#also more tags to be added probably to the fic once i read it all over :3

[sttoru]

guys gimme motivation so i can finish this on his bday. . . 😞

[jiminjamms]

sex therapy :: 19. open up

chapter tags/warnings: dad! toji. angsty! megumi. strong language. classism. infidelity. manipulative undertones. naoya sucks ass.

word count: 3.6k

notes: thank you for waiting for this update! i was taking exams for some work-related licenses and started my big girl recently. i've also added more chapters to this series because i underestimated when i first planned out the fic. likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated. enjoy! xoxo

fic masterlist | 01. 02. 03. 04. 05. 06. 07. 08. 09. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33.

“Can...we talk?” 

At first, Toji blinked.  

Naturally, he wasn’t sure how to react to such a situation: his client, who he had assumed avoided him for weeks, now standing at his apartment door? This was new.

He didn’t quite understand how or why you ended up here at this hour, but he forced a worried smile. “Yeah, of course, we can talk.”  

When you first tried to speak, your voice only came out as a hoarse croak. So you had to clear your throat, and you forced words to come out again. 

“I’m sorry,” you managed to eke out.  

“Sorry?” Toji raised a brow in surprise. “For what?”  

Hesitating, you bit gently at your inner cheek. “If I tell you, can you please promise me you won’t get mad? Or judge me? I’m just...looking for someone to talk to, and I really, really need you to promise me.” 

In hindsight, that was a stupid question because you both knew that listening was his job, his profession, his field of expertise. Even with the minimal information Toji had gathered in these few seconds, he probably began piecing together your story on his own already. He was good like that—that was what made him your therapist, so there was no need to sugarcoat anything when he already read right through you. 

Still, Toji eased you with a sturdy nod. “Sure. I promise.” 

You didn’t even know where to start in this apology, frankly. You were sorry for doubting him, sorry for ignoring all the red flags he had pointed out about your husband Naoya Zenin. In the end, you were sorry for being so fucking stupid.  

The first time Toji had warned you about Naoya, you should have listened. Toji was the expert here, so how blind could you have been? There was nothing like the crushing realization when you realized for yourself that winning your husband back was nothing more than a pipe dream.  

Far before marrying you, Naoya had long loved someone else. Sure, ‘love’ may be a strong word, but why else would Naoya never want to be home? He could hardly find interest in you and became revolted when looking your way. He must have felt so wrong, so immoral, when cheating on his side-girlfriend for his wife.  

The way Naoya had spoken to you tonight just rubbed salt into the wound. Just shut up. Know your boundaries. Because you were just, in his words, a fucking ornament.  

His mistress sure wasn’t, though, and anyone could place the winning bet that he had gone off to spend the night with her.  

Why were you not enough? 

Was it because she was pretty and you were ugly? That she was smart and you were dumb? That she was funny and you were dull? Just...why? What was the reason? 

And, through thick swallows and blinked-back tears, you told Toji all of that.  

In one gusto, you have once again dumped all your troubles upon his shoulders. A horrible person, that was what you were—and knowing this, your gaze stayed low.  

From your rambling onslaught, Toji must be processing a lot but gave away no emotional indication. From his years at work, he probably had heard it all. 

You waited for Toji to retort with a pompous ‘I told you so!’ or burst into a disdainful laugh—that was how Naoya would have responded. But those reactions never came.  

On the contrary, Toji tapped his chest. “Come here.”  

You frowned over at him, brushing a stray tear from your chin. “What?” 

“Just get over here.”  

When you still wavered with reluctance, Toji pulled you tight against him—one hand firmly pressed against your lower back as the other guided your face to nestle by his shoulder.  

Not expecting this, you were initially stiff and awkward in his arms. Toji’s chest was hard and muscled rather than comfortable, chiseled from his frequent strength training sessions at the gym. But when he began to rub slow circles at your waist with one hand, the other running up and down your back in gentle strokes, something about these little gestures let all your emotions go. 

Slowly, you brought your arms up to wrap around him, hugging him in response. He was warm, his body like a furnace that heated your skin. You curled your hands into tight fists, grabbing the fabric of his T-shirt along with your hold.  

Then, like floodgates bursting, you melted into Toji with a sob.  

“What have I done wrong?” you wailed. “Why can’t I do anything right? What do I even do from here?” 

Toji listened silently as you continued to bawl, releasing all your anger and pain from the terrible weeks that you had endured. He squeezed you the tightest when you sobbed the loudest, comforting you with his ‘there there’ hums. 

“Everything will be okay,” he affirmed eventually, but his words seemed so difficult to believe. 

“No! Everything won’t be okay, Toji,” you cried and shook your head into his neck. “My husband doesn’t want me. Then, if Naoya doesn’t want me, the Zenins wouldn’t want me. Then, no one will want me!” 

“Not true,” Toji was quick to say. He pulled you closer, his large hands patting your upper back too. “Forget Naoya, he’s an utter jerk. He might leave you, but you know who won’t? At the very least, your father won’t—he loves you.” 

“But I would have disappointed him.” 

“How?” he countered sharply. “If he had known how his son-in-law was treating his daughter, why would your father be disappointed in you?” 

Between sniffles, you ruminated his points, half-convinced. 

Toji, breathing out, then added, “Also...I won’t leave you, either. I care about you. There. You’ve already got two on your side. You will not be alone.” 

“But then, what about,” you kept your lips pressed onto his collarbone, “What about the Zenins? Would they turn their backs on me too?” 

Underneath your fingertips, you could feel Toji tensing at the name. “With a family so large, there are bound to be those supporting you as well. You make it sound like all his aunts, his uncles, his...,” he paused briefly, “...his cousins, all worship Naoya when a household like that is rife with drama beneath surface level. Family isn’t family for something like the Zenins. Politics comes first. Business comes first.” 

His answer came out with such confidently that you silently questioned how he could be so sure. 

But you suddenly remembered the kind embraces from Mai and your heart softened at the thought of Maki. 

Maybe Toji was right. 

A soundless sigh flew from your mouth before your arms tightened around Toji's torso, hugging him and resting your chin on his shoulder. After several moments longer, you finally released one long exhale, your tears having stopped and your breathing less erratic. 

Your heart was like lead in your chest, but you pulled your face away from him.  

“I’m sorry,” you rasped, throat raw. “My makeup got onto your shirt.”  

Toji’s smile was soft. 

“That’s fine.” He couldn’t give a damn about his white top. Reassuringly, he ran his hands along your waist before settling on your hips, thumbs rubbing circles into your skin. “As long as you are feeling better, that’s all I need. Besides, that’s my job, yes?” 

“Yes...” you mumbled shyly, wiping tears from your face with the heel of your hand.  

At the sight, Toji reached toward a tissue box behind the door frame.  

“Don’t cry anymore. Naoya isn’t worth the heartache, I’ll guarantee you that.” He dabbed at your pretty face with the napkin in his hands, wiping away not only the remaining tears but also the stream of snot. Lovely. “I am your friend, okay? Before the therapist stuff. We will fix this, together. That’s what friends are for.” 

Friends. 

When Toji first called him your friend, you did not think that he would somehow become your closest confidant. 

You leaned into his touch briefly, sinking into the comfort of his palm. 

“Feeling better, princess?”  

Toji watched you with a chartreuse glimmer in his eyes before you finally pulled yourself from his grasp. His fingers flexed at the lost touch, almost like he was hesitant to let you go, but who was he to stop you? It wasn’t like Toji was your husband or anything. 

"I am,” you replied. “Thank you.” 

“Any time.” He hummed in the ensuing silence before stepping to the side. “Since you’re already here, why don’t you come in? I wouldn’t want you going back like this. Naoya won’t be home, so at least you will have some company here.”  

Tempting. 

“I really shouldn’t stay...” 

“What? Are you sure?” 

No, you were not sure, and Toji sure as hell knew that. 

He lolled his head toward the interior, a few of his black strands sliding across his forehead with the movement.  

“C’mon, I won’t bite,” he reassured before chuckling, “unless...you want me to.” 

You shot the therapist a glare, but the resolve to stay upset faded when you saw him gleam with a wide smirk. Well? that mischievous spark in him seemed to say. What do you think?  

Rolling your eyes, you initially snorted at the offer but could not help smiling at the stupid joke immediately afterward. Your body crumpled forward as you burst into giggles, realizing that this was the first time in weeks that you were...laughing?  

“Fine,” you relented. 

Toji seemed to beam in silent victory, which was cute coming from someone who looked so tough. He swept his arm in a gentle arc toward his apartment. 

“Then, after you, m’lady.”  

You gusYou gushed at the title.

"If you insist,” and you stepped in.  

The warmth from his condo was the first to greet you as though a fireplace had been crackling in the distance. For someone who somehow had the means to afford such a luxurious space, Toji went simple in his furnishings. His cream-colored walls were cleared, save for some framed art pieces that dotted the corridors, and there were no ornate cabinets or dazzling décor. His taste in minimalism and timelessness contrasted with the grandeur in your palatial-like residence, but both styles had their appeal. 

He had a gray and beige color scheme going on with the couches, the tabletops, and the lighting fixtures. The walnut wood flooring added a rustic touch to the apartment, and every corner effortlessly converged refined aesthetics with the sense of home. Even the smell inside was cozy because the apartment emanated of him—of Toji himself: spices with the redolence of bergamot and sage.   

He guided you through a (very wide) hallway that opened into an equally expansive living room. Towards the side was a spiral staircase that led to an upper floor and, further ahead, floor-to-ceiling windows opened to an evening panorama.  

The sky was completely dark, with the sun sunk below the horizon long ago, and the waxing moon hung like a silver sliver far away. Holding your breath, you stepped towards the glass, observing the bustle far below that twinkled like firecrackers against the concrete backdrop.  

“You know, your place...is a lot nicer than I expected.” 

The man tucked his large hands into his front pockets. “I’m offended.”  

Instantly, you grew flustered. “No, I didn’t mean it like that!” (Yes, you totally did.) “It’s just that Sukuna had made it sound like—” That you were dirt poor. “But then Geto said...” Okay, you shouldn’t be dragging more people into this. “Never mind.” 

Quickly, you glanced back outside again, hoping to look like you were distracted by the vista. 

“But then Sukuna and Geto said what?” Toji pried, not letting you live this down. He appeared uncharacteristically intrigued. He wanted to know what his coworkers had spilled, by how much you knew. “What have the other therapists said about me?” 

“Ah, nothing much really,” you confessed, which was the truth to some extent.  

“How much is ‘nothing much?’” 

“Just, well,” you rolled your lips together in thought, “maybe that something, some event, or some person wronged you.” Geto’s words rang fresh in your head. “That ‘Toji just isn’t where he could possibly be.’” 

Half-expectantly, you looked over at the said man from under your lashes, waiting for him to comment on the matter. Toji always appeared so hesitant to talk about his past, but you hoped that he would stop being so mysterious. It was as though he was an enigma for cautious reasons, assessing how much he could open up before he could entirely trust you. 

Toji had pursed his lips as the silence in the living room became uncomfortable. But just when he appeared ready to speak, someone else filled the silence for him. 

“Why the hell are you here?” 

All heads turned to a frowning teenager who stood by the foot of the stairs.  

He had dark eyes—dark eyes glared only at you, narrowed into a violent abyss as though he was mentally aiming daggers into your soul. For a fleeting moment, you were puzzled at who this boy was until Toji spoke first. 

“That’s no way to greet a guest, Megumi.”  

Oh, right. Toji had an eighteen-year-old son, and Megumi was his name. While you had spoken with the teenager on the phone before, it was different to see him in person for the first time. 

For starters, the physical similarities between father and son became immediately apparent. Sure, Toji’s features had a rough edge around them—shaped from his additional years in life—but the two shared the same black stands, pointed noses, and taut lips. There was no denying the flawless genes that flowed between them. 

Megumi, though, had a subtle softness to him. The teenager was smaller and shorter compared to his imposing and rugged father, but he tried to mask that youthful innocence instead with his brash style. He pulled off that ‘wild’ look better than most boys his age could, his hair longer and more tousled. The way he stood in a contrapposto, coupled with how stylish he appeared in his fuchsia tee and black cargo pants, made him look like a model from a streetwear magazine. He reached for an ear piercing with fingers adorned with flashy rings, toying with one particular stud as he examined you.  

Goodness, Megumi Fushiguro was as good-looking as Sukuna had hyped him up to be.  

“Well?” the boy’s irritated voice snapped you back to the present. “What are you doing at our apartment?” 

“Oh, me?” You pointed to yourself. Well, no shit. Who else was he talking to? “I, um—” 

“You’re another one of my dad’s women, aren’t you?” the teenager asked out of the blue, leaving you staring at him dumbly. 

“One of your dad’s who?” 

“Hey!” Toji warned, tone sharp. Frowning at the boy, he reprimanded him with one forceful thwack. Dad Toji was very different than Therapist Toji. “Watch what you—" 

“You’re the one who called me down here!” Megumi shouted back, pushing his father’s arm away.  

“Yes, I did. So what took you ten minutes to get here?” 

“I was in the middle of Valorant. I left my team mid-game but for this?” 

And suddenly, there was this thick and awkward tension that engulfed the room. If you had the magical ability to teleport at will, you would. Toji was obviously distraught at his son’s outburst and Megumi was similarly bristled by your presence.  

About you? Well, there wasn’t anything you could do. 

You took a few steps back. It was unsettling to be caught in a heated confrontation between father and son, and you silently wondered if you should just slip away to let those two sort out their miscommunications. 

“So, this is your new strategy, huh?” Megumi seethed vehemently toward his father, capitalizing upon the silence. “Telling me that Nobara and Yuuji are here only for you to introduce me to, out of everyone in this world, her?!”  

The attack felt personal when Megumi raised his arm and pointed squarely at you, even if the boy glowered at his dad instead. You had frozen, stopped by confusion, as Megumi continued in anger: “What is the meaning of this!” 

Toji, who was returning his son’s glare, glanced at you briefly. He didn’t show this side to him very often: the one where he was just a single dad, handling a moody teenage son at home.  

