. Her eyes fall to his mouth, linger for a moment too long before fluttering back to his gaze. "And I don't think the wait is for much longer."

"N-no?" He clears his throat, watches her smile grow, and he can't help it. He touches a hand to her jaw, unfurling fingers along her cheek, and watches in amazement as she leans into the cup of his palm.

"No," she confirms, covering the back of his hand with one of hers, holding it there as she turns her head and brushes a kiss to his palm that sends a jolt of electricity up his arm.

"Kate," he sighs, giving into the compromise of pressing his forehead to hers.

"Sorry," she mumbles, abandoning his hand to dust her fingers to his chin. He feels the tips of her fingers trail along his jaw, his eyes fluttering closed as her thumb skims his cheek. "I think I should go."

"It's late," he argues, eyes flickering open to find hers watching closely, bottom lip pinned beneath her teeth again. "Just stay. The guest room-"

"Castle, Alexis and your mom-"

"Something tells me Alexis won't even notice since she leaves for classes at the crack of dawn and my mother won't be up until the clock is flashing double digits."

She's considering it, he can tell.

"Stay," he murmurs, forcing himself to draw back and stealing the hand from his face.

"Castle," she huffs when he begins to drag her towards his bedroom.

"Here," he tells her, letting her go to dig through his dresser, retrieving a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. "These should be comfortable, but you're welcome to raid my closet and drawers for other options if-"

She swipes the clothes from him and glowers as she brushes past, heading for his bathroom.

He nervously rearranges his pillows while he waits for her, trying not to pay attention to the sound of running water or the click of the doorknob.

She still looks uncertain when she drops her clothes in the chair beside his bed, her sweater landing on top of his robe, making him stupidly delighted.

"Come on," he says, climbing onto his side of the bed and cutting the lamp lights. He feels the darkness will seal the deal, allow her the courage to crawl under the covers to innocently lie beside him.

He doesn't know when they decided on his room instead of the guest room, but she makes no move to leave now.

He looks anywhere but at her while he slides his legs beneath the comforter, the sheets, and settles onto his back. But his body, his senses, are attuned to her, and he can hear the quiet rustling of her doing the same. When he risks a glance, he can make out the dark mass of her body curled beneath the blankets a few inches away.

"I'll leave early," she breathes into the shadows between them, as if making a promise to them both.

"Kate."

A moment of silence passes and then the mattress is shifting, her body warm and lithe and nestling beside him. He eases his arm around her, feels the welcome weight of her head on his shoulder, the contented sigh of her breath against his neck.

"I'll leave early," she repeats, adamant but soft.

"Go to sleep, Kate," he whispers, resting his cheek against her hair and feeling the restlessness of her quieting.

Her arms curl between them, her cold hands against his ribs, her knees against his thighs. He drifts to sleep savoring the points of contact.

When he wakes, Kate is gone. Later, he finds that the shirt he lent her the night before is as well.

The next night, when he receives a late knock on his door, he's aware of who will be on the other side and he opens it with anger roiling through his insides.

"You stormed out before I had the chance to explain," she begins immediately, coming into his loft as if she were a storm herself. "I know why you're upset with me, but-"

"Kate, I really think you've said enough today," he cuts her off, keeping his voice low.

It's late, hours since he knows her shift ended. He knows she planned this purposely to avoid his family, to corner him while he was alone.

"What I said to Bobby-"

"Yeah, I already heard it once. I'll pass on a second time," he mutters, locking his front door and leaving her in the entryway.

"Rick." But she follows, of course, chasing him with soft steps to the sanctuary of his office. "It was an interrogation tactic. You're just assuming I was being honest with a suspect," she hisses, easing the office door shut behind her.

Castle crosses his arms and leans back against his desk.

"Fine," he concedes, bitterly. He already knows the answer to his next question, he feels it in his gut, his bones. The horrible truth he's always known. "Do you remember every second of that day? Of being shot?"

Her throat ripples with a swallow, but she exhales steadily, steels herself before she says a word.

"Yes," she confesses, holding his gaze. "I've always remembered."

"Every. Second," he clarifies. Not a question.

Her lips part, the bottom one threatening to quiver ever so slightly. She squares her jaw to stop it.

"Every second," she confirms, her fingers in fists at her sides. "I remember you tackling me, trying to stop the blood, to - to save me."

He casts his eyes away from her, not wanting to remember it, not wanting to recall the feeling of hot blood on his hands, the wide surprise of her eyes, the panicked sound of her gasping for breath beneath him.

"I remember you telling me you love me," she whispers, the words soft but measured. "That was the last thing."

"All this time," he manages, blinking away the horror of those images. "You lied."

"I know," she whispers, exhaling a shaking breath into the silence between them. "I didn't - I didn't know how to face it then. How to be - how to be what I wanted to be for myself, for you. I just... god, Castle. I panicked and if I hadn't been in therapy for the last few months, I'd probably still be lying to you."

He spares a look at her then, the crescents of purple beneath her eyes, the glimmer of moisture making them sparkle in the darkness of the room.

"When I woke up in that hospital room, I didn't feel like a person anymore. The only purpose I've ever felt I had was solving my mother's murder and after the shooting, I didn't think I could survive making room for anything else," she attempts to explain, but he can hear the hitch threatening her throat, the choked sound of her trying not to cry. "I didn't feel worth much else."

Argument bubbles unbidden on his tongue at that, but she speaks first.

"I - I wanted you," she declares, meeting his eyes with a desperation he's never seen in hers. Not for him. "But I didn't feel like I could give what you deserve. I needed to be better first, to heal, to make the room. To acknowledge how important you are to me."

The unshed tears spill over, creating rivulets down her cheeks.

"I love you," she says, but her voice has changed, strengthening with resolve. "I love you, but I wasn't going to screw it up, so I was trying to put in the work. To be more."

Castle doesn't stop her when she takes a step toward him, another.

"I'm sorry." She doesn't touch him, but stands before him, palms up and bare, as if begging. "I should have gone about it all differently, but I - god, I never wanted to hurt you, Rick."

Without thinking, he touches the tear stains on her cheeks, brushing them away with his thumb.

"You don't have to forgive me tonight," she adds softly, staring up at him with tired eyes. "You can stay angry for a while. Just don't - don't give up on me yet."

Shit, she was breaking his heart, siphoning all his resolve.

His fingers slide into her hair, cradling the back of her skull.

"I would never." Her eyes flutter in what looks like relief. "I get it, I do. I just..."

"Hate it," she mumbles, the corner of her mouth twitching ever so slightly.

He shrugs. "I wish we could have done it a little differently, yeah. But I'm not going to hold it against you, Kate, I just need time to process it all."

She nods, her lips pursing resolutely. "Of course."

Her head turns toward the door, but he snags her fingers. She looks to him in askance.

"Will you stay?"

She hesitates. "What about time and space?"

"I didn't say anything about space."

She is not nearly as anxious to crawl into bed with him this time, her body settling beside him without preamble and her arms twining around his torso.

"We're okay, Kate," he promises her, burying the words in her hair as her nose touches his throat and one of her ankles hooks around his.

He rubs her back, tracing the line of her spine through another one of his t-shirts. Eventually, the taut arrangement of bones begins to relax beneath his ministrations and her breathing evens out, her body slack in his arms.

He tries to sleep, but despite all she said, all that has happened over the course of the last few hours, he can't tear his thoughts away from the fact that she loves him. And she said it out loud.

Most of the following nights are spent with her appearing on his doorstep or his on hers, the hour often late, but her smile is always worth it. The first time she opened her door to him, after a night of being dressed up for a stint with Colin Hunt - he hated that guy - she was beaming.

"I thought you'd be at home brooding," she'd chuckled, locking the door behind him, pleasing him with her intent to keep him there. "I was about to come to you."

"No, I couldn't wait that long," he admitted, hanging his coat on one of the empty hooks. "I was kinda hoping you'd still be in that dress."

Kate had huffed a laugh, already dressed down in one of the t-shirts she had stolen from him. He had yet to call her out on it because he didn't want to give her a reason to stop.

"Don't worry, Castle," she teased, lifting her hand to his cheek. "I'll save it for another time."

His brow arced at that. "That statement is heavy with implication."

"It was intended to be," she grinned, sauntering to her bedroom.

He had to bring up the case to keep himself occupied after that, but the way she looked at him every time he insulted Mr. Scotland Yard almost made it worse.

Oh yeah, Kate Beckett definitely wanted him. But until she made the next move, he would wait. He wasn't taking any risk of moving too fast when it came to her. Not when he knew this time would be for keeps.

The evening they solve the zombie case, she vows to appear at his loft, teasing him that he'll never get that makeup off without her help. He has a laser tag game planned with Alexis that turns into the icing on the cake of his day, with his daughter announcing she will be attending Columbia for college.

Most of his makeup has been scrubbed off, the costume gone, when Kate knocks on the front door.

Alexis glances up from washing the dishes, her brow furrowed. "Were we expecting anyone this late?"

"Just Kate." He tries for nonchalance, but Alexis eyes him with both intrigue and wariness as he starts for the door.

When Castle opens it, she's on the other side as promised. She's changed from her leather jacket and jeans to a soft sweater and yoga pants, looking warm and inviting at his doorstep.

"Oh look, you did a pretty good job," she chuckles, reaching for his nearly cleansed cheek, stroking the bone there.

"I don't know if you'll have better luck," he admits. "Prosthetics and stage makeup leave quite the mark."

"Well," she grins, tapping the bag on her arm. "I brought an extra strength cleanser, so we'll give it a shot."

The water from the kitchen sink is still running, catching her attention. Alexis's presence is likely visible from the doorway, the clinking of dishes going into the dishwasher pointedly loud. He feels nervous but hopeful as he watches Kate determine what to do next.

She lowers her hand from his cheek and bites her bottom lip. "Am I too early?"

"No, not at all." He extends his hand for hers and she slips her fingers into the cove of his, allowing him to guide her inside.

"I think she hates me a little less," Kate murmurs, her eyes following the work of the cotton pad she swipes along his skin.

She and Alexis spoke briefly before his daughter went up to bed. Kate had lingered before following him to his en suite bathroom, watching the stairs his daughter had disappeared up with worry lining her face.

"She never hated you," he grunts, wincing when she has to scrub at a spot on his forehead with a little too much vigor. She's been wiping makeup from his skin for the last twenty minutes, standing in front of him while he perched on the edge of his bathtub in his pajamas. "She was upset with me."

"And she's a protective daughter. Trust me, I get it," she assures him gently. Her thumb skims the curve of his eyebrow and he opens his eyes to find her studying him. "I think I should go home tonight, Rick."

He eases his hands onto her hips, watching her brow arch in response.

"I don't want to rush things with Alexis," she elaborates, tossing the cotton pad into the trash and reaching for a clean hand towel.

She dries his face with tender brushes.

"She is unaware you've stayed here at all," he reasons. "I doubt tonight would be any different. Besides, it's late."

"Castle, it's ten," she chuckles, but she hasn't shoved his hands from the resting place of her hipbones. "There's no reason for me to stay."

"No?" He rises slowly from the edge of the tub, holding her gaze the entire time. "What if I need you?"

Her nostrils flare ever so subtly, a tell he's picked up on. She's struggling to ignore him.

"Cuddling is part of our healing journey, Beckett."

She rolls her eyes and shoves on his chest, but doesn't fight the tug of his hand on her arm, the offering of his clothes, his bed.

Castle's eyes flutter open. It's barely light out and it's early, he can tell that much upon waking. But something has woken him, the featherlight dance of a touch to his cheek.

As his vision focuses, he sees Kate lying beside him, her fingers migrating from his face to comb through his hair.

He hums and shifts closer to her, burrowing into the warmth of her body.

Her arms wrap around his neck while his band around her spine. Their legs are tangled and her lips are moving against his ear.

"I gotta go," she whispers, turning her head to graze a kiss to his temple.

He sighs and loosens his grip on her, allows her to untangle their limbs.

"See you in a few hours?" she murmurs, one of her hands still reluctant to leave him, draped along his jaw.

"Of course," he yawns, gazing up at her from his pillow.

She bites her bottom lip for a second before leaning forward, lingering there before tilting her head, dusting her mouth to his. Instantly, his senses come alive under the electricity of her lips.

Castle's arms stall in their retreat from her body, reclaiming their hold on her again.

A smile blooms on her mouth before she's kissing him with more confidence, fitting the curve of her lips to his. He hums in response, kisses her back, and feels her body canting into his.

"Mm, Beckett, you make it hard to let you go," he grumbles, feeling more than hearing the rumble of her laughter.

She stains another kiss to his mouth, mumbling a last farewell against the corner of his mouth before regretfully pulling her body from the bed.

The storm batters against his windows, lightning illuminating his office as he deletes the murder board on his screen, Kate's face disappearing with the tap of his fingers.

They fought last night in her apartment, his love for her used like a bargaining chip for her life, and it wasn't enough.

He's done. He loves her with a fierce strength and softness, in ways he's never loved anyone else, but he can't watch her throw her life away.

It'll just hurt more.

No, he would rather try and gain as much distance as he can before he gets the call that Kate has become the latest to fall victim to the Dragon's wrath.

The knocking on his door begins with vigor.

He pauses, unsure. His first thought is that it must be Kate and the last thing he wants is another argument. But, it could also be Alexis. He turned his phone off after the third consistent ring with Kate's number flashing across the screen. What if his daughter needed him?

Shit.

He curses himself for his ignorance, vowing to turn the phone back on as soon as he checks the door.

Rick composes his expression, ensuring he doesn't look as hassled as he feels, not wanting to alarm his daughter on her special night if it is her.

He unlocks the door, tugs it open, and feels all of that hard work immediately fall, frown returning instantly at the sight of Kate Beckett.

She's soaked to the skin, dripping rain all over the carpeted hall of the building and the entryway to his loft.

"Beckett," he sighs, his fingers already clenching around the door's edge. "What do you want?"

"You," she whispers, breaching the slim space the door allows and reaching for him.

His body betrays him, moving too slowly to block the ascent of her hands to his face, the rise of her body into his, the adamant press of her mouth.

"You had that," he grunts into her kiss before prying her hands from his cheeks. But he doesn't let her go, he can't. So he holds her captured wrists to his chest, studies the desperate features lining her face, the trembling form of her body. "What happened?"

"He got away," she rasps, eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "And I didn't care."

Traitorous hope seeps through the cracks of his heart.

"I almost died and all I could think about was you," she breathes, her head shaking as her gaze roams his face, taking him in as if seeing for the first time. Seeing him clearly. "I'm so sorry, Castle. You were right and I'm - I'm sorry."

Her wrists rotate in his loosened grasp, fingers climbing to bridge at the back of his neck. Her toes arch, lifting her body to meet his, allowing her lips to ghost over his.

"I love you." The words sound sacred falling from her mouth onto his. "I'm sorry I didn't treat you like it."

He suffers only a split moment of indecision - he loves her back, he always will, even though she scares the shit out of him.

Castle layers his mouth over hers, swallows the moan she exhales at the bruise of his kiss, the surge of his body using hers to shut the door. Kate cradles his head in her hands as he kisses her, the tenderness of all the nights before, of the last kiss she graced him with, gone in favor of the brutal fall of his mouth upon hers, the needful crush of his bones into hers.

She doesn't seem to mind, every scrape of his teeth, press of his palm, and grip of his fingers being returned with fervor.

His hands tangle in her hair, wet and dripping down his bare forearms, tilting her face upwards. She gasps when his tongue slides past her parted lips, swiping along hers and exploring the cove of her mouth like he's always wanted to. They've kissed like this before, frenzied and frantic in a darkened parking lot under the ruse of saving Ryan and Esposito, but there was still an ounce of restraint alive then. She had a boyfriend and he was desperate to show her how good they could be together, but they were allowed so little time, so much uncertainty.

Not tonight.

Her head drops back against the door as he skates lips and teeth along her jaw, down her neck. Her arms are clinging to him, her hips clashing with his, as if she can't keep him close enough.

He slows, though, when he reaches the bared flesh of her chest, the scarred skin between her breasts. His thumb skims the spot with reverence, his lips dust there next, feeling her shudder beneath him.

She whimpers as he travels his mouth up her skin, teeth nipping at her collarbone, tongue slicking along the rain coated flesh of her exposed shoulder, her throat.

"Rick," she breathes, the fingers of one hand fisting in his hair, the other slipping between them to yank at the buttons of his shirt.

Castle slides his hands down her sides, her hips, and curls them around her thighs. She's ready when he lifts her, using her toes to hop into his arms.

He chuckles as her arms wrap around his neck and she flips her hair to one side, angling her head to kiss him again.

"Eager, Beckett?" he smirks into her mouth, digging his fingers into her ass as she takes his bottom lip between her teeth.

"Yes," she admits without hesitation, letting him go for a split second to shrug the sopping leather jacket from her shoulders.

It hits the floor with a wet slap, but he can't be bothered to care. She smiles into the next kiss she lays upon his mouth, her happiness tasting like champagne bubbles on his tongue.

"You really love cuddling with me, huh?"

She laughs, tightening her thighs around his waist as they start for his bedroom.

"I plan to do more than cuddle with you tonight, Castle." Her thumb traces the bone of his cheek. "Think you can handle it?"

Her eyes are sparkling, gold flashing excitement rippling through her irises.

Castle kicks the door of his office shut with his foot and carries her into the bedroom.

"The real question is, can you? If you're planning to be up with the sun-"

"No," she cuts him off, kissing him quickly before he can lower them to the bed. He bends to lay her across the mattress, the bracket of her thighs drawing down him into the cradle of her hips. "I don't plan to leave early."

"Oh?" he muses, brushing back the damp strands of hair from her cheeks.

Her fingers thread through his hair, trickle down his neck, and trail along his spine, sending a shiver through him. Her eyes wander across his face, as if studying every feature, lips settling into a soft smile.

"I want to stay," she whispers, like it's a secret.

"Then please," he murmurs, resting his forehead to hers for a moment, breathing into the thin space between them. "Stay."

#castle fanfiction #castle fanfic #kate beckett #richard castle #castle au #castle #mine #this feels so choppy #it's been too long since I've had the time to write for fun #hopefully you enjoy anon!

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thebibliosphere · 1 hour

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since u hv EDS, i was wondering how do you feel about the portrayal of it in fourth wing? i dont hv EDS myself but ive seen people say that the fact that violet literally falls from her dragon mid air and then is cuaght would dislocate the hell out of her hips and that doesnt happen. which is weird considering that yarros has EDS herself. like youd think she'd know better right? idk what do u think as a writer also with EDS?

I think Yarros is entitled to write whatever escapist fantasy she likes about how she experiences her own disability, but unfortunately, the book gives me the ick on multiple levels.

It's very... disability rep circa the early 2000s...

The disability only affects her when it can be used for angst or to make a point of how small and fragile she is next to the big, strong male love interest (ick). And the rest of the time, she's an unstoppable badass who can fall out of the sky and ride a dragon and be just fine! Except for when there's a plot reason or a man around. Then she's made of spun glass and needs to be handled with care.

At least make it make sense, y'know?

It also needed a better editor, tbh. My writer/editor brain kept flagging issues with the pacing and the tone.

Honestly, based on stylistic tone, it feels like it was meant to be a YA (not a bad thing), but because the publisher is a romance house, they jammed sex into it to make it appeal to an adult audience. It's jarring.

Anyway. Yeah. Not a fan. Sorry to anyone who likes it 😅

It's just very not much my cup of tea as a fellow disabled author with EDS who can't turn the EDS off when it's convenient.

#I also think Yarros has a lot of internalized ableism to deal with #and I really wouldn't care save for the fact I can't escape this fucking book

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carriesthewind · 3 days

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I watched Jenny Nicholson's new video on disney's failed Star Wars hotel (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T0CpOYZZZW4), and there is some absolutely *fascinating* mental processes on display on the galactic starcruiser subreddit.

While many people are responding reasonably, some die-hard fans over there are spouting the absolutely unhinged, reality-denying, victim-blaming talking points she discusses in her video. There are several people who seem really invested in not just disagreeing with her, but insisting that she is not only objectively wrong but a bad-faith hater.

So I picked one of these people at random and scrolled back to try and see what their experience of the hotel was.

[Rambling musing below the cut. Unedited because I'm typing this because I can't get to sleep.]

Unsurprisingly, they insisted it was magical and life-changing and one of the best experiences anyone could have. However, these declarations of how important it felt to them were accompanied by no specifics about what about the experience was actually so great (with one exception, which I'll get to in a minute). Their very first post was about how they couldn't articulate why experience felt special.

I have some theories.