You wondered if Toji felt weird that you were watching him deal with Megumi’s tantrum. At least, he must be embarrassed that this was how your first encounter with Megumi was going, but he didn’t offer much into his internal dialogue because he clenched his teeth, his eyes sliding slowly to his son again.  

“Megumi,” Toji started, “please...don’t point at people. That’s not nice.” 

His voice was sterner than before, but the boy responded with a dramatic scoff. 

“Nice?!” Megumi repeated. “You want me to be nice to her? Is this some sick joke?!” His face twisted with disbelief. “With all the horrible crap that had happened to us, what good thing has she ever done? Just because she’s pretty, and suddenly, you’ve forgiven her for everything?” 

You blinked, stumped. 

Forgive you? 

Why would Toji need to forgive you? 

Perplexed, you turned to Toji but he did not meet your gaze. 

“There is nothing to forgive her for. She hasn’t done anything wrong,” the older man defended, but Megumi wanted to hear none of this. 

He was out for blood. 

“That’s because you’re too fucking infatuated to see the demon she is,” he huffed, voice laced with bitterness. “Dad, I wish you would put your goddamn brain to use and stop thinking with your dick first.”  

“Language!” Toji snapped with a roar. “She’s our friend!” 

“Friend, my ass! I don’t like your fucking friends!”  

With eyes blown wide, Megumi clenched his fists so tightly that his hands began to shake.  

“I just...I just can’t believe you,” and when his voice cracked, there was pain that bubbled from the frustration. “I already told you that I don’t want to meet whoever you are bringing home. Just stop trying so hard for my sake. This hurts me, and this also hurts you. Can’t you see that, Dad? Nothing’s going to bring Mom back! I’m over that, alright?” His Adam’s apple bobbed when he gulped, though, before he finally added: “And I’m tired!” 

At that, Megumi walked—correction, stormed—away. 

“Fuck this shit,” he spat and marched up the stairs, grumbling more profanities upon his climb. 

The footsteps’ volume started to fade, but not before a loud bang startled you when Megumi slammed his bedroom door shut, the entire apartment seemingly shuddering with the sound. 

Beside you, the Toji that you had always known—the snarky man who always seemed so unruffled by even the wildest moments—crumbled a little when he sighed. He rubbed his face with a free hand, sinking his forehead into his palm as he muttered indiscernibly. 

He collected himself he turned back around to you, but you saw that his shoulders sagged with an invisible weight, the emerald glimmer in his eyes now a dim flicker. Within ten minutes, Toji had grown to look stressed and incredibly tired. 

“Hey,” Toji started, his voice impossibly small for a man as large as him. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sorry that you had to see that. He’s usually a good kid. I’ll talk to him again later.” 

You bit your lip.  

“Oh, um...Well...That’s okay,” you eventually replied, which was a total lie because that was not okay. Even as you offered a small smile for support, Megumi—his words, his tone, his ferocious glare—slashed at your heart. You rationalized his behavior aloud to ease your own pain. “Megumi’s eighteen, and you know what teenagers are like: hormonal with their mood swings all the time. You are a great father, Toji. This isn’t your fault.” 

“No. This is my fault,” he replied very quickly.  

Oh. So instead you said: “I get it.” 

“Except you don’t get it.”  

Your heart sank at his words, realizing that you truly did not understand where this father-son conflict stemmed from. Was it...was it because of you? 

You never intended to burden anyone, yet your mere existence appeared to be doing just that. 

It was painful to see Toji like this. During your lowest lows, he always offered considerable comfort and renewed confidence, but you weren’t sure what to say to provide him with the same. By some weird twisted fate, Toji now needed you more than you needed him. As a therapist, he had a special soothing effect, and never have you so badly wished for the same. 

“Then,” this time you were more careful with your words, “Then, help me understand. Help me so that I can then help you.”  

Tone resolute, you longed to learn about the unspoken difficulties that Toji had been facing by himself. While you had your troubles, he must have had many more for his son—not even Toji himself—to act this way.  

Perhaps you also cared for him more than you thought because, as he noted himself, he’s your friend. 

Toji held a long inhale, thinking and thinking and thinking, before breathing out in one audible go.  

“Where do I even start?” 

last chapter || next chapter

end notes: I loved fleshing out our relationship with Toji from a channel to mutually release sexual frustrations to a friendship built upon shared vulnerabilities. Also, Megumi is very much in his emo and rebellious teenage era. Like most people his age, he has his reasons…

taglist: @dissociatingdiva @httpsplanetmarsdotcom @nemoyr @huangfairy @shadowarchon @203steph @agentdedf1sh @cloudybabes @hinativity @lynn-writes-things @illicitwriter @7oji @kikuchimi @piqer @nobody289x @chaoticjojofan​ @musicisme333 @vvestwoodrose @kumocchin @s-guru @mwahilovemylife @hey-gurls69 @cloudsinthecosmos @moon-mumu-moon @kazscara @obitohno @skilerfrostfairy @funicidals @nico707 @proteovaldez @tsukiyohanayome @marimoares @qirbys @moodpi @blackdragoncigarette @puffaloxx @shoisae @sakanoshitaa @arizzu @kissditrio @tokyometronetwork​ @downtown-roponggi​ @the-cosmos-network

[theotherbuckley]

Seven Sentence Sunday

Except it's Monday and this is far more than seven sentences...

Tagged by: @jamespearce9-1-1 @cal-daisies-and-briars @disasterbuckdiaz @wikiangela <;33

Anyway here's some more healing fic except I need help. So basically I have written this part where Buck asks Bobby for help when Bobby tells Buck to come back to work. But then I've also written this part where Buck is slightly more than passively suicidal during a call where he's already back to work without telling Bobby yet. SO here's the two parts, and I'm definitely keeping the asking for help part but the question is do I alter it slightly so that Buck is already back to work before he asks Bobby for help and this conversation happens just after the incident at work (below) where he's totally uninjured but Bobby asks him about it and then he breaks. Okay this will probably make more sense once you've read the excerpts but yeah just say in the tags or replies what you all think keeping in mind these are both drafts :)

Asking Bobby for help:

Bobby’s voice softened, “Buck you know when I told you to take some time I only meant for a week or two.”

“I thought um— I thought I was causing too many problems.”

“Kid, we all need some time sometimes, it’s okay to take a break. We’d love to have you back when you’re ready, okay? It’s not the same without you.” 

Buck starts crying at that. He’s stupid. He thought— His head keeps playing tricks on him and he’s so wrong and it’s all his fault and he’s so stupid and he can’t stop crying.

“Buck?” Bobby asks, moving forwards to console Buck.

“Bobby…” Buck starts crying more, leaning his head onto Bobby’s shoulder and holding him tight.

“Hey, Buck, you’re okay, what’s going on?” Bobby says, rubbing gentle circles on Buck’s back.

“I’m not— Bobby, my head— my head’s all wrong Bobby, it won’t stop. I’m— I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I need help. Bobby, I need help.”

“I’m here kid, I’m here, whatever you need.”

Buck clung tighter to Bobby, speaking through his sobs. “I’m so s-sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t mean to— I swear. I— I didn’t think it would get this bad. I'm sorry.” 

“What are you talking about Buck?”

“I— I need help,” he hiccups. “Please help me.”

Incident at work:

It was an accident.

It was an accident. It was an accident itwasanaccidentitwas—

“This is an evacuation order, everyone out now.”

There could be someone still in side. There’s 1 person still unaccounted for. There could be someone still inside. 

That’s why he stays.

That’s why.

Right?

“Buckley, report.”

“Cap, there could be someone here, we can’t just—”

“Buck get out of there now, it’s not safe.”

He can’t he can’t he can’t.

He can’t not try. 

When he falls through the floor, the building coming down on top of him, he isn’t scared. He isn’t scared and he wonders if it was ever an accident after all. 

no pressure tags <3:

@fortheloveofbuddie @jeeyuns @wildlife4life @honestlydarkprincesss @eddiebabygirldiaz @spagheddiediaz @jesuisici33 @your-catfish-friend @ladydorian05 @giddyupbuck @eowon @elvensorceress @watchyourbuck @steadfastsaturnsrings @housewifebuck @thewolvesof1998 @king-buckley @rainbow-nerdss @crowleywasagryffindor @malewifediaz  @evanbegins @bucksbirthmark  @callmenewbie @underwater-ninja-13

@buckdefencesquad @incorrect9-1-1 @hermscat (let me know if you'd like to be added or removed)

[strandnreyes]

writing patterns

thanks @tellmegoodbye @carlos-in-glasses (cig i'm also stealing your 'read if...' idea)

Rules: Share the first line of your last ten published works or as many as you are able and see if there are any patterns. (I'm excluding prompt fills and co-writes)(also adding WIPs because that's fun)

these fatal fantasies: This is Carlos’ favorite part of the night, when all the horses have returned to the stables and they’re the only ones around to keep him company. (read if you're in the mood for a forbidden romance and royalty)

so much for summer love: “Texas,” his dad repeats, disbelief coloring his voice as if TK had named a fictional place. “You’re going to spend the summer in Texas.” (read if you're in the mood for a summer love on the beach)

third time's the charm: “Good evening, sir. I don’t suppose you could help me pump my gas?” TK asks, fluttering his lashes a few times and spreading a grin across his face that has gotten him what he wanted more than once before. (read if you're in the mood for silly, sexy shenanigans)

what could've been: He can still hear it—the anguished cries of a little girl wanting a mother that’s not here anymore. (read if you're in the mood for painful speculation)

all is not lost: Carlos’ hands are thoroughly covered in muck. (read if you're in the mood for a mixed bag of married life)

the wildest winter: The alarm rings throughout the small dorm as it does every day—perfectly on cue at six a.m. sharp. (read if you're in the mood for pining in below zero temperatures)

tell me you're still mine: “Hey, babe. I’m home,” TK calls out as soon as he walks through the door, momentarily distracted by getting his shoes off and setting his bag down. (read if you're in the mood for angsty plot twists)

sacred new beginnings: There’s an easy smile on TK's face as he sits in the passenger seat of Carlos’ Camaro. (read if you're in the mood for tarlos navigating life together)

+ 2 WIPs coming this year!

never quite buried: The second TK shuts the trunk of the car, it drives off, leaving him standing at the start of the driveway with just his backpack and suitcase. (keep an eye out for if you're in the mood for codependent vampires)

the unnamed ranch fic: “I’m also good with horses, another thing you probably didn’t know about me.” (keep an eye out for if you're in the mood for fiancés falling deeper in love)

seems like I use some imagery to set the scene! I know when I start scenes/fics, my goal is to do that indirectly

tagging @reyesstrand @paperstorm @heartstringsduet + open tag for anyone who's interested!

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Have You No Idea That You’re In Deep? [Chapter 4: Under The Heart Tree]

Aemond is a fearless, enigmatic prince and the most renowned dragonrider of the Greens. You are a daughter of House Mormont and a lady-in-waiting to Princess Helaena. You can’t ignore each other, even though you probably should. In fact, you might have found a love worth killing for.

A/N: I wanted to take a moment to give a heartfelt THANK YOU to everyone who has fallen in love with this series!!! I read (and go back to reread) every single comment, reblog, tag, and message I receive, and they mean the absolute world to me. I truly don’t have words to express how appreciative I am of you all. With the end of Chapter 4, this series is officially halfway over; there will be 8 chapters total. I hope you continue to enjoy it. 💜

Song inspiration: “Do I Wanna Know?” by Arctic Monkeys.

Chapter warnings: Language, witchcraft, a wild Aegon appears, drama, pregnancy, a tiny bit of sexual content, mentions of death and violence (per usual), cryptic Helaena prophesies, Sir Criston being a supportive stepdad, found family feels, one (1) still jealous boi, more drama, lots of shouting, this fic is for readers 18+!!!

Word count: 6.5k.

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

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“What do you need?” Aemond asks—his voice tender, the back of his hand testing the heat of your cheeks—and you tell him. He gathers everything: foxglove, sorrel, mint leaves, sticks of cinnamon, snakeskin, bloodstone, clear quartz, a blue candle, black tar rum, blood from a living bull. He does this swiftly and without any hesitation. He knows that only you have the power necessary for a cure.

In the dead of night, the prince half-carries you to the heart tree in the godswood of the Red Keep. You try to grind the dry ingredients into dust with the mortar and pestle, but your hands are weak and trembling. Aemond takes the tools from you and finishes himself. He sets the candle on a gnarled, ancient root and sparks it to life with the dagger and flint your mother gave you before you left Bear Island. Then he pours the dust into a pitcher and slowly mixes in the rum and the bull’s blood. The candlelight dances on his face: shadow, light, shadow again. All the while, here where the Old Gods can hear you, you chant this over and over: “Mend the bones, fill the veins, stitch the flesh until it’s whole again.”

Aemond grimaces as he stirs the contents of the pitcher with the dagger blade. “You don’t have to drink this or paint it on your bedroom walls or something, do you?”

You smirk wanly. “Not quite.” And that’s fortunate, because you haven’t been able to drink anything in days.

Back in the Red Keep, the servants to fill your bathtub with water so hot it clouds the room with steam. Once they’re gone, Aemond helps you into the tub and then adds the pitcher’s crimson brew. You steep in a shimmering, blood-red sea and feel the sickness sweat out of you: the nausea, the tremors, the pain, the repulsive bone-deep weakness. Aemond perches on the rim of the tub and braids your hair to keep it tucked neatly away, singing softly in High Valyrian, words you haven’t learned yet.

“I don’t deserve you,” you murmur in the dreamlike haze of blood and heat and relief, nearly asleep. Your cramped muscles have unraveled like loose threads. The anxious, scratching demons that live in your skull are blessedly chained at the moment.

“You do,” he replies. When he leans down to kiss the crown of your head, you can hear the smile in his voice. “You always will.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Sleep recedes from you like a waning crescent moon. Sounds of the morning breathe in through the open windows: birdsong, faraway voices, clops of horse hooves, wind in the leaves. You stretch, tentatively measuring the strength of your body; there is no aching, no fragility, no absence of strength like smothered embers. Your spell worked. You are cured. The triumph swells through you, a dazzling sort of fever. And then when you open your eyes, you see him.

You yelp like a startled animal. “What—?!”

“Good morning,” Aegon says brightly. He’s cross-legged on top of your writing desk and brandishing a cup of wine in his right hand.

You sit upright with a groan. “You need to stop doing this.”

“I have things to say that you should hear.”

“What?” you reply crossly.

Aegon sips his wine. “My mother has formally invited Borros Baratheon and his daughters to court. She did it a while ago, actually, but she’s been keeping it quiet. She didn’t want to give Aemond too much time to brood, I think. They are arriving in one week. There is going to be a feast. Lots of dancing, lots of diplomacy, and—my personal favorite—lots of drinking.” He raises his cup in a mock toast.

“Fantastic,” you say flatly.

“The thing is, Jason Lannister heard about this little development all the way out in Casterly Rock, so now he’s sending his daughters to court too. And so are the Arryns, and the Starks, and the Tullys and Tyrells, and Greyjoys too, if they can find anyone who counts as a lady. Maybe even the Westerlings and Swyfts and Swanns, you know…just in case they can pull an upset.” He takes another swig of wine. “It’ll be just like a horse market, except that all the horses walk on two legs and wear dresses.”

“One week…” Everything in you sinks. I knew this was coming, of course I did…but does it have to happen so fucking soon? Then again, maybe any time would feel too soon, months or years or decades. Maybe eternity with Aemond wouldn’t be long enough.

“No matter which horse wins, the result will be the same,” Aegon continues. “An engagement will be announced and my brother will soon wed in the Great Hall and set about the glorious task of producing heirs.”

“Okay. What do you want me to do about it?”

“I thought you might benefit from having the opportunity to prepare yourself. To devise an exit strategy. To…” He considers this next word carefully. “Cope.”

“Oh,” you realize, staring at him. You’ve never been able to get a handle on Aegon Targaryen. He’s not attentive to Helaena—she gets companionship from Aemond, from Alicent, from Otto, from you, but not from her husband—yet to your knowledge he’s never been cruel to her either. He does not ridicule her many peculiarities. He does not criticize her. On the rare occasion that he shares her bed, you overhear no sounds of mistreatment, no weeping or shouting or coercion. Aegon never leaves marks of violence on his wife, which is more than you can say for your own father. He neglects his duties, but he does not rebel against them. He’s done horrible things, surely, blatantly; and yet somehow he does not strike you as a particularly horrible person. “You’re not here to torment me. You’re trying to be helpful.”

Aegon smiles, but there’s very little humor in it. “You can keep that to yourself. No one would believe you anyway.”