First, as Jenny alludes to in her video, there is a psychological pressure to justify the value in something a person has already invested so much money and time into. At one point, the redditor describes waiting on the phone on hold for two hours just to book an *add-on* for their trip. And as she says, the feeling of judgment from others only adds to this pressure. The redditor outright states that they feel uncomfortable saying they went to the hotel (outside the fan groups) because of how people react.

But I think it's more than that. As Jenny describes in her video (and as the redditor's description of their own experience matches), the experience was exhausting and overstimulating. The redditor describes being overwhelmed and overbooked, but also says they feel like they should have skipped out on sleep because they feel like they missed thing. And then, at the end of the second day - a literal 16 hour day of activities - there is a big finale, starting with an adrenaline-triggering "alarm," where you watch a cool live fight in the midst of a hundred other cheering, excited people. And this is the one positive specific that the redditor describes (multiple times, in fact!). They aren't a big fan of the sequels, but they "gasped when Rey showed up" in the finale. This isn't surprising at all! They were watching a live show while in a suggestible state and experienced an adrenaline rush, and their brain processed this as a magical experience.

This is reinforced by the redditor's descriptions of their nostalgia. They talk frequently about wishing they were in the hotel and wanting to return. But they specifics of what they miss are either vague or signifiers of the emotional experience (e.g. talking about how they miss the smell...because it reminds them of the hotel). And at one point, they mention that they miss the pre-trip anticipation almost as much as they miss the hotel itself.

This is a huge tip off that their interpretation of their experience was completely disconnected from the reality of the hotel. Whatever made the experience feel magical for them (whether or not I'm correct about my suspicions as outlined above), it had very little to do with any disney did or the actual quality of the hotel.

To be clear, I'm not invalidating the redditor's experience - if they say it felt life-changing and they don't regret what they spent, I believe them! I love all sorts of things in ways not reflected by any "objective" quality.

HOWEVER. I can also admit that! If someone criticizes something flawed that I love, it's not a personal attack on me! And my love for it isn't an justification for a) contributing to a narrative to encourage people to massively overpay for it and b) attacking people who didn't care for it and blame them for "doing it wrong"!

Especially - and here's the most interesting part - if I have many of the same criticisms of the thing myself.

Because while the redditor has only one specific about what made the experience great, they actually include lots of specifics about their experience. It's just that those specifics are all flaws. Here are some details of their experience as they actually describe it:

There were not enough character actors for them to actually interact with them meaningfully

The setup of the role play made them feel horrible social anxiety for a large chunk of the first day

They were forced to miss at least one major story event because of poor scheduling by the app/disney

Describing being randomly shown story beats disconnected of their actions within the roleplay/game (but describing it as 'I don't know how we accomplished that')

Nearly crying at one point because they were effectively locked out of a story moment

Wasting over an hour trying to figure out how to do a minor quest b/c of poor design

The experience the redditor actually describes is of a fairly-poorly designed, overcrowded larp that made them anxious, exhausted, and at times actively miserable, but ended with a really great adrenaline high. All of these things are objectively bad, and they all match onto Jenny's criticism.

But the redditor subjectively looks back at their experience as wonderful and magical. And so they are angry at Jenny, even though her criticisms map neatly onto their own experience, because she frames them as problems with the hotel. They seem to feel a pressure to defend their subjective experience by rejecting the possibility of any other interpretation of the experience, even the objective bad experiences of others.

In one of their most recent (of many) angry posts about how disingenuous Jenny is, they say, "For me, there's no reason to relitigate the debates surrounding the cruiser. We are more than happy to enjoy our memories from the time and let the rest of the "haters" just wallow in their hatred."

Three sentences earlier, they described how they used some of their precious time inside the magical hotel to try to prove she was lying about not being able to see the dinner show because she was placed behind a column.

The redditor cannot simply enjoy their memories from the time. Because even in the middle of their experience, they were forceably attempting to prove that all the money and time and expectations they invested *must* have been objectively worth it. Jenny's video is threatening because the redditor cannot pretend that they just had different experiences, that Jenny got unlucky while the redditor got lucky and had fun.

After coming home they feel unhappy, which *must* be because the experience was so good that they are dissatisfied returning to their 'normal life'. The anxiety, the wasted time, even the tears? Those weren't the experience, the experience was the adrenaline rush at the very end. It was life-changing. It was magical. It was worth it. All of it was worth every penny. It had to be.

#rambling b/c brain goes brrr instead of sleeping #probably should skip reading this one

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lisbeth-kk · 2 days

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May Prompts (21) Fire

The Luckiest Girl in the World (chapter 21)

Summary: Rosie muses about her peculiar family, and gets invited/ordered to come to the pub.

Twenty-One Years Old

My family wasn’t exactly what you would call average or normal, but as Dad and Papa constantly pointed out: who wants normal. Certainly, none of us. Being an only child and without any cousins, I was mostly exposed to adults outside school. By now, I think you can agree that that wasn’t as boring as it sounded.

Uncle Myc made sure that our small family was extended when he and uncle Greg finally realised that what they had was too precious to ignore.

Papa tried to warn the DI in his normally dramatic flair.

“You know this is playing with fire, Gavin? Falling for a Holmes, means there’s no escape. You’ll be trapped for life, and our love is fierce and protective. A bit like that dragon. John, which film was it?”

“The Hobbit,” Dad answered and reassured uncle Greg that he had nothing to fear. “Deep down, they’re as fluffy as new-born kittens.”

This got him glares that brave men would’ve flinched under, but Dad only laughed and gave Papa a kiss on the forehead and uncle Myc a pat on the shoulder. No one knew how to deal with the Holmes brothers like my Dad.

Of course, this didn’t stop Papa’s attempts to abuse uncle Greg’s name but probably increased it. From that day, every name in the book was put to good use. Dad told him he was being childish, but Dad’s poker face in such matters was laughable at best, so he fooled no one. My uncles just rolled their eyes, knowing that arguing with Papa would accomplish absolutely nothing.

The less said about my aunts, the better, but I’m not exactly one who’s able to keep my mouth shut, am I...

Aunt Harry, the one who was still alive, just barely, by the state of her liver, according to Dad, another one playing with fire, had never been a part of my life. Just like Papa’s deranged and murderous sister, thank God. Dad gave Harry an ultimatum after we moved to Baker Street; get help to get sober or stay away. It sounds harsh, doesn’t it? I had started school when I learned of her existence. We got an assignment to make a family tree.

“Extended and chosen family can also be included,” our teacher told us.

I had no idea what she was talking about, and neither did my friends, so I turned to my main source of information, my parents.

When Dad told me he had a sister, dozens of questions were instantly on the tip of my tongue, but he cut me off before I could utter any of them.

“She’s only my sister by biology, not by heart. You can put her name on the family tree if you like, but she’s sadly not interested in switching the bottle for family.”

“What Dad means, is that the biological part doesn’t always matter. Chosen and extended family can be just as good, sometimes even better,” Papa explained.

***

I found it comforting when uncle Greg moved in with uncle Myc, because the older I got, the more I worried about uncle Myc’s solitary life. He deserved to be loved by others, not just his family.

The pair were even more peculiar than Dad and Papa. Dad and uncle Greg were much more similar, coming from the same upbringing and social class, while uncle Myc and Papa were posh gits. (Dad and uncle Greg’s words.) But still, they fitted together, just like Dad and Papa.

And where did that leave me? Somewhere in the middle, I guess. I wasn’t really that exposed to the upper classes. That was uncle Myc’s area. At least in the connection with his job. I had the advantage of being raised by people of both societies, though, so I coped better at posh events than Dad for example. Granny and Pops were quite down-to-earth people, who obviously rose to the occasion if need be.

***

Uncle Myc was unable to deny the love of his life anything, but he drew the line when it came to pub quiz nights. He didn’t budge a millimetre when uncle Greg tried to flatter him into participating.

“Myc, love. You would ensure that my team won the whole shebang. At least when the questions are about politics, language, history, mathematics et cetera.”

“Gregory, mon cher,” uncle Myc said softly and arched an eyebrow.

Uncle Greg admitted defeat and turned to me. I was twenty-one, drank alcohol on occasion, and was above average intelligence. Three good reasons to join the team apparently.

***

“So, do I call you uncle, Greg, or Lestrade?” I inquired before we entered the pub.

“Just avoid Gaylord and Grimmwolf,” he deadpanned.

“Those are his latest then?” I giggled.

“John said he looked up obscure ones online when he’d used up all the names in the book he found among Mary’s things.”

“Sounds like Papa,” I replied.

I had seen the book now and again, but I never knew it once belonged to my mother.

Luckily for everyone involved, Philip Anderson was no longer a part of uncle’s team Division. Sally Donovan was, but she and Papa had long since buried the hatchet, and she welcomed me quite civilly.

Uncle Greg mocked me the entire evening for my choice of drink.

“Sour beer has nothing to do with beer in my opinion,” he scolded looking disgusted at my pink brew.

“I don’t mind what you call it. Your Guinness looks more like tar than beer to me, so I guess we have to agree to disagree,” I retorted. “Now, do you know the answer to the fifth question or not?”

“You’re a good mix of Watson, Holmes, and yourself,” Sally told me after that.

“Yeah, I get that a lot,” I said. “Thank you. I take that as a compliment, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. That was the intention. They’re…um…good men and are evidently skilled at parenting. I’ll obviously deny it if I’m ever confronted with this,” she murmured.

Uncle Greg placed another glass of the “undrinkable” beer in front of me and gave Sally’s shoulder a pat.

“Getting sentimental on my, Sally?” he inquired with a smile.

“Hardly,” she scoffed and headed for the bar, but her soft expression gave her game away.

Also available on AO3

@calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @raina-at @helloliriels

More tags in the replies

#mayprompts2024 #may 21: fire #sherlock fandom #rosie watson #sherlock #john watson #mycroft holmes #greg lestrade #sally donovan #johnlock #bbc sherlock #sherlock fanfic #ao3 fanfic

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emilykaldwen · 2 days

Text

The Maiden and the Drowning Boy | Aegon x OC | Chapter Seventeen

Rating: Explicit

Ships: Aegon II Targaryen x Abrogail Strong (Lyonel Strong's Daughter), Jacaerys Velaryon x Helaena Targaryen

Summary: As the kingdom teeters on the edge of chaos, Alicent Hightower swaps the pieces on the board: Aegon will marry Abrogail Strong, Larys’ younger sister and heir to Harrenhal. Caught in the web of intrigue and political machinations, the pair must figure out where their loyalties lie, and what they mean to one another.

Tropes: Childhood Sweethearts/Friends to Lovers, Generational Trauma and Cycles of Abuse, It's All About the Character Development, Unreliable Narrators, Multi-POV, Canon Divergent, Bisexual Aegon II Targaryen, Book/Show Mash Up, Fix-It Of Sorts, Stopping the Cycle of Abuse before it gets us all killed, Team Neutral, fairy tale vibes meets victorian medievalism meets grrm

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Author's Note: We've got Rhaenyra POV! We've got Aemond POV! We've got a surprise in the end! Thank you for all the support and patience. You're all getting this chapter early since I'm out of town for the weekend! Enjoy!

PLEASE PLEASE subscribe to the series page or my author page so you get updates when we start the next story! You're not going to want to miss it. (And follow @emkald-fic on tumblr if you read here!)

All my love to @vampire-exgirlfriend for her love and support and holding my hand through this chapter that just kept kicking my fucking ass. If you need more Aemond content, you must read, They Say I killed You (Haunt Me Then)! Now complete! (epilogue going up soon!)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - Parrying the Daggers Thrown At Us

Rhaenyra receives a letter. Aemond cannot find peace until he gets a taste of it.

Grandfather is still ill, much like we saw him last but he prefers his wheel chaired more oft than not…

Things have been tense, understandably so, but Queen Alicent has been cordial and has made sure we are comfortable and have what we need…

Aegon and Aemond keep their distance, perhaps so they can glare all the better…

I do not know how to make amends for what happened…

…and they say Aemond is taken by his pains at times, darkening his room as his head aches from his wound…

I should make amends, it is right…

What do you think I should do?...

Heleana has been the warmest…

…we danced together at the feast and she was quite happy to do so. It is nice spending time with her…

Aegon is happy around Lady Abrogail and she laughs freely with him. He is not like how he used to be as much with her…

I think Lord Lyonel and Ser Harwin would be pleased to see how well she is treated…

Many houses were represented at Aegon’s nameday…

Most seemed to wonder if Aegon would have been named heir and displace you but none came to pass…

…they will inherit Harrenhal. I can see the wisdom in it as Luke will have Driftmark one day, but I think of Joffrey and Aegitsos and my uncles who do not have lands and holds to occupy them…

I love you much, Muñus, I hope you are well and that I will see you soon…

Rhaenyra ran her fingers over her son’s careful script, her mouth twitching in fondness amidst her worry of her zēapos. His letter was long, too much for a raven’s wings and she started from the beginning once she had read it through once. Twice. Her ribs ached as if Jace had been carved out of her to go on this journey and she shook her head, trying to let the feeling flit away on the breeze. Her eldest had a temper, much as she did in her youth, much as his father had, in the ways that drew her in. Time stole away much, and her own bouts of temper had cooled with each broken toy, each yelling fight, each ‘he pulled my hair!’ and ‘He pushed me and won’t share!’

The sounds of swords clanged in the yard and her gaze flitted from her son’s letter - pages crinkled in her grasp - to the courtyard below where Daemon was testing the new recruits to the Dragonstone guard. His silver hair was twisted back from his face in braids as he preferred, something about war and mindset and always be prepared.

He called something towards Joff and Aegitsos as the knight before him panted, having been bested against her husband.

Baela had not written, that much she knew, though Jace had said that she had found a friend in Helaena after a tense standoff. Rhaenyra had found the mention of it surprising, for her little sister, in the times she’d been around her, had been a quiet thing, eyes large in her face, gaze flitting to everyone and no one.

Helaena has been the warmest…

Helaena was not yet married. The match with Aegon had never come to pass.

The invitation lay on the table before her next to the plate of lemon cake she liked for her morning meal on days such as this.

The wedding of Prince Aegon of House Targaryen and Lady Abrogail Strong of Harrenhal…

In five moons, the spectacle would be held in the Riverlands. In five moons, the realm would look upon her brother once more, peacocked and pulled out, as Daemon sneered, by Otto Hightower to show him off as a contender, to put pressure on her father to change his mind. Her father had nearly twenty years to change his mind and still, he had not. Not even in her absence, cowardly as it sometimes felt to retreat and lick her wounds, had her father’s support of the claim and her family seemed to waver. Try as the Hightowers might to scream and spread slanders that would call for bloodshed, her father still would not be swayed. It was the sense of satisfaction that she had felt when he came to her defense in that shadowed hall those years ago, the heated of curl in it that no matter what, there could be no question as to his choice.

He had chosen her.

Even as the feeling waned over time to give over to those moments where she doubted, all the times he had failed to reign his wife in with her abuses and vitriol, the words her son had sent her bolstered her.

I think Lord Lyonel and Ser Harwin would be pleased…

Harwin’s little sister, big blue eyes and red curls bound in braids, peeking curiously over the edge of Lucerys’ cradle next to Jace because ‘She asked if she could see the baby and give him this,’ Harwin had said, as the little girl presented her attempts at embroidering a little dragon on a pillow. Little Abrogail, half Harwin’s, half Alicent’s. She had tried to bring the girl to Dragonstone with them. Would she not be happier away from the court politics with her brother and the quiet? Lord Lyonel had given her a surprised, then hard look, and Rhaenyra had felt chastened in a way her own father had never been able to evoke within her.

“I will keep my daughter with me, and should I send her away, it will be back to her home, at Harrenhal, with her brother.”

Grief washed through her like the crashing of the waves on the rocky shore below and she felt her own jagged edges inside of her. Lyonel Strong had been the best of them, putting the realm first, always by her side at every council meeting she attended, encouraging her, even as his face grew graver with each brunette curled boy she bore.

Violet eyes swept across the parchment again. A servant in the camp had tried to attack the girl, Jace said. Crept into her tent, assuming she would have been alone. Inquiries were being made, but as far as anyone could see, the man had just been a baseborn servant - blending in like no other. Rhaenyra pursed her lips and looked down at the training yard once more, fingers drumming along the stone ledge of the terrace.

She wondered how wrapped around Lady Abrogail’s finger her half-brother might be… and how opportune this moment was.

Alicent’s eldest was marrying and taking a seat in the Riverlands. It was not the bold choice that Rhaenyra had thought would happen. Surely one of the many Lannister girls, or one of the Baratheons - a great house who would be invested in their own daughter becoming queen would have made more sense.

Harrenhal, for the wealth and lands that it had, did not command armies the way the Stormlands did. It did not have endless coffers the way Casterly Rock boasted of. It was a moody fortress on the edge of the God’s Eye, surrounded by lush farmland and woods that were dark and deep and felt that you were somewhere fanciful, somewhere that didn’t hold dragons nor thrones, nothing except for a warm hand wrapped around her own.

The clashing and screaming of steel in the yard below pulled Rhaenyra from her thoughts, and away from the path of her sorrows and regrets. Turning her back to the sight below, she reached for her own parchment and quill, pushing aside the letter from Lord Celtigar.

Lady Abrogail… Good tidings on news of your approaching nuptials…

Aemond pursed his lips, his gaze rising from the book before him, a study on the Conqueror’s approach to the first Dornish war,to squint across the barrel room near the top of the tower that held the library in the Holdfast. He drummed his fingers upon the scarred wooden table, a fingertip running along the crescent burn from the time Abby had accidentally knocked over a candle while they were reading about Harren the Black.

He exhaled slowly, the way the Braavosi manuals advised and looked back at his book.

It had been weeks since his brother’s festivities, and the chill of the end of the growing season had crept in. It was not cold by northern standards, but the air cooled, the rains rolled in for the next several months, and angry storms fell over them from the Narrow Sea, their winds piercing and frightening, as if they were dragons themselves in the winds that the Storm God rode, threatening to tear apart the Red Keep brick by brick.

Helaena’s nameday had passed with quiet fanfare, the lingering lords of the realm who had not left parading their sons in front of his maiden sister. As if any of them were worthy of a dragonrider, someone as clever and kind as Helaena.

It had been complicated over the past weeks since the talk in the garden, and Aemond still wasn’t entirely sure how he felt. What had been most surprising had been the strange sense of release when his sister let him go, leaving him to sit in the rain before Visenya’s statue, her words ringing in his ears.

‘I would burn Dorne for you… but I do not want to leave behind a world of ash and bone.’

How desperate Helaena had looked, angry and frightened and full of hope as she begged not to have a husband, but a brother back. ‘How else am I supposed to protect her?' he had wondered. How else could he offer his sister protection and security if it wasn’t to marry her, to tie her to him so that she would never have to fear, never have to doubt her acceptance and those who loved her?

Aegon had not wanted to marry her. She was weird, he’d sneered. How miserable Helaena would be, how miserable they both would have been. Aemond had done the right thing. He’d stepped up, he had gotten Mother and The Tower to break the betrothal. Even if they had not promised him and Helaena to one another, that was alright, it would simply be a matter of time.

He had Vhagar. There could be no further doubt that he was truly a Valyrian. There could be no more doubt as to his place in the world. All that was left was his sister.

Guilt gnawed deep in his stomach, shame twisting around his throat when the thought filtered through. Helaena was not a bauble he needed to collect to prove something. Collecting her was not protecting her. Collecting her was not about her, but for him, and it was this knowledge that he had thought about constantly.

His sister deserved more than being a broodmare, to be a pawn in the games. The forced distance the last few weeks had given him, after Helaena pushed him from the proverbial nest, had left him unsettled and snappish.

The loud thud of a book hitting the stone floor reverberated through the room. A heavy tome, judging from the heft of the sound, followed by a soft giggling, a deeper snickering sound chasing after it before they muffled and fell quiet.

He knew, with the utmost certainty, why it had fallen quiet.

Ever since the betrothal, the grip on his best friend had been slipping. Oh, him and Abrogail were an unlikely pair, but few appreciated books and history as his cousin did. While digging in the dirt and helping Helaena catalog her collection had been fulfilling, there was something joyous in being able to have someone who understood the quiet and sanctity of the library, and who loved books and reading and learning as he did. Lyonel Strong had always indulged his questions when was young - far more enthralling than Mellos and Orwyle were, and he had fostered that curiosity in his daughter.

‘All she’s going to care about is making babies with Aegon!’ Helaena had cried, frustrated and angry when they’d been alone after the fight in the brothel.