He hops down to the floor, guzzles the last of his wine, and leaves the empty cup on your dresser before vanishing through the doorway like a ghost.

~~~~~~~~~~

The gardens are buzzing with bees and gossip. You sit in the midst of a stiflingly mundane tea party and try to remain present enough to smile and nod at the correct moments. You wring your pendent—moonstone gem, silver chain—as Helaena eats lemon cakes beside you, humming contently. She is technically the host of this gathering. It’s meant as a welcome to the noblewomen who have already begun to arrive at court, an opportunity for them to mingle and sample the luxuries of King’s Landing and prove themselves as future wives and mothers. So far, all they’ve proven themselves as is vapid and shallow and frustrating; although perhaps you only feel that way because one of them might be destined to marry the man you love. Aemond hasn’t mentioned the feast to you yet. He never mentions anything related to his impending marriage to some other woman. You’re afraid to bring it up. You’re afraid to break the euphoria you’ve been living in with him like a spell.

As your attention wanders, you notice a spot of blood on the sleeve of your dress. Before the tea party, you and Helaena had been watching Aemond and Sir Criston spar in the courtyard. That particular exchange had been bloodless, but then Ivar Kellington had broken the nose of some hulking Arryn man deluded enough to challenge him. The droplets had sprayed into the crowd like burgundy rain. The match lasted about twelve seconds.

Look at me, having some illustrious gilded blood after all. Ha ha ha.

Across the table, several noblewomen have veered into a covert discussion of one of King’s Landing’s greatest scandals: the indiscretions of Prince Aegon. You can’t catch every word, but you can catch enough of them. Which means Helaena can too.

“A handmaiden…that’s what I heard…yes, I know…what an embarrassment…well you can’t give them all moon tea, now can you?”

You glare at them—a Tyrell girl, you observe now, and a Lannister and a Tully—but they continue their prattling. Helaena rises from her chair and hurries off into the foliage with tears sparkling in her eyes.

“Hey,” you begin, but still the ladies take no notice.

“Little blond children all over the city…more brothels than you could…and the fighting pits…”

“Hey,” you say again, leaning over the table. Now they look at you. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Excuse me?!” cries the Tyrell.

“How dare you!” says the Lannister.

The Tully blubbers: “It’s not like she understands anyway—”

“She does understand.” Your voice is fierce and black and low. “She understands everything. She is your future queen and you’ve upset her with your stupidity. She’s too kind to tell you that to your faces, to make you pay for it. Her kindness is chronic and all-consuming. But I suffer from no such affliction.”

“You seem to suddenly think very highly of your station,” the Tyrell notes. “I wonder what has instilled such confidence in you, Lady Mormont.”

“Yes,” says the Lannister. “Has your family recently acquired some new lands…or titles…or armies…or anything?’

“No.” The Tyrell grins viciously. “They still just have poor little Bear Island. I wouldn’t even be able to find it on a map.”

“Perhaps that isn’t something to brag about,” you say, and storm away from the tea party before she can puzzle out what you mean. You can feel their narrowed eyes following you, cold and conspiratorial.

You find Helaena by a towering butterfly bush. Winged insects in a hundred different colors swoop around her like snowflakes. Silent tears stream down her ruddy face.

“Helaena…” You move to comfort her, then think better of it. She can be very particular about being touched. “I’m so sorry,” you offer, not knowing what else to say. It’s not like the girls were lying. Their words were terrible, and they should not have been said in earshot of Helaena; but they were true.

“Dragons do not speak our language,” Helaena says haltingly, deliberately. A sapphire-blue butterfly lands on her outstretched hand. “But still, they understand. To think they don’t is a mistake.”

“Yes,” you agree.

“They are not stone. They feel as deeply as we do.”

“Yes,” you say again. She means herself, of course; woven in the womb to speak differently, to think differently, to be so irretrievably different. And yet you find every thread of her wonderous.

She opens her arms wide. For a moment, you don’t understand what she wants; and then you embrace her. She clutches you tightly, digging her fingernails into your shoulder blades, burying her face in your neck. You can feel her tears there, hot and flowing freely.

“It’s alright,” you soothe. “Everything’s okay. You are so loved. You are so blameless.”

“I want to help you,” she says softly between sobs.

“Help me…? Help me with what, Helaena…?”

“I want to help you,” she repeats; and then she plods off, swiping tears from her eyes with both hands, still surrounded by a blizzard of butterflies.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I have to talk to you about something,” Aemond says.

You are sitting together under a juniper tree on Bearstone with a picnic you’ve assembled: breads, cheeses, cherry and apricot jams, glossy red apples, honey cakes, wine for him, pomegranate juice for you. The kitchen staff had shot you sideways glances as you plucked each item from their cupboards. They know you’re Helaena’s lady-in-waiting, but they also know that you’ve been spotted socializing with the royal family with increasing frequency. There are whispers, and there are rumors, but if Alicent and Otto Hightower are aware of them they haven’t mentioned anything to you. Perhaps they feel it���s not even worth mentioning. Perhaps they expect the problem to be imminently remedied by one of those gorgeous, wealthy, well-connected women sauntering around the Red Keep.

“Okay.” You steel yourself for what comes next. You’ve known this was coming since the very beginning, since your arrival in King’s Landing, since before he ever touched you; Aemond Targaryen must marry, and he must marry well. Your hand settles protectively, instinctively over your belly, where your child lives unbeknownst to the rest of the world. You will be showing within a few months. What happens next will not only affect you. The prince’s affection for you is such that you now trust him not to leave you abandoned, adrift…but which path will he choose for you? He could give some lord a generous reward in exchange for marrying and providing for you…although given his territorial nature, this seems unlikely. He could send you back to Bear Island. He could send you to Dorne, where he counts the maesters among his few true friends. He could send you anywhere. He could set up a small household in the Crownlands somewhere, visit you a few times a year, know his child only as a passing thought. Regardless, you will lose him, whether in part or in whole; regardless, he will drain away from you like spilled blood.

Aemond says: “I think we should marry as soon as possible.”

Your mouth falls open. The apple you’ve been holding rolls out of your grasp. “You can’t marry me.”

“Why? You don’t consent?”

“No, I…” You shake your head, staring at him, stunned. You can’t find your words. “I…I’m a Mormont.”

He smiles. “I am aware of this, Moonstone.”

“Then surely you are also aware that there are currently about fifty highly-esteemed noblewomen in King’s Landing prepared to fight to the death for a chance to marry you. And that Otto Hightower and your mother are expecting a prompt betrothal to one of them.”

“I won’t do it,” he says calmly.

“You have to.” It pains you to say it, it flays you alive to say it, but it’s true. “I know that. I’ve always known it.”

“I have met my match in you. I will have no other. And my child must be legitimate.”

“They won’t allow it, they’ve planned this for years, they need this marriage—”

“Then Daeron can do it,” Aemond says. “There is one more son of King Viserys, is there not?” Daeron is younger than Aemond. He’s been serving Lord Ormund Hightower as a squire in Oldtown since he was twelve. You’ve heard that he’s a sweet boy, a compliant boy, more humble than either of his brothers. But he won’t be ready to marry for another few years. Aemond peers out over the ocean, meditative, melancholy. “I have already given enough to this family.” His eye, he means; his eye and his dragon and his swordsmanship and his fierce, efficient loyalty. “They will not take you from me too.”

You watch him, the wheels in your mind whirling. Is it possible? Is it really? When he turns back to you, he is at once himself again, or at least the way he is with you: kind, gentle, alight.

“What do you think, Moonstone?” Perhaps he’s nervous, but he’s hiding it well.

“I think that there is nothing I want more than to be bound to you in every way possible.”

“You must truly consider it,” he warns. “If you are my wife, you are inextricably linked to our side in what comes after. You must fully understand what you are entering into. Nothing can stop me from having you except your own will. If you have rethought your allegiances, or if you cannot bear to face the bloodshed…I can send you somewhere safe. I can make you disappear.”

What comes after. War, he means; the war of succession that will almost certainly follow the ailing King Viserys’ death, whether in a week or a month or a year. On one side will be Rhaenyra and Daemon. On the other will be Alicent’s children. You know exactly where you’ll be standing. “I understand, and I consent. I will shy away from no battles.”

Aemond closes the space between you. He takes your face in his hands and kisses you roughly, deeply, sending dragonfire heat spiraling down to every piece of you: nerves, arteries, bones, heart.

“So you aren’t bored of me yet,” you tease, climbing into his lap, your fingers tangling in his silver hair. Your freshly renewed body fits with his perfectly, effortlessly, like the black of night around the stars.

“Regrettably, I am not even the least bit bored of you.”

“I hope I don’t get you killed.”

“I’m sure you’d have a spell to fix that.”

You laugh, and he kisses you again, grinning, greedy. You respond eagerly, melding into his rhythm. Blood rushes to your cheeks. Your heartbeat races. The ocean wind is strong and tearing, the grass beneath your knees soft.

“Hm. I’m glad you’re feeling better,” your betrothed murmurs, his palms pressed into the small of your back, pulling you in closer.

“Me too.”

“And you’re hungry again.”

“Starving,” you amend, grinding your hips against his, turning his face away with your hand so you can bite the soft white skin of his throat.

“Oh, fuck,” he gasps. His right eye is dazed, rapt, lost in you like a labyrinth; his sapphire glistens like sunbeams reflected off the crests of waves. You guide his hands beneath your dress so he can feel how wet you are. And he whispers slyly as he helps free you from all those cumbersome layers of fabric: “I told you you’d always be mine.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Aemond has studied the marriage rituals of the North. He knows them almost as well as you do. And so what must happen next is clear.

He comes to collect you from your room when the moon is high and the rest of the Red Keep dreaming. He looks the same as he always does—dressed in black, hair long and flowing, stoic and unsmiling until he sees you—and there are no special ornaments for you either. Weddings witnessed by the Old Gods are not strewn with guests or festivities or music or gold. They are vestiges of long, dark, cold winters when survival itself was a triumph. They are bare; they require only the meeting of two honest souls. And a heart tree.

Aemond grazes a thumb across your cheekbone, marveling at you. “Are you ready?”

“Yes.” And you are: completely, absolutely, with every drop of blood in your veins.

He takes your hand in his. He leads you from the room. And then, on the other side of the door, you discover Helaena. Both you and Aemond halt mid-step.

“Can I come too?” Helaena asks timidly. Moonlight glows on her angelic face. “I would like to be there. I would like to see you happy. Someone should be happy…if not me and Aegon, if not Mother and Sir Criston, if not the king…then at the very least you two should be.”

“Helaena…” Your words cut off, choked by emotion. You reach for her. She burrows into your arms with no reluctance at all. “Of course, my love,” you say, holding her. Aemond gazes at you, smiling faintly, immeasurably proud. “Of course. You are always, always welcome.”

In the godswood, under the cold fire of infinite constellations, the three of you arrive at the heart tree. You carry no torches to attract the attention of others. In the darkness, there is no discerning the color of the grass or the bark or the leaves. All the world is a murky, placid indigo; all the world is blind to arbitrary mortal designations of good and evil.

“There’s one thing I should mention,” Aemond says. “I have arranged for us to have a witness. I know they aren’t necessary in the North—the Old Gods themselves are the witnesses, seeing through the heart tree like a window—but I thought it would be wise for us to have someone of widely-regarded integrity to confirm that this marriage occurred. There can be no disputing it later.”

This is sensible. Your palm skates over your belly before you remember to stop yourself; you must get into the habit of giving away no clues of your pregnancy…until your marriage is public, at least. “But who…?”

Sir Criston Cole trudges into the godswood in full armor. “Alright Aemond, you better not be forcing me to help you catch and cut open a bull again, I’ve still got the bruises from last time, good gods…” He stops dead when he sees you. “Oh. So this has been the cause of your distraction.”

“Sir Criston, Lady Mormont and I are to marry.”

Sir Criston’s eyes are wide and blinking. “…Marry…?”

“Yes,” Aemond says. “Immediately.”

“What? Where…?”

“Here.” He turns to the heart tree in explanation.

Sir Criston stares blankly at the three of you, then shakes off his paralysis. “Oh no. No no no. Your mother would murder me.”

“I think we both know that’s not true.”

“Aemond…” Sir Criston begins, petrified.

“I am asking you to serve as a witness because of the love you bear for me and my family,” the prince says. “And I am asking you to keep this from my mother and grandfather. Not for long, mind you. Just until the feast has passed and the nobles have returned home to their own castles. Then I will inform my family in private, and they can soften the blow by offering Daeron’s hand in marriage to whichever house they decide they like best. This is not treason, Sir Criston. It is a mark of the profound trust I have in you.”

“Oh gods. Gods help me.” Sir Criston covers his face with his hands and stays that way for what feels like a very long time. Fireflies illuminate the cool night air like stars. Several land on the sleeves of Helaena’s gown and shine there like jewels. “Okay,” Sir Criston agrees at last. “I’ll do it, Aemond. I’ll do it for you.”

The prince embraces the lowborn knight, perhaps the best swordsman in the realm. “You’re the closest thing I have to a father.”

“I know.” Sir Criston’s mouth quivers. His dark eyes are slick. “Now let’s do this before I lose my nerve.”

You and Aemond join hands under the rustling leaves of the heart tree. Sir Criston stands beside the prince; Helaena stays near you. There is a distant rumbling of thunder. Sparce raindrops begin to fall. Aemond doesn’t know the vows used in a Northern wedding, you realize, and you can’t remember them well from the marriage ceremonies you attended as a child; from what you can recall, they are generic, plain, ‘who comes to take this woman?’ and that sort of thing.

“What should we say, wife?” the prince asks you, smiling, starlight in his eye. Suddenly, you are alone with him here in the godswood. You are the last people in Westeros, in the entire world. Winter has come and gone and left nothing but two ghosts doomed to dwell together here for eternity.

You speak without first thinking of what to say. The words flow through you like a river. “In the sight of gods and men, I bind myself to you. I will run from no battles, I will crave no flesh but yours, I will put no cause before your own. I pledge to you any strengths that I possess and I vow to slay my weaknesses. I am yours, body and soul. Use me as you will, but only out of love.”

Aemond repeats these words, and then he kisses you. Helaena claps; Sir Criston bows his head to hide a small, sincere smile. Rain falls as you all hurry back inside the Red Keep.

For the very first time, Aemond takes you to his own bed, to the room where you cast the spell of protection that saved him in the joust. There are still remnants of dust on the floor; he could not bring himself to erase you. As your clothes fall away, flashes of lightning reveal every line and birthmark and scar. There is no shyness. You know every stitch of each other already. You make love with gentle, exquisite slowness as the storm builds outside: his fingers woven through yours, his thrusts deep, his whispered promises heavy with truth.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I have something for you,” your husband says as you stand together by the fireplace in the privacy of Helaena’s chambers. In the flames, dry wood pops and crackles. “For the feast.”

“We are so well matched you will not believe it,” you reply. “I have something for you too.”

Helaena brings it over: a tunic that you have been embroidering together for days. It is black—Aemond’s preferred color—but decorated with a dragon of silver thread. The beast winds around the wearer’s back and waist and arms, breathing cool glistening fire.

“It’s supposed to look like Vhagar,” you explain. “But…well…I’m not quite as good at embroidery as Helaena is, so the face is a little…and the wings…”

“It’s perfect,” Aemond says, beaming. And then again: “It’s perfect!” He yanks off his plain black tunic and replaces it with the one you’ve gifted him. “Now I will appear especially dashing for all my prospective wives.”

Helaena giggles, blushing a cheerful pink. She is elated to be in on a joke, to have been trusted with information of such consequence. She points at the silver dragon. “Be cautious with her. She will not always listen.”

“Who, Vhagar?” Aemond asks. “She listens well enough. I’ve tamed her. I’m good at taming all manner of beasts…dragons…bulls…bears…” He grabs you by the waist and draws you to him, kissing the side of your face over and over until you squeal and push him away, laughing. “As for my gift…” He calls for the servants and they enter with a gown. They hand it to the prince, casting you a wary glance, and then disappear again. The gown is unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. The color is subtle, shimmering, opalescent, almost…

“It’s…it’s…”

“Moonstone,” Aemond says. He gives it to you. The fabric flows like water. “I commissioned it the day after the joust. No one else will have anything like it. I’ll be able to spot you anywhere in the room.”