There was a soft cry, and Aemond scowled at his book before his chair scraped across the stone floor and he strode purposefully towards the source of the sound. The histories of the Riverlands were there - not just observational books, but the census, the trade information, things used by the small council’s not-quite-so-small army of clerks and counters and lawmakers. The section of the library that Abby had frequented since the announcement and that he had helped her with.

“Not here,” came the whispered whine, laced with laughter. Aemond rolled his eye as he turned the corner of the aisle. It was shadowed somewhat this far down, The strategically polished silver angled to bounce the light around so as not to pose a fire risk among the precious books, although the day was gray and cloudy and the light reflected was that of a lamp. Abby was pressed against the bookshelves, the blue and silver brocade of her skirts rucked up with her stockings on display, her legs at present, wrapped around his stupid brother’s waist. One arm was stretched out to grab onto the bookshelf behind her, and the fallen book that had been in its place was still on the ground. Aegon’s face was buried into her chest, or maybe her throat?

He was half-blind, after all, sometimes details could be mercifully missed. Or ignored.

“This,” Aemond said, his voice even and dripping with every ounce of annoyance and betrayal he felt, “is the library, not a brothel.”

Aemond’s fists clenched at the disrespect both of them displayed to a place they knew was important to him. At the announcement of his presence, Abby squeaked, Aegon’s arms tightening around her as she scrambled to lower herself without sending them both toppling. He held his arms folded behind his back, his hand scraping along his elbow as the pair of them got themselves in order and he shook his head when Aegon looked at him, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth. Abby had turned to straighten her gown.

“Are you really going to act like this?” Aegon said, for it was barely a question. “We weren’t in front of you and your book. You were the one seeking us out.”

“Because you both weren’t as quiet as you thought you were,” Aemond snapped. “It was distracting.”

A lazy smirk crossed across his brother’s flushed face and he wanted to punch him square in his stupid nose. Let him kiss his future wife with his face bashed in. “Well, my lady is distracting-.” There was a soft sound as Abby smacked Aegon’s shoulder, cutting him off with an exaggerated ow, the flinch was nowhere near the violent response that inhabited his brother when it was their mother doing the hitting. She peered around Aegon’s shoulder, her mouth just as swollen, her cheeks just as flushed and her features apologetic.

“We’re sorry, Aemond. Things just got out of hand. I shouldn’t have-”

“Don’t you apologize,” Aegon interrupted her this time, a fierce look on his face.

“No, actually,” Aemond cut in, taking a step forward, using the few inches he now had on his brother to straighten his shoulders. “She’s right. Thank you, Abby, for apologizing. Are you upset that she has to apologize for you, since your self-awareness is worse than a billy goat ramming his head into things?”

Aegon’s mouth gaped in offense, his flush deepening. There was a bruise along his neck that was going to be difficult to hide. The glib nature of his eldest brother was a trial at the best of times, but this? “You know this isn’t your place to run about as you please. Shall I just unlock my doors, let you roll around in my sheets and over my personal things while you’re at it?”

“It’s the fucking library, Aemond. It doesn’t belong to you-”

Abby let out a startled cry as Aemond’s fist shot out, but as much as he would love to punch his brother, he shoved him instead, feeling the crackling of frustration, the rumble of Vhagar in his chest. “Because it’s all yours, is that it? You mewling fucking kitten. This isn’t just my library, it’s hers too, but you don’t fucking care about anything that means something to anyone else if it gets in the way of what your limp cock wants.”

“Aemond, truly, we’re sorry - Aegon, no!” Abby’s voice was lost in Aegon’s growl as his brother came back with another shove, sending him back a few steps. Aemond laughed, a hint of a sound like the thin scrape of wind whistling through a crack. Yes, yes let the idiot push him around. Let him continue to pull his friend away from him, from him and Helaena both. His gaze darted briefly to the redhead, blue eyes wide as she pressed herself back against the shelves, before meeting his brother’s lighter gaze.

“You are a glib fucking fool, Aegon,” Aemond said lowly, his mouth curling as he readied for a fight, needing to expend the burn of flame inside of him. “I don’t care what the pair of you do, I’ll say nothing should Mother hear of it, but-” he stepped forward and shoved Aegon hard into the bookstack. The ancient wood creaked and groaned, but the stacks were bolted to the floor to prevent them from topping. A few books fell from the force of Aegon’s frame smacking into it. “Stay the hell out of my library.”

He did not look over his shoulder, even as Abby called his name, apology rife in her tone. He strode through the halls, calling for his horse to be saddled while he went to angrily pull on his riding leathers. The left side of his temple ached as it was wont to do when his face was full of tension. Helaena would make him tea, protect him in the quiet, but that was not meant to be today. The last he saw, his sister was in the gardens with Jacaerys.

How he ached to wring the stupid bastard’s neck.

How bright he seemed to make Helaena laugh.

How betrayed Aemond felt by it all.

Why hadn’t Helaena said anything? Why hadn’t she told him that she didn’t want to be married? Why had she just let him wander around like a puppy and now left the fool?

‘But hadn’t she told you?’ a little voice drifted through Aemond’s mind and he paused in the lacing of his leathers. Had she not told him by pursuing that fool Warren Fossoway, and the time that he had spied her kissing him - for he had seen Helaena push the squire behind the carved dragon pillar by the gardens.

‘But she would let me kiss her, she would kiss me, and she’d touch me and I her and-’ The flurry of thoughts ached as he pulled on his boots.

It would not hurt as much if it was anyone but Jacaerys.

The ride to the beach beneath the shadow of the Red Keep was a blur. The rock outcropping of Aegon’s High Hill was a craggy, sheer thing, but the beach below was one that Vhagar enjoyed sunning herself, a guard dog laying at the foot of the bed in a way. Her head lifted as Aemond approached, lowing in greeting and shaking sand from her scales. The tension in Aemond’s chest began to ease at the sight of her, and he approached, patting a gloved hand along her scarred neck, scratching along a vicious scar she must have received in Dorne. There were no words exchanged, not the way Aegon chattered with Sunfyre. Aemond’s bond with Vhagar was one of feeling, of such deep understanding that no words needed to spill from him. In no time, he scaled her great bulk and yelled out the command to fly, which his dragon responded with her own, what he assumed was excited, call in return.

Vhagar landed on the cliffs on the western side of Massey’s Hook, the bay below dotted with smaller fishing boats this far out from King’s Landing and away from the bustle of the capital. Rage and grief, anger and fear were a tempest in his gut and he rankled at the call of Moondancer as his cousin circled above them.

If Baela wanted this fight, then he would meet her, unflinching. Let her see what dragons were made of. They did not all reside on Dragonstone.

“Laodijes peldios!” Baela howled at him, her voice a sharp shout on the breeze, her face twisted and ugly with fury, fists at her side as she readied herself to hit him should he get within reach.

Aemond glared at her, the distance between them shrunk now to an arm length. Vhagar was a great shadow behind him and he could feel the sulfuric heat of her breath as she exhaled buffeting at his back. Moondancer was a little ways away, shrieking fearfully and Aemond could not tell if the dragon reflected her rider’s mood, or her fear of Vhagar.

“You’re a fucking fool. Daemon Targaryen is your father, your mother a Velaryon, and you still don’t realize that a dragon cannot be stolen.”

“You had no fucking right!” Baela snarled. “Vhagar was for Rhaena to claim-”

“If Vhagar had not wanted me, she would have eaten me and you damn well know it.” Aemond cut her off, watching her jaw click shut with a curl of satisfaction. “Vhagar chose me, not your sister. What? You want to kill me to give her another chance at claiming her? Is that what you’re here? To finish the job that you all started?”

“Why would my mother’s dragon choose you?” Balea cried, and this time, there was a choked quality to her rage. Aemond’s eye widened slightly and he leaned back from her, a curl of uncertainty that he despised. His words had been harsh, full of the anger that he had felt simmering these past years. Aemond shrugged it off. He had earned his harshness in this. He’d been the one attacked, the band of them setting upon him simply because he chose to claim his right as a Valyrian prince.

‘Why would my mother’s dragon choose you?’

Aemond ran his tongue over his teeth and leaned back on his foot, watching Baela gasp for air amidst her choking sobs, and turn from him to look out to the bay, towards Driftmark and High Tide.

He remembered his mother’s cries, her rage, her such careful and elegant control snapping as her voice cracked in the silence of the Hall of Nine.

“He’s your son, Viserys.”

“Why did Moondancer choose you?” Aemond asked. “Why did Moondancer choose you, and my egg never hatched?” Baela did not look at him but he could see the way her shoulders tensed. “Why didn’t you go find the guards? Why did you come, thinking a thief had stolen a dragon and Jacaerys brought his blade? Why did they give me a pig, pretending they had found me a dragon as they both had their own? Why did they do nothing but terrorize me with that fact for our childhoods?”

Aegon had done it too, gone in on the fun, drunk on being the eldest. It had lessened considerably in the wake of Rhaenyra leaving the capital, even if his brother sought other ways to tease him - he’d never again mentioned his lack of dragon.

Aegon had come to him in his sick bed, his curls shorn, red eyed and puffy faced, tears on his cheeks, had knelt at his bedside and vowed to him.

“We protect our own and I did not protect you. I do not care if you’ve claimed Vhagar, for I was not there for you when you needed me. It will never happen again. I will protect you. I will be by your side.”

Aemond had sometimes wondered how much of the words were his brother’s own, but he had known, with certainty, that the feelings were genuine. His brother was an idiot, and they butted heads, but his brother loved him in his own way, and for as angry as Aegon could make him, he loved him too. In his own way.

He might admit that on his deathbed, unlike Aegon, who would only need to be in the depths of his cups and into the sad and tearful mourning edge.

“What do you know, Baela?” Aemond said, his voice even, coldness creeping along the edges. “Of fighting and scraping for everything that is owed to you?” He forcefully bit his tongue, copper exploding in his mouth as he broke skin, to keep from pressing further at the loss of her birth right to Driftmark for Rhaenyra’s folly.

“A prince has to scrape for all that is owed to him.” It was rhetorical, biting, and Aemond snorted, taking a step forward, his own gaze looking out at the water.

“You may have been an idiot child, but don’t play me for a fool.” It was impossible not to see how little Viserys thought of his second family, and he had seen it plainly on Jacaerys’ face, the surprise in witnessing it. “I’m sure your father relishes every word you send to him. His little spy.”

Baela’s lip curled in a snarl and she stalked closer. Aemond stayed where he was, watching her with a narrowed eye as Vhagar let out a low growl behind him. She did not move, did not lift her head, but her nostrils flared and Aemond felt the heat of her breath swirl around him. Baela’s eyes widened, and she paused, the indigo of them shining with tears.

He turned his head slightly to look at Vhagar. “Ȳgha iksi,” he reassured her, feeling Vhagar’s displeasure seeping through him, her warning and the remembered rage from those years ago when she could not protect him or take away his pain. He reached for her snout, pressing his hand to the scar above her left nostril, rubbing against it. He turned his back to his cousin and brought his other hand up, feeling the anger hot as coals, hot as dragonfire in his chest. Vhagar was full of tension. He could feel it. Would she feel that way if it wasn’t him? If she was not so worried for him, would she recognize the girl behind him as the child that Laena Velaryon surely brought to her, as Aemond would have brought his own child? Had his grandfather, Baelon, brought his sons to this dragon before them?

The silence filled the air around them, the wind thick with tension. Aemond pressed his forehead to Vhagar, took strength from her, squeezed his eye shut and ignored the pain that lanced through his head and pulsed behind his scar.

The sob behind him was soft, and Moondancer’s cry was mournful.

“He’s your son, Viserys.”

“I did not mean to tarnish your mother’s memory,” Aemond finally spoke, his voice carrying as he looked, blind side towards Baela. “It was not done to hurt you, or to take something from you. It was… It was my only chance. And it’s something I don’t think you’ll ever be able to understand. I am… I am sorry about the loss of your mother. I did not have the opportunity to give you my condolences then, but I can give them to you now.”

The sound Baela made was strangled. Aemond turned to look at her. Baela was stiff beneath her red and black riding leathers, the metal rings in her hair tinkling as the wind tugged at her braids. He recalled the mourning child she had been sitting by her twin and Jace, the vicious yell she’d let out when she punched him in the nose that night, the howls and scream of pain. He felt Vhagar twitch and groan beneath his touch, another warning and he hushed her again, stroking her snout. He watched her gaze go towards Moondancer, who was crying fitfully, grounded still, her aquamarine wings more green against the lush grass of the clifftop.

“Do you want to pet her?”

Baela stared at him, the hostile lines to her face instantly slacking in surprise. “Skoro syt?” Her voice was small and wary, even as her eyes were wide with grief.

“My condolences,” Aemond repeated, and he found the words genuine. It was not Baela, nor her sister, or even his bastard nephews that rankled him. Oh, he wanted his revenge, He wanted what was due, but more of the blame lay with his eldest sister and their father. Of that, Aemond was secure in. He would gladly feed them both to Vhagar, to take an eye as payment for his mother.

His cousin shifted on her booted feet before whatever compelled her brought her forward. Aemond shifted, beckoning her to take her place by his side as he murmured words to Vhagar. Baela had taken her glove off, her slim, tanned hand reaching tentatively up before resting along the scar on Vhagar’s nostril.

They stood there for how long, Aemond was not sure, quietly beside one another as Baela grieved for the mother at the bottom of the Narrow Sea, and his own grief at what was taken from him.

“Do not mourn me, mother…”

‘But mourn the boy dead on Driftmark.’

It was not lightness or peace that settled over Aemond when he and his cousin parted later. He was not certain how much time had passed, only that after she had sobbed, they sat there in a strange, companionable silence eating hunks of bread and cheese and apple that Baela cut with a wicked blade. She did not give him thanks, she did not say anything, but Aemond took the offering of shared food as her own gesture of whatever truce was settled between them. The exchanged curt nods before parting, Baela northeast and away from the city to what Aemond assumed was High Tide and her grandmother and twin, while he circled back towards the city.

Aemond was not certain of the feeling he held except that it felt like he had scratched something out on a list, or deposited a burden that he was trying to carry with all his other, more cumbersome burdens. It was a closed door. That was enough for Aemond, and there was a part of him that wanted to march to his sisters and tell them that he had made nice, to have Abby’s warm smile proud with him, and Helaena’s little clap and promptly being the receiver of her latest mountain spider that Uncle Rodrik had brought her.

Instead, after entering the inner courtyard of the Red Keep and handing off his horse to one of the stablehands, he made his way to the gardens and to his own preferred solitude when the library - so recently desecrated - was not an option. No, Aemond needed air, he needed the statue of Visenya to look down upon him. There, where Helaena had snipped the strings and released him from the vow he had made, the goal that held him that was more about him than it truly was about her.

Where his sister had set him free, and he loved her all the more for it.

The problem, he found, upon striding down the paved path and through the dripping ivy, was that his garden was not, in fact, as empty as he hoped. Wylla Karstark was kneeled in front of a bush of hyacinths, carefully cutting the purple blooms and placing them in a basket beside her. She was clad in a dove gray dress, the black fabric of her kirtle beneath poking out through slashes along her shoulders and puffed at her elbows. Her fox features were pinched in concentration and Aemond watched her for a moment, silent as she had clearly not heard his approach.

Wylla Karstark was an unknown. She was pretty enough, with a long nose and sharp jaw, gray eyes that flashed when she was annoyed, which was the majority of the time. She had a rather frustrating talent of being able to look down at him even as she had to arch her neck, for she was as petite as Abby was. Their joint misfortune, just like Aegon’s. She was also well read, their conversation at the feast turning from a mutual annoyance to discussing the book of poetry that he had seen her reading, which itself had turned into a rather long and in depth conversation on the Valyrian poet, Praxilla, whose work had survived by the grace of her living the life of leisure in Lys when the Doom happened. Wylla and his elder brother unknowingly shared a fondness for drinking songs penned by the scribe, although Aemond was smart enough to know he shouldn’t bring that up.

Not until he needed to.

“It is polite to speak when coming upon someone, Your Grace,” Wylla’s northern burr was arch as she focused on her task. “I would curtsy, but you can see I’m already on my knees.”

Aemond’s cheeks flushed at the turn of her words, and he was not certain if she understood how they could be taken. He decided that she didn’t, for she did not turn to look at him, seemingly unbothered. All for the best, he supposed, for Aemond did not think he could meet her gaze should she be facing him.

“Why are you cutting my flowers?”

“Your flowers, Your Grace?” Wylla laughed, a sharp, lilting sort of sound and he wondered if that’s what she sounded like when she sang. Did she sing? He had not asked her. “These flowers belong to Queen Visenya, for it is her garden, is it not?”

“It is my garden,” he pushed back, frowning at the back of her head, the mass of thick, twisted black braids kept in place with a woven, pearl hair net with wicked looking, pearl tipped hair pins to keep the heaviness of it in place. He flexed his hands, wiping them on his riding leathers as he approached. There were other flowers in her basket, like wisteria and some of the roses from the main garden. He sat, bending his one leg to rest an arm on while the other reached in.

Up close, he could see the red flush to her pale cheeks. He did not recall them looking so red when he saw her the day before, outside of the bit of sun all the girls had gotten during the sun.

Her smack was quick, the sound of flesh stinging flesh loud and he immediately pulled back with a hiss and a glare. “How dare-”

“Those aren’t for you,” Wylla said forcefully, the gray eyes of her bright in her face as she finally looked at him. “They’re for Lady Abrogail.”

Aemond had killed a man for the fox-faced woman before him without hesitation, and the knowledge of it settled in him still, generally buried over the past few weeks because he had no idea what to do about it. They’d been attacked in the night, and Wylla Karstark had shoved a knife between the man’s ribs without hesitation. So tall, Wylla Karstark seemed, so loud, filling up the spaces she was in without holding herself back, that he had so often forgotten how small she was.

Until she was there, in front of him, those gray eyes like the storm ridden ocean.

Aemond held her gaze, reaching back into the basket to pluck one of the deep purple, nearly blue anemones that she had gathered, twirling it idly between his long fingers before reaching up to tuck it behind her ear. Wylla was still beside him, her red painted mouth parted slightly, so he could see the flash of her white teeth behind it. Her cheeks deepend in their red to match the paint on her lips and Aemon hummed.

Abby had been understandably shaken. Knowing her as long as he did, even with the smiles affixed to her face, he knew the signs as intimately as he understood Helaena’s or Aegon’s, or his own mother’s. Wylla Karstark was a mystery. She had been quiet, from what he had seen, but the wedding preparations had taken up much time with the girls, as well as her brother finally leaving the capital earlier that week.

He clenched his jaw, a muscle ticking, before he met her gaze. “Are you alright?”

Her inhale was loud. It trembled and she pressed her red lips together, her throat bobbing with a swallow and looked back at the flowers but did not move to cut anymore. Aemond did not push her, but only waited.

“Yes? No? Strangely yes,” she finally whispered. “I think that’s what bothers me more.”

“That bastard came in with intent to harm,” Aemond said. “If you didn’t kill him, someone else would have. You were incredibly brave.” None knew where he’d come from. The assailant had been clad in the same red garb as the rest of the servants. A baseborn man. Waters or Storm, Aemond couldn’t remember, much like he had no memory of the man’s face before he stared down at it, red and wheezing before he killed him.

“At least it wasn’t Aegon,” Wylla whispered, her eyes wide, drawing his attention back to her. “What would have that turned into - him sneaking in for them to slobber all over each other. Me thinking he was an attacker and-”

The snort of laughter that escaped Aemond at the idea of it all could not be held back. He bent his head, gasping for air as his shoulders shook and it was only a moment before Wylla’s own peel of laughter joined his. It had been some weeks since he’d laughed, in the wake of what happened at the hunt drying up what little humor he’d indulged in. There was an infectious quality to Wylla Karstark’s amusement that he found comforting. Aemond looked at her, her face flushed from her laughter, and he leaned in, kissing her.

The laughter abruptly stopped, her mouth soft against his, still from her clear surprise. She tasted like oranges. Abby must have indulged in the sweet and sour orange cakes they had at the feast. Wylla did not respond, but she didn’t move away either and Aemond took that as acceptance, and he lifted his hand to cup her cheek, thumb swiping softly against the apple of it. Kisses with Helaena had been different - always expected, always ready, with her initiating many of them. The one time he’d kissed Abby, when they were little and Jace had dared him to, did not count. The both of them had made faces, vowing to never do it again.

Kissing Wylla, though? He never wanted to stop, especially not when she reached up, the clippers making a soft thump along the grass to wrap around the end of the braid slung over his shoulder. She tugged it gently and Aemond broke away, blinking and gasping. “What?” he asked. “Should I have not done that?”