“I doubt you’ll have time to notice me. There will be a plethora of views to enjoy.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “But you’ll be the best.”

He leaves to accompany Alicent as she enters the feast while you and Helaena finish getting ready. Helaena’s gown is a vivid greenish-blue, and the stones in her jewelry are turquoise. There are teardrop-shaped sapphires dangling from your ears and a string of them around your left wrist, gifts from the princess. As always, your moonstone pendant hangs from your neck. You are dressed ostentatiously for a mere lady-in-waiting, particularly one from as modest a house as your own. People may wonder about that. You smile to yourself. They won’t have to wonder long.

The Great Hall is radiant with music and conversation and candlelight. The most celebrated houses of Westeros mingle: the men boasting about their lands and their swords (which hang at their belts in scabbards of leather or metal), the women boasting about their wombs, the children boasting about their enviable betrothals. Those who don’t yet have betrothals to boast about are hoping to procure one tonight. No one pays much attention to you—the daughter of an important house, the widow of an unimportant man—unless it is to compliment your gown. You and Helaena dance together with flushed faces, giggling and twirling until you trip and fall into each other’s waiting arms. Meanwhile, Aemond—who, contrary to you, is having a great deal of attention paid to him—dutifully navigates the hall to pay his respects to the Baratheons, the Lannisters, the Tyrells, the Arryns, the Starks, on and on down the ladder. He speaks to each of the families, nodding politely to the clamoring, bejeweled daughters, before moving on to the next. He does this as quickly as he can so he can get it over with. He has never been at ease with strangers. He has never found it simple to trust them. A part of him will always be that overlooked, scorned second son, reserved by nature, suspicious by necessity; it’s just that he sometimes forgets this when he’s with you. No matter where he goes in the room, he keeps you on his good side. He watches you, he covets you.

There is one guest, and only one, who notices you and asks for a dance. Cregan Stark is young and handsome next to the other lords, nearly your same age, and you had met years before as children. He has a natural, kind charisma. He asks you about your family back on Bear Island as he carries you around the floor like a strong wind, tells you about Winterfell, offers his condolences for the loss of your mother. He doesn’t even think to mention your late husband. It is a commiseration between two Northerners in a distant land; it is a comfort to you both. As soon as Cregan Stark drops your hand and departs to awe some other lady, Aemond appears.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asks good-naturedly as he circles you, gliding his palm nonchalantly over your waist, your wrists, the small of your back. Your skin responds to him, goosebumps rising, lust kicking up like embers in a stirred fire.

“Diplomacy,” you reply primly.

“Hm. Perhaps we should send you to negotiate treaties.”

“I am very persuasive.”

“Yes, I know.” And he takes your hand to spin you around just once before leaving to pretend to consider marrying some other woman.

When Helaena is whisked away to dance with Otto Hightower, you pour yourself a cup of pomegranate juice and nurse it as you stand by the wall, alone. The noblewomen from the tea party toss you venomous sneers. You ignore them. You have everything they could ever want and more. Your hand settles briefly, forgetfully on your belly, and then you snatch it away.

Aegon, very intoxicated, wobbles over to you and props his back against the wall so he can keep his balance. “Hello,” he slurs.

“Hello.”

“I thought you might like to disparage the candidates with me,” he says, then gestures with his wine cup. “Look at that Floris Baratheon. Ears like a fucking donkey.”

You chuckle, hiding your face guiltily behind your own cup. “Shh. She’s not so bad.”

“You seem to be handling this remarkably well. Perhaps my brother has bored you, perhaps you have had your fill of him. Or perhaps you aren’t so heartbroken because he’s planning to keep you around as his mistress. I wouldn’t have guessed that to be his style, but upon second thought, you have thoroughly corrupted him. In that case, he should choose the donkey for sure. Someone stupid and docile. You can have rooms on opposite ends of the Red Keep and there will be no need for you to claw each other’s eyes out.”

“I’m not an animal, Prince Aegon.”

“You’re a Mormont. That’s hardly better.”

You smile. He smiles back.

Aegon leans into you, unsteady but not purposefully intrusive. “You’re worth more than all of them put together. I’m sorry that’s not what matters.”

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

“We are natural allies,” he says, and clinks his cup against yours in a toast. Fortunately, he is too drunk to notice that you’re avoiding wine this evening. That would certainly raise some suspicions. “I know your secret, and you know mine.”

“What…?” And then you understand. Your secret is your relationship with Aemond, that part is easy. Aegon’s secret is a bit more obscure. What perhaps no one else knows is that there is more to him than brash words and wicked deeds and flippant, lazy recklessness. That he loves his family. That—somewhere way down deep, unspoken but alive—he cares.

Aegon shoves himself away from the wall and gives you a parting bow, clumsy and lurching. “Enjoy your evening as best you can. I’m going to go piss on the floor.”

“Cheers,” you reply. He staggers away, leaving you alone again.

As the Great Hall whirls around you like a galaxy, you bask in the warm glow of this moment, this liminal space like a doorway. There will be grumbles, surely, but what you and Aemond have forged cannot be undone. No one can take away your marriage. No one can take away your child. You knew unconditional love once, long ago on Bear Island, safe in your mother’s arms; now you have it again. You belong somewhere again. You took one hell of a detour, but now you are home.

You don’t feel him enter the hall, because he’s not Aemond Targaryen. He doesn’t change the room at all. You only turn because you hear rising chatter, and then elated shouts, and then the thunder of men’s handshakes and pounds on the back. You wonder who is being congratulated, who is being cheered like a soldier returning from war. When you see him, your cup drops out of your hand. Pomegranate juice floods across the floor like blood. He sees you, rushes to you; and it's the strangest thing, because it all seems to be happening very slowly, but not slowly enough for you to flee. It’s like one of those dreams where you’re trying to run but you can’t. You can’t even speak. You can’t even scream.

He is battered and bruised and thinner—harsher—than you remember, but it’s him. His name rings through the hall in a hundred different voices.

“Axel Hightower, back from the dead!”

“He survived the shipwreck! Praise the gods!”

“And now he’s come to surprise his wife!”

You are powerless to stop his approach. You are chained in place by horror. All around you, the life you thought you’d have is crumbling into dust. It’s running out of your fingers like sand in an hourglass.

“Aww, look, the poor thing is in shock! She can’t believe it!” some idiot sighs romantically. There are applause and whistles. On the periphery of your vision, you see Aegon backing away as far as he can from the dance floor. His head whips around, searching for someone.

Axel grips your arm, pulls you into him, and kisses you. It feels like being invaded. It feels like that very first night with him when he—not cruelly, no, but with a dreadful, willing ignorance—forced his way inside you until it felt like you were being sawed in half. You flinch violently; every muscle, every nerve screams to be away from him. You try to push Axel off of you, but he doesn’t budge. Why would he? He owns you, like a castle or a horse. He can do whatever he likes to you. The notion of you having desires to the contrary would never even cross his mind. There are tears bleeding down your cheeks: for you, for your child, for the future whose throat has just been slit in this room. It feels like you’re dying. You wish you were.

There is the shrill whisper of a blade being torn from its scabbard. All the guests fall silent. Axel takes a step back from you, his fingers still clamped around your forearm. Aemond holds the point of his sword to Axel’s throat. Several crimson beads drip from where the steel has pierced the paper-thin surface layer of skin. Aemond’s voice is dark, like nightfall, like onyx. His eye is blazing blue, cold fire. “Remove your hands from her, or you will lose them.”

Axel is too mystified to be outraged. He releases you. You can breathe again. “She is my wife by law.”

“She carries my child!” Aemond’s words ricochet off the walls like shattered glass. The Great Hall boils over with gasps and scandalized jabbering. “And we married under the heart tree. She is mine.”

“You what?!” Aegon blurts out.

“You what?!” Otto Hightower roars.

“Sir Criston?” Aemond calls, summoning him.

Sir Criston Cole steps out of the rabble. “It’s true,” he says. He hides his reddening face from Queen Alicent. “I witnessed it. They are wed.”

“This is an outrage!” Axel bellows, then looks to the crowd for their verdict.

“Bigamy!” someone cries out. A chorus joins them, a sea of jilted noble families who can only benefit from Axel carting you back to Oldtown.

“Whore! Whore!”

“Poor Axel Hightower escapes from the jaws of death to find this?!”

“A mortal sin!”

“Go back to your true husband!”

“Take her to the dungeons!”

Aemond steps in front of you, twirling his sword once, twice, again. “And who would like to be the first to try?”

No one moves to detain you, but the crowd’s sentiment is unmistakable, rabid. The jeers continue to rain down on you: bigamist, sinner, whore. And you can’t even decry them as slander, because they’re true. Otto Hightower is clutching the back of a chair like he might fall over without it. Alicent’s eyes are pooling with stunned, furious tears. Helaena sinks to the floor, covering her ears with both hands. After taking a moment to consider it, Sir Criston moves to stand beside Aemond and draws his own sword.

Ideas flit through Aemond’s mind like arrows. He catches one of them. As Sir Criston watches the crowd, Aemond turns back to you and touches your face with his free hand. “Say you want a trial by combat.”

“Are you sure—?”

“I can beat any man here besides Sir Criston and he wouldn’t fight me, just say it.”

“I demand a trial by combat!” you announce for all the court to witness.

“No she doesn’t!” Otto shouts, trying to drown you out.

“She does,” Aemond insists, grinning madly. “And I will be her champion.”

“Then I shall name my own!” Axel says. Already the court is chattering that there is no great cowardice in this; he is still recovering from his ordeal, far from his physical peak, and Prince Aemond is one of the best swordsmen in King’s Landing. Axel scans the Great Hall for someone, anyone, who could challenge him. Sir Criston could probably best Aemond, but he would never agree to try. His allegiances to both Alicent and Aemond are too great. Who else could there be? Who else could there possibly be?

And then Axel’s gaze lands on him. When Aemond said he could beat any man here, he wasn’t wrong. The giant the court calls Killington hardly counts as a man at all. He’s not a man; he’s a monster. And he’s been thirsty for Aemond’s blood for years. He towers over anyone else in the room; he outweighs them by double. He steps forward, answering a question that has not yet been asked.

Axel’s face splits into a grin. His eyes glint like mirrors, like blades. “I choose Ivar Kellington.”

[magicshopaholic]

Voice Of An Angel (Namjoon x OC)

Summary: Namjoon can't stop thinking about the girl that let him have the last copy of his favourite Murakami novel.

Pairing: Namjoon x OC

Genre: Fluff, smut

Word count: 3.3 K

Rating: 18+

Warnings: language, references to alcohol, dirty talk, references to kissing, fingering, nipple play, sex, phone sex, masturbation, intoxication

A/N: It's been inexcusably long since a Namjoon x Kaya fic came out and I take full blame for it. But since a few readers have requested a flashback fic, here it is! This takes place a few days after Namjoon and Kaya meet for the first time in Seoul and can be read standalone.

Tagging: @bbl32, @meirkive, @quarter-life-crisis2, @dreaming-with-happiness, @whoisbts, @kflixnet (if you want to be added to the taglist, lmk)

Listen to: “clouds” by BØRNS

namjoon masterlist | main masterlist

“Play the track again.”

Yoongi wordlessly hits the spacebar and the music plays, the deep bass thrumming through the floor. Namjoon taps his foot to the rhythm from where he’s sitting on the edge of the sofa. The home studio doesn’t have the expanse of equipment that the Big Hit studio does, but after a tiring month, all seven of them seem to be content not stepping out of the dorm for anything work-related.

He pushes his tongue into his chin, frowning as he tries to listen for it, but it never comes. “Okay, stop.” 

“It’s sounding flat,” states Yoongi, leaning back in the chair. “The bass isn’t strong enough.”

Namjoon nods, knowing he’s right, but also at a loss for what to do to make it stronger. He goes through three different options in his mind, picturing how each of them would sound, wanting to get a mental read of it before suggesting anything. Just then the door opens and Taehyung saunters in, slippers scraping against the carpeted floor.

“What’s going on?”

“Oi, listen to this and tell me what you think,” says Yoongi suddenly, playing the track from the beginning. Namjoon watches Taehyung carefully for his reaction, albeit getting none as the younger member listens with a straight face. His hair is messy, the blue dye already fading away at the roots where his natural dark is beginning to show. Once the track ends, Taehyung looks between him and Yoongi.

“Is this track for me?” he asks, tone betraying nothing.

Yoongi rolls his eyes and turns back to the laptop while Namjoon raises an eyebrow. “Does that mean it’s good?” he asks, slightly wary.

Taehyung considers this. “It sounds…” He frowns, eyes glazing over as he looks for an appropriate word. “... contemplative,” he decides finally.

“Contemplative,” repeats Namjoon.

“I told you Hobi’s the right person to ask,” says Yoongi dryly, continuing to modify the settings of the track.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Taehyung asks, sounding affronted.

“Contemplative doesn’t help.”

“Then what kind of opinion were you looking for?”

“Something we can actually work with.”

“How can you not work with -”

“What do you need?” Namjoon interrupts, seeing that this discussion is going nowhere.

Taehyung’s head whips to look at him, as though just remembering his original purpose. “Oh. Uh… Jungkook told me he had ramen and pork belly for lunch.”

When he offers nothing more, Namjoon raises an eyebrow. “So did we.”

“There’s none left, though.”

“No, there isn’t. You slept through lunch.”

Taehyung nods, deep in thought. Then - 

“Is there any pork belly left? In the fridge?”

Yoongi nods, not looking up from the screen. “Yeah, one packet.” When no one speaks, he turns around, apparently finally working out why Taehyung is here. “Do you want me to make you some?”

“Yes,” he answers, unashamed. “Will you?”

Shaking his head slightly, Yoongi stands up and stretches. “It might be good to take a break, Namjoon,” he suggests, before turning to walk out the door, Taehyung hanging onto his back, a satisfied smile on his handsome face.

Namjoon waves his hand as they leave, knowing Yoongi will probably cook, eat, take a walk and possibly have a smoke before he returns. Taking his vacated seat at the desktop, he clicks on the track again. He can’t hear a single new thing, inspiration evading him, and he groans in frustration before pausing it. He leans back in the chair, rubbing his eyes before picking up his phone to check his notifications. One name catches his eye and he perks up slightly, swiping to open it.

Kaya [16:34]

Apparently there are some vacation spots without pictures of famous people but Jeju Island is not one of them. 

Along with the message is a picture of a Polaroid, showing him and an older gentleman smiling into the camera. He recognises his own signature scrawled at the bottom, with a thumb tack at the top of the photo.

Smiling after what feels like hours, Namjoon types out a reply. 

Namjoon [17:25]

Haha, I remember this place. They had the best lamb skewers.

He waits for the blue tick, but nothing happens. He sees then that she’d messaged him nearly an hour ago and he deflates, disappointed. He places his phone to the side and continues staring at his laptop, willing for something, anything to strike him. 

His eyes roam around aimlessly, falling on the bonsai on his table. Kaya had taken it in her hand when she’d come over a couple of days ago; she’d brought it over to the table but in the midst of what had transpired next, both of them had forgotten to put it back on the shelf.

Namjoon bites his lip at the memory, his mind landing on the one thing he’d thought about more than he’d like to admit. He hadn’t quite believed she would come over when he’d asked - although inviting her had been quite unusual on his part as well. His only rationale was that she wasn’t going to be a permanent fixture in his life so it didn’t matter. Plus, even though she knew by then who he was, it was clear she hadn’t quite grasped just what it meant, which he was glad for. 

He wonders for the first time if that’s the reason she chose to come, that it was just a temporary thing. A summer fling, she’d said, and he had to agree.

His stomach flips unexpectedly at the thought, for she’s objectively a great summer fling to have. A foreigner, intelligent, pretty, with good conversational skills. Dating for him is hard enough as it is, even keeping aside the fame angle. But every time he’s met her so far - at the bookstore, the park, the dorm - time has flown by faster than he would like. She’s managed to give him the distinct feeling of being surprised yet relieved at the fact that she exists at all - even if it is halfway across the world from him.

“Just a summer fling, Namjoon,” he mutters to himself, stretching again, just as his phone pings. His heart leaps when he sees a reply from the aforementioned summer fling.

Kaya [17:33]

I don’t know about lamb skewers but Jieun and I did try every cocktail they had to offer.

Namjoon [17:34]

You went out for drinks with your aunt?

Kaya [17:35]

I did. And it’s a lot easier now that I’m legal, instead of when she used to come home from college and sneak me sips of her beer.

Namjoon [17:36]

Interesting. How much did the legality help today?

Kaya [17:37]

Well, it’s almost six pm and I’m in bed trying to sober up. Oh and I can’t be bothered to turn on the light so it’s also dark.

Namjoon raises his eyebrows, not expecting this. He begins typing out a response before pausing. Hesitating momentarily, he calls her.