“Oh, you should have,” she reassured him, breathless and red faced. She licked her lips and looked at her fingers still wound around his braid, toying with the leather tie. “I was just reminded of something someone told me once.”

He cocked his head, mouth pursed. “What was it?”

The smile that cut across Wylla’s face was amused, the scar along the top of her lip giving a mischievous bend to her small, red mouth. “It was about how dragons purr when you pull their hair.”

Whatever thought started to coalesce about her late night conversation with his sisters was pushed right out when her lips found his.

I would love to hear your thoughts! Even if it's just a keyboard smash! Reblog to spread a story around so others may find it! I would love to hear your theories! What did you love? What are you looking forward to? Happy to have you here as always <3

#my fic #hotd tag #house of the dragon #hotd fic #hotd oc #fyeahgotoc #aegon ii targaryen #aegon ii targaryen x oc #aegon x oc #aegon ii targaryen fic #aegon targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen #baela targaryen #rhaenyra targaryen #oc: abrogail strong #aegon x abby #abrogon #otp: do not go far from me #man tagging is so annoying

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tadpoles-and-daydreams · 1 day

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A ramble on imposter syndrome and the accessibility of witchcraft

So, I’ve been thinking. I think a lot in case you haven’t noticed. Specifically, I’ve been thinking about the major imposter syndrome I’ve been feeling lately in regards to this blog. TL;DR is at the bottom of this post.

People have been, occasionally, sending me asks requesting my opinion on things/how I do things/what I know about XYZ topic. If you are one of these people, I promise I’m not vagueposting about you in particular- in fact, I love these questions! They’re so fun to get and they actually make me sit and think sometimes, or even encourage me to write out something that I’ve been meaning to for my book of shadows. Genuinely, they're wonderful asks to receive. These questions have made me confront something, however; my blog is still small, but some people actually like what I write and value my opinion even if just a little.

I feel like a mimic hiding in the witchcraft community. I feel like, were people to truly understand my experiences, they would want to “expose” me for knowing so little.

So I sat down with those feelings and turned it over in my head and I’ve come to a conclusion. The fact is, I don’t do research. At least- not what I think of when people talk about research. My "research" consists of the occasional rabbit hole I go down, one and two halves of different books I never finished under my belt, what I see scrolling through various social medias, and conversations I've had with other witches. I check to make sure I'm not stepping on the toes of any closed practices- in fact, that's what most of my energy goes to when it comes to research. This isn't a complaint; I'd much rather know that my craft isn't appropriative.

But I don’t know much about mythology, even that of the deities I work with. I don't even remember the holidays and what they're for. I thought Nyx was an Egyptian deity until like four months ago because I'd just heard her name in passing as a child and had never looked into the mythology... Even though I mainly work with the pantheon she belongs to. Y’all, I’ve done like three spells that I remember. My book of shadows is a messy disaster and I love it but it's got so little information in it, because I rarely write things down. Most resources (especially mythology resources) are academically worded or difficult to read for me personally, and all of these things feel like secrets I have to guard with my life because if I were to ever say them aloud, people would know I'm a fraud.

Today I've come to the conclusion that that is, in fact, absolute bullshit.

Maybe it's not, maybe this post will make some people really upset, but in my practice it's bullshit. All of the above is a result of my ADHD and the fact that I am nothing if not a hands-on learner. My craft is mostly my own experiences because that's how my whole life is; I learn by doing. My ideal learning style is sitting with another autistic person whose special interest is whatever I'm learning about and just talking for five hours, but if that's not something I can do, puzzling it out myself is the next best thing. That's what I've been doing ever since I felt had a basic foundation for my craft. Hell, even before I had a foundation I was putting my own experiences into my craft because "Well that rule just doesn't fucking vibe with me."

This post is mostly for me, but partially for anyone who feels similar. We are not broken or doing witchcraft/paganism wrong. We are simply what happens when the kid who could never do homework ends up practicing the "religion/spirituality that comes with homework." Witchcraft and paganism, in my experience, is far from accessible when it comes to the typical image of it. UPG is what makes it accessible. So yes, my practice is heavily UPG, and I don't do as much research as I think people have assumed. But I'm going to let go of the idea that I'm a fraud, because frankly I know enough about witchcraft to have supported my practice this whole time and my deities haven't smited me yet so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

TL:DR:

Fuck the rules, I don't do much research. I've researched the "basics" and what I need to so I'm not stepping on any toes of closed practices, but people seem to think I know way more than I actually do. I've felt like I was lying this whole time but frankly witchcraft just isn't accessible to someone with my flavor of auDHD, so my craft relies heavily on UPG and I've decided that I'm not broken or wrong for that and neither is anyone else. I'm tired of seeing myself as an imposter just because I make my practice doable for me.

#I feel weird about posting this but Loki seems thrilled #of course he is though #“fuck the rules” energy is their whole deal #Frog's writing #shit did I use caps in my previous posts?#Frog's Writing #frog's writing #there we go now it doesn't matter lol #witchcraft #witchblr #pagan witch #pagan #witch community #paganism #deity work #eclectic pagan #paganblr #witch blog

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hazbinhotelie · 11 hours

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Hi! I've just read through your whole blog and I love your writing!

Could I make a personal request of Alastor x reader of how Alastor would react to reader being sick? More specifically symptoms include dizziness, shortness of breath, chest pain, heart palpitations, and overall fatigue which often gives the impression of being about to faint or die.

How would Alastor take care of the person? What would he do in that situation?

Bonus points if you could include a scene where the reader wants a dance with Alastor but is physically too weak/breathless to actually dance, I'll let you think of what Al would do then

Thank you in advance, I really need the comfort right now 😊🥰 (and before you worry, everything is being taken care of from a medical standpoint, I just need something cosy and comforting)

I. Look,,,,

I tried

I think that’s what matters here.

I also didn’t proof read. Sorry

I never expected to fall ill in Hell, of all places. The symptoms came out of nowhere—dizziness, shortness of breath, chest pain, heart palpitations, and an overwhelming fatigue that made it hard to even sit up straight. Alastor noticed immediately.

“Dear, you’re looking quite pale. Are you feeling alright?” His voice carried a mix of genuine concern and curiosity.

I nodded weakly, but my body betrayed me. The world around me swayed, and I felt a sharp pain in my chest. Alastor was at my side in an instant, his usual jaunty grin replaced by a more serious expression.

“Let’s get you comfortable,” he said, helping me to the nearest sofa. His touch was surprisingly gentle as he eased me down onto the cushions. “You need rest. I’ll take care of you.”

I closed my eyes, trying to steady my breathing. The room spun less when I wasn’t looking at it. Alastor’s presence was a strange comfort. I felt the cool touch of a damp cloth on my forehead and opened my eyes to see him dabbing away the sweat that had formed.

“Thank you,” I whispered, my voice barely audible.

I continued to lay on the sofa, bitter at the fact I couldn’t snuggle with him right now. My breaths were coming in shallow gasps, every heartbeat a painful reminder of my fragile state. The dizziness made everything around me blur into indistinct shapes, and the fatigue was so overwhelming it felt like I was sinking into the cushions. Alastor’s keen eyes never left me, his usual jovial mask replaced by a look concern.

“You need to take it easy, dear,” he said, his voice softer than I’d ever heard it. He placed a cool cloth on my forehead again- a different one, to replace the last. The sensation soothing against my burning skin. “We can’t have you dying on us, now can we?”

Despite my discomfort, I managed a small smile. “I don’t plan on going anywhere,” I whispered, my voice weak.

He leaned closer, his face inches from mine, eyes searching. “Good. I’d miss you terribly if you did.” His words, though spoken lightly, carried a weight that made my heart flutter.

Alastor’s presence was oddly reassuring. He was a constant, an anchor in the aching pain from whatever illness I’d picked up. He moved around the room with his usual grace, fetching water and blankets, adjusting the pillows to ensure I was as comfortable as possible. When the dizziness became too much, he held my hand, his thumb tracing gentle circles on my skin.

“Here, drink this,” he said, holding a glass of water to my lips. I sipped slowly, the cool liquid easing my parched throat.

“Thank you,” I murmured, closing my eyes again. “You’re being so kind.”

A soft chuckle escaped him. “Even I have my moments of benevolence, my dear. Besides, I find your company... most agreeable.”

Time seemed to blur as I drifted in and out of sleep, Alastor’s constant care a comforting presence. He hummed softly, a tune that seemed to wrap around me like a warm blanket. Occasionally, he would read aloud from one of his old books, his rich voice a soothing balm to my aching head.

“Do you remember when we first met?” he asked one evening, as he adjusted the blanket over me. “You were so full of fire and defiance. I knew then that you were something special.”

I smiled faintly. “And you were... intimidating. But intriguing.”

He laughed, a genuine sound that made my heart lift. “Intimidating? I suppose I do have that effect on people.”

The days passed in a comforting routine. Alastor was always there, attentive and caring. One evening, as I lay watching the shadows dance on the ceiling (he’d put them there to entertain me, since I couldn’t do much) I felt a sudden longing. “Alastor,” I called softly.

He was by my side in an instant. “Yes, dear?”

“Would you... would you dance with me?”

He looked at me, surprised. “Dance? In your condition?”

I nodded, giving him a small smile. “I’ve always wanted to dance with you.”

Alastor’s expression softened, and he placed a hand over mine. “I think that might be a bit too strenuous for you at the moment. But...” He hesitated for a moment, then smiled gently. “If that’s what you wish.” He helped me to my feet, supporting my weight easily. His touch was firm yet gentle, his arm around my waist as he held my hand in his.

We swayed slowly, a mockery of a real dance but beautiful in its own way. I leaned into him, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against my chest. The dizziness was still there, but his presence made it bearable.

“You’re doing wonderfully,” he whispered, his lips close to my ear. “How about we go back to resting now?”

“Just a little longer,” I mumbled. He sighed, but relented and we continued for another few moments. “Thank you,” I said softly, leaning into him more than before, having trouble keeping myself up.

He smiled, a genuine smile that I rarely saw. “Anything for you, my dear. Now, let’s get you back to the sofa. You need your strength.”

As he helped me back to the sofa, I felt a warm fuzzy feeling in my chest.. Despite his usual antics and eerie demeanor, he showed me a side of him that was capable of deep care and affection.

“That’s it, just relax…” he said, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “I’ll be right here if you need anything.”

I held his hand, squeezing it weakly. “Thank you, Alastor. For everything.”

His smile was warm, eyes soft as he looked at me. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. Now sleep, and know that I’m here.”

And with that, I closed my eyes, letting the comfort of his presence lull me into a much-needed sleep.

#feel better soon <333 #alastor hazbin hotel #alastor the radio demon #hazbin hotel alastor #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel #alastor #the radio demon #alastor x you #alastor x reader #alastor hazbin x reader #alastor hazbin x you #the radio demon x reader #the radio demon x you

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jamsterrr · 1 day

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SEONGHWA .. Fatal Attraction 1

seonghwa. fatal love. ex lovers. “ i want you again .. “

description ; thinking it was for the best , breaking up with your boyfriend of 3 years since you both “ grew apart “ but when a mis understanding comes about. what will happen when you’re forced to spend time together, what happened to those “ we just grew apart “ feelings.

seonghwa!ateez x female!reader

words : 2k

contains. ‼️ ; cursing , sexual scenes , 18+ content , may contain typos , slight slow burn. ( let me know if i miss anything ! )

MULTIPLE PARTS .. !!

———— .. ᯓᡣ𐭩 ( part one ) ᡣ𐭩ᯓ .. ————

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ

You took the small step into your apartment as you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding in. Yesterday's work had drained you. Being a photographer worked a lot on you both mentally and psychically. Staying up most nights to edit pictures, booking as many weekend sessions as you could to be able to afford even rent at times. Though it was mentally stressful it still worked out for you in the end. After breaking up with your boyfriend of 3 years, you thought that nothing could tear you down after remembering how you were for almost 3 weeks straight.

Working in the same place didn't help either. Having to see him when you'd rather you didn't. But you didn't hate him, just his actions on certain things. Regardless, you still kept professional and even more happy that you didn't have to be around him as much. Though feelings still tended to be raw, and you found yourself looking at your old ' happy ' photo together wondering where did everything go wrong?

As you settled down for the day, at work on the last day for a month's time due to a little renovation of your building. You set to use this time to relax, to take time slow. Bills were paid, fridge was stocked and house clean. You were determined to relax. Taking your hair out of its pinned-up state, leaving it to rest in its natural state, running your hands through it as you made your way to your room. A small smile resting on your face when you notice your dog sleeping fondly on the bed, his body curled up and head resting on the pillow next to you.

You gently took your hand, gliding it through the golden retriever's fur as he looked at you, his tail wagging and hitting the bed. Your smile stayed as you made your way to the closet, looking through all of your choices of relaxation clothes. Simply deciding on some shorts, along with a oversized t-shirt, slightly covering the shorts, but that didn't matter, you were in your own place.

Deciding to make your way to your kitchen to wind down for the night, all of the sudden feeling a vibration rattle against your skin. Taking your phone out of your shorts pocket.

The pounding in your heart sent chills down your spine. It was Hwa, someone you didn’t expect. Your ex at the least of all people that could call you. Before the call could end and the phone stopped vibrating you answered, hearing a short breath at the end.

“Hey Y/N, we need to talk … “ he spoke. “About?” You asked, though your tone wasn’t rude, just genuinely interested in why the man you didn’t love anymore, who said didn’t love you anymore was calling you.

“My parents expect you at the family trip” he started. Your eyes widening. Early in the year Hwa’s parents were getting ready for their summer trip, making sure to invite any and everyone. Mostly for memories and since you were considered a member of the family, as well as knowing how much they loved you, you were invited.

“Hwa..” you started. “You didn’t tell your parents we broke up?” Though the silence over the phone told you everything you needed to know about the situation. “No..” the male softly mumbled. “Do you want me to tell them you won’t be attending?” The male suggested. Though his tone sounded hurt. Why would he be.

You took a deep sigh. Could you face Hwa? Would these feelings you put aside start to flood back to you? “No..” you spoke as you gently rubbed the skin near your temple. “You shouldnt tell them that. I’ll come..”.

The feelings you had right now, overshadowing the overall situation at hand. “I’ll make sure to let them know, and I’ll come and pick you up at 7am” the male said softly. The phone connection slightly statically moving. “Okay” is all you were able to reply with. “See you then” and then the phone call was over.

What did I get myself into? Was the only thought that came to your head. Not even the fact that you were hungry. Though you forgot to ask the male an important question.

———————

# contact ,, Seonghwa. 78%…

What about Pop?

You can bring him.. they love him

and tons of room for him to run around.

Ok..

———————

( pop is your dogs name btw. )

The day seemed to go by faster at the thought of going on this trip with your ex. Not wanting to disappoint his family this also meant you had to put on an act. But if your feelings were gone? How were you going to do that?

A sigh escaped your lips once again before you pulled out your bags, stuffing in a couple of outfits, important hygiene things you needed as well as a swimming suit, hoping to relax yourself in the lake whenever you could. Deciding to treat this like a paid vacation, only you had to pretend to be in love with your ex still. This should be interesting.

Your bags were finally packed, as well as the thing you might’ve needed for your dog. After a few minutes you decided it was time for you to go to bed. Reaching over and putting your phone on the charger, as well as setting an alarm to get up early.

Closing your eyes as you and your golden retriever dog drifted off to sleep. Your thoughts or worried drifting away so you were finally able to sleep.

—

Hearing the sound of your alarm caused a groan to escape from your lips. You hated waking up super early in the morning. Though you were excited but slightly anxious for this new trip. Even though it was with a person you’d least want to see, you didn’t want to be bummed out about it. Why?

Slowly making your way out of bed, sitting up and attempting to rub the tiredness out of your eyes. Slowly getting up and rummaging around your dresser, grabbing some casual clothes to be comfortable on the ride there.

Wrapping the leash around your dogs silk fur, you heard a knock at your door. A familiar 3 knocks symbolizing Seonghwa was there.

Your body shuddered in nervousness. This would be the first time seeing him after the breakup, alone and without your friends or colleagues around. Taking a deep breath you walked to the door and opened it as you were greeted by his familiar smile.

“Morning, ready to go?” He asked, bending down and petting Pop. You nodded, clipping his leash on and grabbing your bags before his hand gently grabbed onto them. “I got them, you just get Pop” and that’s what you did.

You watched as the male carry the bags down the apartment stairs and to his car. You following close behind with Pop, leading him into the car when Seonghwa unlocked it. Debating on if you should sit in the front with him, or the back with Pop. Though your body and mind was already a costumed to sit in the front. That’s where you ended up.

Your head rested against the window as you felt the weight of the car shift slightly. Your eyes shooting up to be met by Seonghwa’s.

“I want you to be comfortable this whole time, are you okay?” The male asked softly. You could see it in his eyes.

“I’m good, I’m okay, just a little tired. I’ll go to sleep alright?” You spoke, looking towards him and then turning your head to rest against the window. It was too early for you to think about anything.

Your body felt the car get into gear as your eyes closed. Letting your body drift off to sleep.

After what felt like a whole day you woke up as you felt the car shut off. “Are we here?” You asked the male as he gave you a smile and shook his head. “No, 30 minutes away, but we’ll be there soon” he hummed. “I’m stopping to use the bathroom, you should let Pop do the same” he spoke as he handed you the keys and got out of the car. You slipped the keys onto your wrist and rubbed the tiredness from your eyes.

Gently grabbing the leash from the back and clipping it to the dogs collar, you opened the door to let the dog out before walking him to a reserved spot so he could do his business.

Afterwards you put him back in the car, spotting Seonghwa coming back with a bag full of snacks and drinks. “Finally..” you mumbled slightly as the male chuckled being able to hear you.

“You just woke up, and I know you get hangry, so I decided to just go ahead and nip it in the butt before you chew my head off” the male spoke, putting the snacks into the car.

You huffed and shook your head. “I’ll be back. I’m going to the bathroom” you said slightly rolling your eyes playfully at the male. You caught yourself before straitening your face and going to the bathroom, rubbing the tiredness from your eyes once again. Finally, after a couple of minutes, you finished in the gas station bathroom and spotted the male playing with Pop as a smile gleamed on your face as you got back in the car. "Ahh~ Hwa lets go, I'm ready to be there and get settled in.

After a couple of more hours of driving to the place, many laughs, old jokes the two of you used to tell together to see who would laugh the loudest or the most, and you would always lose. You pulled up to the familiar cabin that you had been to at least once before. The smell of the slightly nostalgic air hitting your nose. "Wow, it's been forever" You spoke to the other, gently stepping out as you let Pop out of the car, the three of you being greeted by Hwa's parents. The both of them giving you big and bright smiles, his mother opening her arms to give you a big hug, you, bowing respectfully and finally hugging her back. "It's been too long Y/n since we have seen you!" the woman said, her grip strong, swaying the two of you side to side.

Hwa chuckled a little nervously before looking at his father and then his mother. "Mom, don't squish her" the male spoke, taking the bags from the trunk, walking up the wooden stairs.

"Shush, I'm just excited to see Y/n" the older woman rolled her eyes at her son. "You two must be tired, lets get you and this beautiful dog inside, rest up and i will fix us some lunch" the woman said, his father greeting you with a smile as well. "That sounds absolutely amazing".

Your face glanced at Seonghwa's, whose hands were now empty and prepared to lead you to the room you two would be sharing for the next month. You bit your lip nervously before excusing yourself from the older couple and made your way to Hwa, following him through the familiar cabin, with the sound of Pop's paws following behind you. Seonghwa carefully opened the door, the room still looking the same, only a few things have changed. The position of the bed, there had no longer been a moose picture plastered on the woods and there was no couch in the room. The two of you stepped in the room, Seonghwa coming in after you. "If you'd be more comfortable I have no problem with sleeping on the couch" he spoke, taking in your staring at the bed. "Oh... no its okay, then people would question why we aren't sleeping together, and I don't want to handle that right now" you replied, walking over to the bed and sitting gently on it. "Plus, it does get cold, and I might only need you for warmth" you said teasing the male, a smile appearing on both faces.

"Yeah, whatever you say Y/n" the male spoke in a low voice, rolling his eyes as he tossed your bags beside you. "Unpack and change, let's get ready for lunch".

𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒ part 2 here. ( not written yet , will be updated )

#Spotify #ateez fanfic #ateez x reader #ateez #atiny #hongjoong #mingi #ateez mingi #seonghwa #atz #kpop #fanfic #fanfiction #kpop fanfic

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