Kaya answers on the second ring. “I know I didn’t ask, but thank you for calling,” is the first thing she says.

He grins, her voice sounding familiar and exciting at once. “I figured it might hurt to look at the screen,” he explains.

She groans softly. “It does. God, I knew I shouldn’t have had that last mojito,” she complains, and he pictures her massaging her temple as she lies in bed.

“How drunk are you on a scale of one to ten?” he asks, surprised at the genuine concern in his own voice, but glad to hear the amusement in it, too.

“Um, a solid five,” she answers carefully. “So it’s not that bad but I can’t sleep it off either because I have to go to dinner soon…” She sighs. “Jack didn’t think it would be appropriate for Jae-lin to see her mother and sister drunk off their asses so we’ve been sent to sober up before we meet up again. Separately.”

Namjoon chuckles. “Good dad,” he remarks.

“Yeah. Irresponsible aunt, though. But I’m almost twenty-five so I don’t think I can blame her for decisions like this anymore.” She giggles unexpectedly before groaning again, softly, and his stomach flips. “What are you doing?” she asks after a moment.

He sighs inwardly and looks at the laptop screen again, now with his photo gallery screensaver appearing and bouncing around the screen. “Trying to work on this one song…” He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. “Not making a lot of headway, though.”

“No?” She’s quiet for a moment. “Music producers have off days, too?”

“Yeah, we have our off days,” he confirms, rolling his eyes but smiling anyway. “It’s the same song I was working on when you came over.”

“You mean when I distracted you?”

Namjoon bites back a grin. “Yeah. Guess I have you to blame for this. Every time I try to remember what I was doing, I get distracted.”

“Have you tried to remember it a lot?” she teases, voice slightly quieter now. “Because I have.”

His throat feels dry. “Yeah?”

“M-hm. Don’t tell Jungkook, but I kind of really hate him a bit. Hey, tell me something,” she says abruptly. “Why’s it called a bias?”

Namjoon frowns, thrown. “Uh - why is what called a bias?”

“Like, your favourite k-pop member in a band. Apparently it’s called a bias,” she explains. “Jae-lin told me.”

“Oh.” He understands now. “I’m not sure. I think it’s because you’re biased towards one person?”

“No, I think it stands for something,” she disagrees, sounding rather invested. “Although your thing sounds more correct, though.”

He nods. “Why were you and Jae-lin talking about biases anyway?”

“Oh, it was nothing. I mentioned your friend Jungkook and she - well, she kind of lost it at first,” she amends, and he can almost hear her rolling her eyes. “But then she said he was really cute but her bias is someone else.”

“Oh? Who?” Namjoon asks, mildly curious.

“It was… okay, I don’t remember his name,” she says sheepishly. “But she did say he has a great voice. Very deep, apparently.”

“Ah, okay. Taehyung, I’m guessing.”

“Probably. She said he looked ethereal. And I remember this specifically because I swear she used this word, like, eight times in two minutes.”

Namjoon laughs, not finding it worth mentioning that the ethereal member is currently loitering around the kitchen, unshowered and hungry, as he enlists an older member to provide him sustenance. “She’s a kid,” is all he says. “Who’s your bias, by the way?”

Kaya laughs and his stomach does a backflip again. “I know exactly three names from your band right now.”

“But you’ve hooked up with only one.”

“M-hm. Doesn’t that give you an unfair advantage?”

“Is it my fault we met first?” he questions, leaning back in his chair, suddenly missing her greatly. “I think I’ve earned the advantage.”

“Well…” She pretends to think it over and he pictures it again: her, lying alone on a hotel bed, possibly in a dress she wore to lunch, shoes still on, wavy hair spread out over a creamy pillow in the twilight. He wonders if her hair still smells of that same scent, like an unsweetened dessert. “Jungkook doesn’t seem like he’s older than twenty, and I can’t compete with my cousin for the ethereal one,” she lists, “which leaves me with… you.”

Namjoon bites his lip, realising for the first time just how much he was waiting for her to say that. “Just me,” he agrees quietly.

“You…” She’s quiet for a few seconds and he wonders if she’s feeling the same anticipation he is. “Did it annoy you?” she asks eventually. “Thursday?”

He frowns slightly. “You coming over? Of course not.”

“No. Us getting interrupted.”

Namjoon exhales. “Come on, you know it did,” he murmurs. “I kind of hate Jungkook a little bit, too.”

She giggles again, softly, and he swallows. “Did you, um…” She trails off. “No, I can’t ask you this,” she mutters after a moment.

“What?”

He imagines her shaking her head. “No, it’s too… I mean, you don’t really know me that well and… forget it.”

“Kaya.” Namjoon says nothing more, just her name as gently as possible, as deeply as possible. He isn’t oblivious to the sound of his own voice, just like he knows he isn’t imagining her sharp intake of breath. “Tell me.”

“Okay. Let it be on the record that I’m only saying this because I’m intoxicated…” She hesitates, and his heart races in anticipation. “... but I definitely needed a cold shower when I got home that day.”

Silence. Namjoon slowly closes his eyes before letting his free hand crawl to his crotch to check - yep, he’s already sporting a semi. “You and me both,” he confesses after a moment, sighing.

“Yeah?” She sounds surprised at his admittance.

“Yeah. Right after you left, actually.”

“Oh.” There’s another pause. Namjoon thinks he can guess where this is heading, and his cock twitches at the prospect, but he doesn’t want to jump the gun. He waits for her to continue. “What did you think about?”

He’s prepared for this. “Everything I wanted to do before we got interrupted.”

She takes a deep breath that makes his toes curl. “Which was what?”

“You want me to tell you?” he asks, just to be sure.

“Every detail,” she confirms quietly.

If this goes to shit, you can just never see her again. “How drunk are you?” he asks after a moment.

“Not so drunk that I won’t be able to picture it.” Her boldness is enough of an indicator of some inebriation, but he guesses if she’s sober enough to give her consent, he’s good to go. 

“You want me to tell you what I would’ve done if Jungkook hadn’t shown up?” He waits for her to murmur a yes before continuing. “I wanted to feel how wet you were. I could, already. I could feel it when my hand was pressed up against you,” he tells her, voice low and deep. He doesn’t want to think about it right now, but he knows he’s good at this. “I wanted to push one finger to your clit through your underwear… wanted you to ask me to take it off.”

“Fuck,” she whispers. “And if I asked?”

“I’d do it… after I got you soaking through it.” He has to pause for a moment here to steady his voice. “I’d wait until you begged me to take it off.” There’s a soft whimper on the other side of the phone and he freezes. “Fuck, Kaya, are you touching yourself?” he asks softly.

Kaya doesn’t answer for a moment. “Is that okay?” she asks finally, sounding wary. “I… your voice is making me feel…” She trails off, and Namjoon instantly hardens.

“You’re touching yourself… to what I’m saying?” he clarifies, his hand reaching his own hardened member as though of its own accord. 

“You can do it, too,” she offers, a bit coyly, almost as though she can see him. “And, um…” She takes a shaky breath “... please don’t stop.”

“Fuck…” Suddenly remembering something, Namjoon springs up from his seat and darts to the door, locking it lest one of his six band members barges in on him. He resumes his seat and switches his phone to his left hand, tugging down his joggers with the other and grasping himself through his plain white underwear. “Put me on speaker.”

He hears a shuffle to indicate she’s obeyed him. “Done. Now… you were telling me how you wanted to make me beg for your fingers?”

“M-hm…” Namjoon palms himself, sighing quietly before continuing. “I wanted to make you beg before I took off your jeans, and your pretty black underwear. I wanted to enter you, first with one finger and then a second… while my palm rubbed against your clit… and you whispered my name.”

“Yeah, I’d say your name,” she agrees breathily, its absence conspicuous.

“Your bra was off… and your nipples looked so hard and sexy…” The image floats into his mind, her back arched as she lay on the sofa underneath him. “Fuck, I wanted to suck them so bad, Kaya…”

Her breathing is faster now, soft moans audible. Namjoon takes the phone away from his ear and puts it on speaker, placing it on the table before lowering his boxer briefs and freeing himself, properly grasping his erection now. His thumb brushes the glistening pre-cum on the tip, smearing it down his shaft before he begins stroking himself. 

“Namjoon…” Her voice out loud in the room makes him jump slightly but he moves his hand faster, feeling himself closer than he’d thought. “I wanted you to… God, I wanted you to kiss me…”

“I wanted to kiss you… I wanted to swallow every sound you made while I fucked you with my fingers… I wanted to kiss your neck, suck on your skin -” He stops himself in time, hoping she doesn’t pick up on it. “I wanted to rub your little clit, slowly, until you asked me to go faster… until you were coming all over my fingers…”

Kaya’s moans are louder now, more frantic. “Fuck, I’m close, I’m…” She breaks off and the sound she makes, loud and breathy, brings him on the verge. 

Namjoon continues working himself, stroking his cock faster and unable to keep quiet any longer. A few more quick, frustrated strokes and he feels himself explode all over his hand. He gives himself a few seconds to recover from his orgasm, groaning quietly, before leaning over and pulling out a few tissues from the box behind the laptop, cleaning himself up and pulling his clothes back up. He takes the phone off speaker and brings it back to his ear.

“Are you still there?” he asks after a moment. He can hear rustling so he knows she hasn’t hung up, but he has a moment of panic when he wonders if she regrets it.

“Yeah,” she says after a moment, still sounding slightly breathless. “Thanks for, um…” She laughs quietly, sounding a bit self-conscious. “It felt really good,” she finishes.

“Me, too,” he agrees, smiling to himself. “Did that help at all… with your headache?”

She scoffs in humour. “God, I hope so,” she says, and he hears her shift. “Sitting up is definitely easier. Did it help with your… I don’t know, musician’s block?”

“I really hope so,” he says dryly, leaning back in his chair. “Might have helped more in person, but, hey.” Glad to hear her chuckle at that, he continues. “Listen, uh… I know you’re leaving next week but can I take you out to dinner before you do? When you’re back from Jeju?”

“Yeah, that would be nice. Tuesday? I’m having dinner with the family on Wednesday. Last night and all,” she adds, sounding a bit wistful. 

“Tuesday sounds good.” Namjoon nods, not wanting the call to end but knowing it’s coming to a natural close. “I’ll see you then.”

“Yeah. I should go, I guess…”

“M-hm.” He scrambles for something to prolong the conversation. “Call me if you - if you need - I mean, not this, but if you want to -” He breaks off, cringing with his head in his hands.

Kaya laughs, to his great relief. “I’m not sober enough to be too embarrassed about that but I’m sure I’ll get there,” she half-groans. “I’ll, uh… I’ll text you?”

“Yes, please,” he says, voice muffled where his hand is still covering his face. “And… don’t be embarrassed,” he adds earnestly. “You were… forgive me, but you were really hot.”

When she doesn’t respond for a few seconds, he’s afraid he’s said something wrong. But then he hears her stifle a chuckle. “I’ll see you in a few days, music producer.”

—

Thank you for reading. Don't forget to leave a review :)

[lemonlyman-dotcom]

WIP (Work Is Published) Wednesday

Thank you for the tags @whatsintheboxmh @im-overstimulated-and-im-sad @thisbuildinghasfeelings @strandnreyes & @carlos-in-glasses 💕

From my Secret Santa fic, Como Te Quiero Yo (how I love you), wherein TK tries to give Carlos the perfect day on their beach honeymoon 🏝️

This is not how he wanted to spend their romantic beach vacation. He thinks this is probably the least sexy scenario they could have found themselves in on the third day of their honeymoon.

God, he’d kill for a good kidnapping right now. Or a coma. Anything, really, other than this nightmare.

Up until this morning it had been a perfect honeymoon. They’d spent the first afternoon at the beach, where they swam and splashed each other in the waves and dozed under a rented umbrella. Carlos had held TK’s hand on their beach blanket and kissed him sweetly in the surf. That night they made love on the balcony, Carlos’s thrusts timed perfectly with the driving waves of the ocean just below them. They’d cleaned up and gone for rounds two and three in their ensuite jacuzzi.

The next day they postponed pool plans for a lazy morning full of sleepy sex and breakfast in bed followed by more sex, which culminated in TK being shoved off the bed after he pulled off of Carlos to give him a detailed description of just exactly how he compared to the taste of a fresh oyster.

“TK, I swear to god, if you start comparing the mouth feel I’m canceling the rest of this honeymoon.”

Once they’d finally made it out of their room, they spent the second day bouncing between the beach and the resort’s six pools, sipping piña coladas (virgin for TK) and snacking from fruit trays and fresh guacamole.

But TK could tell Carlos was still feeling blue. Just a little melancholy.

When they checked into the hotel they’d found a large basket on the table in their suite, welcoming them with chocolates, salty snacks, bath bombs and scented lotions. The basket also held a card, addressed to Carlos and TK from their parents. They’d said how proud of them they were, how happy they all were to be welcoming a new son to their respective families, how they looked forward to watching TK and Carlos continue to grow together as a family, however big or small, and love and cherish each other. It was signed by all three parents — Owen, Andrea and, in large, looping cursive, Gabriel, who’d added his own little note about how proud he was of ‘both our boys.’

The honeymoon was their parents’ wedding gift. A compromise of sorts after Carlos and TK shut them out of the wedding planning months ago. Naturally, it makes sense they would have sent the card and made arrangements for the basket in advance. Before Gabriel was taken from them.

Carlos made a valiant attempt at keeping a straight face while he read the card. But TK knew him too well. His eyes glassed over and his mouth twitched, when he went to set the card down on the table his hand shook just slightly. TK needed no more encouragement than that. He’d crowded up behind his husband and wrapped him in a bear hug.

Carlos cleared his throat. “TK, I’m fine.”

“I know,” TK sighed. “I just wanted a hug.”

“Oh yeah?” Carlos chuckled, taking hold of TK’s arms and loosening his grip just enough so he could turn around. “I guess, as your husband, I better hug you then.”

TK rested his chin on Carlos’s chest and smirked up at him, “Yeah, husband, I guess you better.”

It’s how, two hours later, TK found himself at the front desk booking almost every activity the resort had to offer. He’s going to give Carlos the best day ever. He knows no amount of horseback riding and snorkeling will truly take away the pain of his grief. But Carlos, his sweet husband who would lift a car if it meant TK could be spared a second of pain, deserves a perfect day.

Tagging @chicgeekgirl89 @heartstringsduet @fitzherbertssmolder @guardian-angle22 @reasonandfaithinharmony @fckingyrs @alrightbuckaroo @bonheur-cafe @tarlosmalec @ladytessa74 @louis-ii-reyes-strand @herefortarlos @tellmegoodbye @carlos-tk @birdclowns @freneticfloetry @apothecarose @basilsunrise @rmd-writes @thebumblecee @welcometololaland @reyesstrand @your-catfish-friend @iboatedhere @liminalmemories21 @lightningboltreader @never-blooms @noxsoulmate @theghostofashton @paperstorm @decafdino and OPEN TAG 🏷️

[steddieunderdogfics]

This week’s writer spotlight feature is:  Capriciously_Terminal! @capriciouslyterminal has 106 fics on ao3 in the Stranger Things fandom and 105 of them are in the Steddie tag!

@mustardyellowlilac recommends the following works by Capriciously_Terminal:

Where the Sun Can't Reach

Spit Me out, You Don't Know Where I've Been

It's the Ritual of the Thing

Baby I'm Your Man (Don't Fear the Reaper)

It's as if she writes memories, rather than stories, and that makes them tangible and devastating -- @mustardyellowlilac

Below the cut, @capriciouslyterminal answered some questions about their writing process and some of their recommended work!

Why do you write Steddie?

I started writing Steddie because the characters of Steve and Eddie have such specific and human voices that I literally couldn’t get them out of my head after watching the first drop of S4. (Also I’d just gotten a new puppy who didn’t love sleeping through the night so I had plenty of time to think). The more I wrote for them the deeper I found myself in their voices and thinking about what they could do and I had to keep going until I ran out of steam.

What’s your favorite trope to READ?

I love a good “Steddie interwoven into previous seasons’ canon events” story. Especially if an author makes it SO specific. I want Steve and Eddie in Starcourt. I want Eddie Munson popping up at the pumpkin patch. I want Eddie Munson in the background at Starcourt drooling. I want him to spend this whole time watching Steve’s character growth and finding it impossibly hot before getting twisted up in the horror.

What’s your favorite trope to WRITE?

I definitely love adding Eddie Munson to canon (thinking about him and life-guard Steve Harrington is where this all began, afterall). However I think that I, as a person, am just as obsessed with The Horrors. As such adding monstrosity/new flavors of spooky to this show was my favorite thing to do.

What’s your favorite Steddie fic?

I can narrow it down to two! My favorite piece of Steddie fic that changed my brain chemistry has got to be fastcardotmp3’s “that’s just wasteland, baby!” (https://archiveofourown.org/works/42351597) because the scene in the lake? The genuine wonderful take on in media res apocalypse living? Dot’s talent for characterization/love? I’ll never live it down. Actually, go read everything by fastcardotmp3. Do yourself a favor. The other has to be “every mistake was made purposefully” by birthdaycandles (https://archiveofourown.org/works/41795838/chapters/104862381). It turns out I’m a sucker for excellent narration and watching Steddie/plot shenanigans from Tommy Hagan’s prickly point of view. It gave me everything I’ve ever wanted.

Is there a trope you’re excited to explore in a future work but haven’t yet?

I always wanted to write a When Harry Met Sally AU about Steve and Eddie meeting throughout their lives/development. I don’t know if I’ll ever pick it up again but it’s still there knocking at the back of my mind. I’ve also got like fifteen of the drabbles in i love you you dope with bits of continuation in my head too.

What is your writing process like?

In general, my writing is a very all or nothing process. It’s either going to go all day, through meals, and not stop until the idea is finished OR I’m going to be stalled completely. Generally, though, if I’m in my crazy inspired phase I’ll have an idea (specifically the beginning of something) and if that idea sticks in my head for more than a single day then I probably can’t leave it until it’s done. However, this did change with my writing i love you you dope. I decided to answer p0ck3tf0x's "100 Ways to Say I Love You" list one prompt at a time. Once a day. RIP. This led to a writing process which was more of a sit down after work and immediately write the first thing you could think of until it’s done kind of affair. I can’t recommend that style lol. It led to some pretty intense burnout by the end but I am proud of how many ideas came because of it. It showed that, through tenacity, most ideas could be something worth pursuing.

Do you have any writing quirks?

I can’t help but put first and second person pronouns in descriptions as if speaking to the reader and I’m a frequent and blatant tense shifter. It’s all over the place at times lol. I also LOVE a good stream of consciousness description, flitting from one image to another, which probably lead to these grammatical quirks and a shit ton of run-on sentences.

Do you prefer posting when you’ve finished writing or on a schedule?

Before I started writing i love you you dope I very much preferred finishing my writing before I posted it. It took ages but nothing felt worse than having to leave something unfinished because I’d lost the plot (which has happened several times).  However, part of the draw of i love you you dope was that (as a challenge) I had to write and post daily. While I learned I can write on such a grueling schedule, I can safely say after finishing it that I prefer having the time to ensure something’s to my standards. Or, at least, until I’m tired of looking at it and just want other people to see it.

Which fic are you most proud of?

If we branch outside of my Steddie work it’s a fic for a little show called Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency that I think I’ll never top. A Road Song in Quartet that Smells like a Trio is basically my novel/brain-child about my favorite rowdy vampire boys and I have to shout it out everywhere I go. However, to stick to the Steddie, I had such a great time with characterization in writing It’s the Ritual of the Thing. Some of those descriptions are still some of my best work. Or, I’d have to say, Can We Both Be Lonely If We’re Both Looking at Each Other? It’s an AU modeled after the world of The Magnus Archives Podcast and not only was I proud of the way I was able to layer monstrosity on both Eddie and Steve but I just loved the world. I actually planned out a whole main plot for the world that never saw the light of day.

How did you get the idea for Baby I'm Your Man (Don't Fear the Reaper)?

I can’t remember which came first, the title or the idea of Eddie meeting Death as played by Steve Harrington, but the song title by Blue Öyster Cult had definitely been sitting in my head for a while. The idea initially started as a Seventh Seal reference with Eddie having to challenge Death with Steve Harrington’s face to a game of basketball but that scene wasn’t working so instead we got a trip through various S4 locales and a fun Death with good hair.

When writing Spit Me out, You Don't Know Where I've Been, what was something you didn’t expect?

I honestly didn’t know if anyone would vibe with the language/story. For a fic that focused a lot on unease, offal, and how hard it would be to picture a future in a small town I was waiting for people to not touch this one with a ten foot pole. So to hear that it actually channeled people’s feelings or that it was something that people enjoyed (as opposed to just me shouting stressful things at the sky) was a big expectation dodge.

What inspired It's the Ritual of the Thing?

When I was in high school I had a friend who asked me out once, the first person to ever do so, and my first instinctual response was to genuinely ask him why he was really calling me after school. He insisted that he really did want to ask me out and for some reason that made my blood run cold. The date did not go well, obviously, but I remembered the gut punch to think someone wouldn’t want you/the desire to say no just because it frightened you for years afterwards. It felt like such an Eddie thing to feel, especially if Steve Harrington was the one to ask him out. Honestly…I poured a lot of my own worldview into Eddie Munson as I wrote him and that’s where a lot of this came from.

What was your favorite part to write from Ritual of the Thing?

I’d have to say it’s a toss up between two parts. Firstly, I’ll never get over the descriptive imagery in the beginning (I’ll never forget lines like “Suddenly it’s like he’s a Jack-O-Lantern with his mouth carved open. A candle sits on his tongue and its light is shining out of his eyes”). It was the kind of sentence I was thrilled to read after I wrote it. Secondly, I was really proud of Eddie and Robin’s conversation after Steve told her about his asking Eddie out. I loved both of their voices in that moment and the thought of Robin trying to explain how much Steve could love you even after you’d had to let him down…and her little fake nightmare discussion.

How do/did you feel writing Where the Sun Can't Reach?

On one hand it felt like I was exorcizing something because I show my class The Sandlot once a year and that means for one day I watch the scene where the kid fakes drowning to make-out with the lifeguard four times. That’s too many times. I had to process that. But I do remember that feeling of loneliness that could come with summer. That could come with wishing for a room somewhere with someone you loved when it felt impossible. I remember when the smallest of things could mean the world when you had nothing else…so in a way maybe I was exorcizing that too.

What was the most difficult part of writing Where the Sun Can't Reach?

Besides the jokey answer of reliving the aforementioned scene from The Sandlot on purpose, I’d have to say trying to accurately consider the physics/feelings of Eddie’s trip into the water. The feelings/actual consequences of hitting his head. I’m not too sure I got the details right but I remember working on it so many times that I eventually threw in the towel and went with what I had.

Do you have a favorite scene and/or line from any of your fics?

I think…it’s gotta go to my lone vampire Steddie fic I Go Hungry Every Night. The whole thing’s one big treatise to Upside Down skinned vampires and food/service as a love language? And also the fact that I love vampires/monstrosity. I just went way too hard with the line: “If you asked Steve what the opposite of tracing constellations in someone’s freckles in the afterglow would be he’d say this, making shapes in the pieces of the wound they’ve given you. The one that weeps red slowly.”

Do you have any upcoming projects or fics you’d like to share/promote?

While I wish I did, and I’m always thinking about various unfinished fics in the strangest moments of my life, I think I’m pretty knocked from my Steddie writing mojo. I love you you dope was an incredible process and I am so proud of it…but I think it cauterized my writing brain for Steddie. I’d love for people to poke around the fics I wrote and I will say that other people’s intrigue sometimes pulls my attention back to old ideas…but I do believe I’m a bit out to pasture here lol.

Outside of these questions, Is there anything YOU would like to add?

Writing Steddie was something that kept me sane during a really stressful transition from college to adulthood. These characters and all the people I got to meet/talk with in this fandom have been one of the greatest joys in my life. I’m so honored, like honestly floored, that anyone would nominate me for something like this. The thing about writing fic is that oftentimes when you start it can feel like you can’t possibly amount to what other people do. Like you’re just a little voice that doesn’t have anything special about it even when you tried so hard. But I stand as someone who felt that way and still found that people did enjoy what I wrote and if I can do it, honestly, anyone can. <3

Thank you to our author, @capriciouslyterminal, and our nominator, @mustardyellowlilac! See more of Capriciously_Terminal's works featured on our page throughout the day!

Writer’s Spotlight is every Wednesday! Want to nominate an author? You can nominate them here!

[liknws]

[ 002 ] "i hope."

⎯⎯ PAIRING: han jisung x reader/oc ⎯⎯ TAGS: rockstar!3racha plus jeongin, non!idol au, lovers to exes to enemies, one tour bus instead of one bed trope, subtweeting but in songs dropped during concerts, childhood friends to lovers ⎯⎯ RATING: 18+, mature ⎯⎯ WARNINGS: mild angst, i don't think there's anything else ⎯⎯ WORD COUNT: 4.9K (4970)

⎯⎯ SUMMARY: it’s been three years since the break up, three years since leaving the band you helped start, three years since you’ve even talked about your ex. not only have you been able to avoid talking about him, but you’ve been able to avoid him all together. until that same band you helped start decides to change labels and not a single person warned you that your safe place was about to be invaded by three men you’d do anything to avoid.

⎯⎯ A/N: added some twitter screenshots for the fun of it. also there's some cringe writing about singing so you've been warned about that, i'm sorry! this is probably my favorite chapter of the fic so far and it was incredibly fun to write. as always, reblogs and comments are appreciated and encouraged!

[ masterlist ]

You’re leaving the fifth city since the tour kicked off just two months ago, the two bands quickly becoming accustomed to life on the road with each other. To say that it was perfect would be a lie, each new day bringing a special kind of drama and spice to the day to day of touring. Last night there had been a tense argument over the temperature of the bus, the night before there had been some interesting threats made over a card game.

You didn’t often join in the bonding of the two touring bands, sitting near the edge of their circles so that it may appear you were participating but if asked any question about what had gone on in the last twenty or so minutes, you’d flunk the test. Your mind had been anywhere but the present for days, swimming in your own dark thoughts and memories. Being around the three that you once called family brings a lot of emotions to the surface you long thought buried and unreachable.

Everytime Changbin laughed you found yourself giggling quietly. He’d always been able to bring you out of whatever dark slump you’d been in, always the one to brighten the dark skies in your life. With Chan around again you felt a little more at ease, his presence a natural comfort and safe space for you. Any time you felt at war with the world, his arms would open for you to fall into and fight away the darkness.

Jisung brought so much up that you didn’t know what to do with it all. His laugh brought a smile to your face but then an ache in your chest. His sleepy smiles made you want to coo at him, pull him close and play with his hair like you used to. There are words that sit at the tip of your tongue that want to spill out but you swallow them back every time. Like now, with his tongue caught between teeth and eyebrows scrunched in concentration. The urge to reach over and take his hand, to smooth out those lines on his face, to comfort from whatever thought plague his mind, grows only stronger every night spent on the bus together.

Luckily it’s easy to pass off your distance as being unfriendly, uncaring. You were often alone on the bus, your shared bedroom becoming your palace of solitude and the others just left you be. No one forced you to participate, no one begged you to join in their card games or movies in the front of the bus. If your bandmates wanted to be with you, they came to you in the back of the bus. An unspoken line had been drawn at the doorway, the four outsiders never attempted to come into your space.

Unless you invited them in. It started with Jeongin, he wasn’t in the middle of any of it. You didn’t resent him for taking your place in the band, you were proud of him for getting it. One day you had seen him half hanging from his bunk with a book and asked him if he wanted to come read with you in your room, since you’re sure the bed in there was much better for relaxing and it’s quieter from the chaos out front.

That had started it. He would just silently look at you from wherever he was sitting on the bus and raise an eyebrow at you. You’d nod silently and within minutes, both of you are doing different things while stretched out on the bed.

Tonight is one such night. After one particularly long final show at the venue, both you and Jeongin had silently agreed to fall into the bedroom to just lay in the quiet and relax the ache from your bones. Between the bone deep exhaustion from the show and the lull of the road under the bus’s tires, you two fell asleep quickly.

Chan found you two half cuddled on top of the bed with legs a tangled mess and bodies angled away from each other, still in your clothes from the performance with makeup on your faces. He hasn’t the heart to wake you or the youngest so he lets you sleep, coming to the front of the bus and quietly getting everyone to ushered to bed. He doesn’t miss the look in Jisung’s eyes when told that Jeongin is sleeping back there with you already.

Sometime in the night when Chan gets up to check on everyone, he sees that you two have been tucked in, each under your favorite blankets and shoes lined up next to the door neatly. Chan isn’t sure who had taken care of you two, but he’s got a good guess.

The next morning is a late wake up for you; the only thing for the day is arriving in the next city and some radio interview that afternoon. You and Jeongin are perhaps the last ones to wake and stumble to the living room space, rubbing sleep from your eyes and pushing bed messed hair from your face. A cup of coffee is handed to you, your thanks mumbled at them with eyes still closed. You stand with a hip leaned against one of the counters until you’re more awake to open your eyes.

The others are mingled together, quietly talking to each other as they plan the day ahead of them. You catch a few things but mostly tune it out, sipping instead on the coffee (made perfectly you notice) and just grunting if anyone attempts to speak with you. When you finally decide to open your eyes and look around you notice that most everyone is intermingled, showing that the weeks on the road have bonded the two bands. Only you remain on the outside, walls so fortified against the others that you’re starting to wonder if it’s a cage you’ve trapped yourself in.

“We’re a couple hours away from our next stop. Once we get to the hotel and get checked in, it’s showers for everyone and back in the lobby within the hour.” Lily has appeared with a planning book in hand, pen tucked behind her ear. “Slight change of plans. We’re doing a live audience taping.” She flips a few pages and reads to confirm the details. “It’s going to play tonight and again in the morning as a promotion for the show since this station is the main sponsor for this venue.”

“How big is the audience?” Chan asks, looking between Lily and the others, confirming that his question is the one that everyone else seems to have. You nod, wondering just how big this thing is going to be today.”

“Less than 100 tickets.”

“Can we set up a meet and greet after the taping? Or open to fan questions?” This time Felix has the question. You can’t help but smile behind your mug, looking at him fondly. You adore that he wants to turn every small event into something like this for the fans, trying to make this about them too. “Maybe a panel instead of just a radio interview? Or both?”

“Let me call the producers and see what they think. I’ll let you know by the time we’re at the hotel, okay?” Lily has her own look of fondness, giving him the biggest smile she’s able to. You make a mental note to talk to her about that later but look instead at the others. None really seem too uncomfortable with the idea. “Unless anyone objects?”

“I think a meet and greet and panel sounds like a great idea. A fan led interview portion would be perfect,” Minho agrees with a nod. Seungmin and Hyunjin hum their agreement. She looks up at you for any objection and you just shrug, not really having an issue one way or the other with the plan. “If you guys are cool with it.” Minho shoots a look over at the other band who nod their agreement.

“Cool, let me make the call and I will update you all.” With a quick smile she’s headed back to the driver’s cab of the bus to make the calls, seemingly since it’s so much quieter up there instead of surrounded by the musicians in the bus.

“Movie?” Changbin is quick to suggest, holding up the remote to the streaming TV. Everyone seems to collectively agree, settling into comfortable places to see. You choose the far side of the couch, half curled into the arm as you lean on it for support to cradle your still steaming mug. You don’t even care that Jisung is the one that sits next to you as the movie starts.

・❥・

The interview has been going great, the station loved the idea of making it a panel and interview half led by the fans. They offered for a longer recording time as well to accommodate the idea. Everyone agreed without question.

The two bands are sitting in a line, facing the small audience but half turned to see the radio hosts. Each member holds their own microphone and you’ve already broken up one “lightsaber” fight between Jeongin and Hyunjin as one had red and the other blue, respectively. They ended up having to be separated and by doing so, the seating shuffle had you sitting with Felix on one side and Jisung on the other.

“If you guys are still up for it, why don’t we take a few more fan questions,” one of the radio hosts suggests, turning toward the audience and reaching for the wireless mic to pass off.

One girl stands, she wears one of 3RACHA’s older shirts, you realize. One of the designs from the touring festival. The sight makes your mouth go dry and shift in your seat. Eyes look toward Jisung to see if he noticed and by the way he’s refusing to look at you, you take that as he noticed.

The sight of that design brings a lot of memories up, a lot that you wish you could forget. That you hoped because of your addiction and struggles wouldn’t have survived that night but instead seemed to cling tighter the more you wanted it gone. That festival had been the turning point of your relationship, when everything shattered. You announced your departure from 3RACHA within a week of returning from the tour.

“My question is for 3RACHA.” A beat to confirm that she’s allowed to do that. “What’s it like to work with Red again after all these years?”

Okay, a pretty tame question. One you had expected in fact, though from the radio hosts and not the fan.

“It’s been pretty amazing to see them again, yeah. Really not just Red, but working with all of Ultra Violet has been great. I hope we get more opportunities like this in the future to work with the band.” The tension in your shoulders eases as Chan answers.

“Yeah, like Chan said: It’s been really cool seeing them and catching up. I’m super proud of what they’ve been doing and all the music they’ve been putting out there. It’s really amazing stuff, you know?” Changbin jumps in before the topic moves on, grinning.

“Hey! Stop with the flattery, they’re ours now. Finders Keepers,” Minho protests from his seat, half standing to point accusingly at Chan and Changbin. This elicits more laughter from everyone.

“I’m not going anywhere, Lino. It’s okay.” You laugh, leaning forward to look at him. “Now sit down before you hurt yourself.” He tsks at you but sits anyway, giving a faux grumble and pout before looking back out at the audience. The next few questions are easy ones, asking about later tour plans and if any surprises await.

What you aren’t prepared for is the next question that comes up. “I’m sure that touring together brings up a lot of old memories and emotions. There’s been speculation for years that everything between Jisung and Red was faked for publicity or sales. Can you guys confirm that was the case?”

You’re not aware of the words leaving your mouth until you feel Felix’s hand on your arm. “Nothing was fake, not a single bit of that was a stunt or for somebody. It was for us, just Jisung and myself. We were best friends who fell in love, it felt like the natural course of things. We were together before we ever made it to the music scene– Fuck, I have the cringe high school and graduation photos to prove it. We just kept everything private for a long time because we didn’t- and still don’t- owe anyone anything about the relationship. Past, present, or future.”

Don’t look at him, you tell yourself as you settle back in your chair. Rotating your arm so your palm is up, Felix takes the silent invitation and threads his fingers through yours with a squeeze. His presence is a comfort, letting yourself focus more on the feeling of his hand in yours instead of the anger that wants to boil over.

“So then something happened that made you leave the band. Was that before or after the break up?” Not missing the opportunity, one of the radio hosts takes the chance to continue the topic and goes with it. You’re about to ask for the subject to be dropped but Jisung speaks up next to you.

“I think Red will agree with me here when I say we’d rather not share private information about what may or may not have happened. That’s between us.” His voice is calm and level. Risking a glance at him, you see that his face is pretty impassive. You mouth a simple thank you to him before turning away.

“Who wants to talk about boring stuff like that when we have cool tour stuff to talk about?” Ever the savior and quickly becoming your favorite, Jeongin is fast in interjecting to change the topic of discussion. He winks at you when you look at him.

“I will say we have a couple new songs we’re debuting this weekend,” Chan teases with a chuckle.

“That’s right, you all have multiple shows this weekend right?” The other host quickly moves with the hints, letting the discussion of your relationship fall to the wayside. You release a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, shoulders falling back down. With your head turned to face the hosts, you don’t notice that Jisung looks at you with that worry crease between his brow and teeth chewing his bottom lip.

“Yep! We’ll be doing three shows here this weekend.” Felix is excited, nearly hitting himself with his mic with how fast he raised it to speak. You’re laughing, realizing right away what he’d just given away as Minho reaches over and slaps at his arm lightly. “Oops.”

“Three? I thought it was two. Friday and Saturday night.”

“Since Felix can’t keep a secret,” Seungmin is the one to speak up. “We’re doing a secret show Sunday night.” Hyunjin interjects with how it’s not really all that secret anymore, earning light chuckles. “We’ll announce when and where one hour before doors open on our Twitter.”

“So is this just an Ultra Violet show or will 3RACHA be joining in?” There’s a prying tone to the host’s question but you expected that the second the information was slipped. At least it was quick to change the attention from you individually.

“You’ll have to follow our Twitter to find out,” Jisung offers with a shrug.

・❥・

The rest of the interview goes smoothly, if maybe a little awkward but to credit everyone else they weren’t making a focus of it. The tension doesn’t lift from your shoulders until the microphones are handed back to the audio team and the goodbyes are exchanged with the radio hosts.

A few minutes to yourself before you go meet your fans in the small meet and greet. A few minutes to compose yourself and get the shaking to leave your hands. Quietly you slip from the group and find yourself a darker corridor to be alone in. Alone and in the quiet, you allow yourself to have a small breakdown. You lean against the cinderblock wall and slide down until you’re sitting with your back pressed against the cold wall, the chill of it bringing some peace.

Peace can only last so long, you think as the sound of approaching footsteps starts echoing around the darkness. It’s not so dark that you can’t tell that it's someone familiar and you assume that Seungmin has come to find you.

“I’m fine, Minnie. I just needed a quick breather.” You speak loud enough that he could hear you as far away as he is. The footsteps don’t stop and you lean forward to see who it is. The sight of Jisung coming closer and then crouching in front of you makes you stop breathing just a second.

“Sorry,” he whispers, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “Not ‘Minnie’.” He’s just inside of your reach, if you stretched your arm just a little bit you could take his hand in yours. You don’t. You shove your hand between your thighs as if caging them so they can’t reach for him.

“Sorry,” you whisper your apology. Anything above a whisper feels too loud, like it might shatter whatever small comfort this moment offers. Fighting against the urge to take one of his hands still, you dig your nails into the well-worn denim on your leg. You note the twitch in his own hand, hanging relaxed from where his forearms are braced on his knees as he’s crouched down to your level.

“I just—” He starts and stops, shrugging. The words remain in the space, unsaid. You wonder if he’s going to say what you think, what you won’t allow yourself to hope for. To your surprise, he does. “I wanted to check on you after that. You didn't seem like yourself.”

“Listen I just—” Now it’s your turn to stop with a shake of your head. “Nevermind. Thanks for saying what you did.”

He gives a humorless laugh and even in the darkness you can tell that his smile is a little forced. Nails dig in harder on your thigh in response, like that’s the last bit of self control you might have.

“Don’t thank me. I just assumed you wanted to keep things private like always.”

“Yeah, yeah. I do.” You take a deep breath. “It isn’t anyone’s business but ours.” You look back at him, not even really realizing you had let your eyes wander away. Looking now you see that same torn look in his eyes that you’re almost positive mirrors in your own. The weight of choice sits heavy in your gut.

He stands, extending a hand out to you to help you up. Against your better judgment, you take it with a whispered thanks. His hand is warm, it feels familiar and just perfect in yours. Fingers interlock together just as you two had done so many countless times before and it feels like home standing there with him, your linked hands between you two.

“I’m happy you’re speaking to me now.” His joy is too bright, almost a sun that could burn every bad thought away from you right now. You can’t let him, you can’t let the warm familiarity of his touch make you forget why you two are like this now.

“I’m not, but I will acknowledge that what you did during the interview was a nice thing.”

“I wasn’t just being nice. I guess I had hoped that showing you we’re on the same page that we could at least talk. I guess I assumed so I'm sorry.”

Every ounce of your willpower is put behind the effort of taking your hand out of his. Not because he’s holding so tightly but because you really don’t want to let go at all. “Once this tour is done and over, we won’t have anything more to do with each other. Just like it was before. I can’t— I don’t want to be your friend.”

“You were my best friend. You’re saying we can’t go back to that one day?” You don’t miss the pain in his eyes, the way his lips are pushed further into a pout. You have to go, you have to get away before something is said that you can’t take back. Before you break down the small shred of self-respect you’ve managed to build back after him is shattered.

You brush past him, intending to head toward the service exit of the venue that you’d originally come through. You just need space away from him, to get a clear thought that isn’t all consumed with his perfect pouted lips or the way his hand touch lights every single nerve ending you thought might have died with the relationship.

A hand on your arm stops you, pulling you lightly back into him. The shift in momentum throws you off balance and you fall back into his chest as his arms wrap around your waist.

“Please, jagiya.” His voice is so soft and you want to give in to his plea. It would be too easy to fall back into that with him, to unearth the buried feelings and let it consume you as it had before. “Tell me why we can’t be like that again.”

Every word sends a crack through the foundation, shakes the walls, rumbles the once solid ground under your feet. You turn in his arms, hands coming up to his chest and so gently pushing yourself out of his hold.

“I can’t be your friend when I’m still in love with you.” Somehow saying the words aloud didn’t lift any weight off your shoulders as you wanted, it only brought a burning pain to your chest and a thickness to your throat you knew meant you were going to cry.

“I’m still in love with you!” His pleas are soft, just as his touch. Reaching for you, hand on your cheek as his thumb brushes away a tear or two that flood over your lashes. “Why can’t we accept that and work on that? Figure out the rest as we go?”

You have to swallow back the tears in order to talk. It takes you a minute and he doesn’t rush you. “Because as much as I still love you, I hate you. You hurt me and you broke us. You broke my trust in you in a way that can’t be fixed. I can’t ever trust you again, no matter how much I still love you.”

“Jagiya,” he pleads again. “Let me prove it to you.”

“Don’t- don’t call me that. I can’t, just respect that. Understand what I’m telling you and leave me alone.” One last longing look before you remove his hand from your cheek and step out of his reach. You walk back a step or two before you have the strength to turn away from him, heading back to the cars.

・❥・

Just like every other show, 3RACHA is the first to perform. The order had been agreed on by a coin toss and then again by rock-paper-scissors. Their setlist remains roughly the same each night, a few changes here or there to keep it from being too similar to every other performance.

At first you think that it’s a fluke, that the song choice is just you reading too into things. Friday night is a bit chaotic and you’re on edge from the radio interview being aired again that morning. So there’s no way that Jisung is playing that song just for you. This one isn’t the one you two had written together but the words call back to your relationship, they could be applied in a way of him apologizing and trying to show you the love you two have is real.

But no, you convince yourself that you’re wrong. And by the time you make it on stage for your performance with Ultra Violet, the song is forgotten and your focus goes to the show.

But there’s no convincing yourself of the same thing the next night. Your heart stops when he looks at you, knowing you’re standing just off the side of the stage in the dark wings. And just like when he announced your relationship to the world by using a Taylor Swift song, he uses another to show you he was serious. That he meant it, that he wants to try again.

The words echo through you well past your performance and follow you into bed that night.

I never thought we'd have a last kiss I never imagined we'd end like this Your name, forever the name on my lips

・❥・

The crowd is bigger than you could have hoped for, knowing that there was only an hour for people to get in the door before the show started. Even then, they piled into the bar and screamed along with every lyric. These are the kinds of shows you love, the ones that remind you of where you started and that your success is because of this kind of love from your fans.

“Thank you so much guys for coming out!” Seungmin takes the lead, leaning into his mic to talk to the crowd of fans. They scream back in response to him. “It has been great being here tonight, truly we can’t do this without you guys.” Cliche but it’s true and you’re a smiling dork next to him nodding along.

“We have just a few songs left before we’re out of here.” You’re the one addressing them now, wiggling your eyebrows as you look out across the packed bar. “I hope you guys don’t mind but we’ve got a new song for you tonight.” You’d discussed this with your band last night, playing this song and spilling a few secrets at the same time. “I actually wrote this one and it’s for someone special, so I really hope you guys like it.”

You can already see it, the way that one line sends ripples of speculation and questions through the crowd. Already there are phone cameras pointed at the stage, that much you expected. You’d hoped for it. You know that once you start down this path there won’t be a way back. You will have to see your way through this choice.

The song is a bit softer than what you’ve been playing so far tonight, the melody and tempo slower. It’s a big difference but you’re hopeful that the crowd will at least be receptive, though in the end you don’t really care about their opinion. You just want to speak your side of the story now.

The song starts slower, just your voice and the rhythmic strumming of Felix’s guitar. The first verse plays out a lot of memories for you of those early years, of those nights driving from one city to another in order to spend time with him. Memories of playlist shared and swapped, of songs written for or about each other that you once treasured.

I, I hope she makes you smile The way you made me smile on the other end of a phone In the middle of a highway driving alone Oh baby I, I hope you hear a song That makes you sing along and gets you thinking about her Then the last several miles turn into a blur, yeah

The chorus is where Seungmin joins in on keyboard and Hyunjin sets a simple tempo on the drums. Minho’s bass notes flow through, tying everything together as you lean into the words a little more. You let the anger and rawness of these last few nights fuel your vocals as the leading notes of your guitar rift kick up the intensity of the chorus.

I hope you both feel the sparks by the end of the drive I hope you know she's the one by the end of the night I hope you never ever felt more free Tell your friends that you're so happy I hope she comes along and wrecks every one of your plans I hope you spend your last dime to put a rock on her hand I hope she's wilder than your wildest dreams She's everything you're ever gonna need And then I hope she cheats, like you did on me

You see it then, the dawning realization that this song isn’t a happy farewell to a relationship, that you’re not on friendly terms with whomever might be the subject of the song. As far as anyone knows, you have only ever dated one person (which remains the truth) and so this song could only be about him. You see it then, more phones rise from the crowd to capture the bitter lyrics and pent up anger as you flow to the next verse and the chorus repeats the words echoed by your broken heart.

You dare one glance at the wings of the stage, where you know he typically likes to hang out when you’re performing. Your eyes lock on his for the last chorus, the final nail to the coffin of any hope that this song may not be about him. You don’t look away from him until the last nights of the song fall off. The silence is only for a moment but when the cheers start, you turn back toward the crowd and cast away the last image of him. Of his anger, his pain, and heartbreak all laid out at his feet because of you.

You stomp down any guilt you might feel as the final song of the night opens with a beating from the drums behind you.

[cantwritethetword]

Music to my Ears

(+ Tickletober2023 Day 15: Cackle)

Fic Descript: Eddie hears Steve's proper laugh for the first time and becomes OBSESSED with hearing it again. Luckily, Eddie has a way to make that happen.

~A/N  - This is my first ever Steddie fic, and I haven't actually got up to Eddie in stranger things😅 but the amount of fics I've read (mostly nhasablogg cause their fics are fucking GOLDEN) makes me think i've got a decent understanding of the guy. lemme know if I completely fuck up his character tho lmao.

Hope this is alright, and hope the start of 2024 has been kind to you all <3

EDIT: This was also meant to be tickletober2023 but I'm adding it in now

- Enoy! ~

Tag List:

Masterpost Link 

Fighting demonic entities from another dimension is certainly one way to bring people together.

Steve and Eddie certainly didn't have had the most typical start to their friendship, so the pair were more than happy to slide back into a more regular young adult friendship experience once everything had calmed down.

But, the less crazy shit the two experienced, the more Eddie noticed Steve's little quirks that his brain couldn't help but fixate on. Nothing that necessarily bothered him, just weird things that most people probably didn't realise about Steve.

One of those weird things was his laugh. Or, rather, his lack of proper laughter.

Any time someone cracked a stupid joke, or something funny happened in the movie they were watching, Steve would bow his head and let out a few near-silent snickers, before lifting his gaze again with a slightly-too-perfect grin.

The first time it happened, Eddie put it down to nerves. Steve wasn't quite used to hanging out with Eddie's bandmates yet, so of course he would be more reserved than usual.

But it happened again, and again, and again. And the less people that were around, the more confused Eddie became. It was almost like Steve was consciously stopping himself from laughing aloud.

From that point forward, Eddie made it his mission to make Steve laugh. He'd poke fun at Dustin, goof around with his guitar, and add even more dramatic effects to his DnD games. But nothing seemed to crack Harrington.

That was until they were alone.

The pair had been lounging on Eddie's bed, talking back and forth about whatever TV show they had just finished. Eddie had made some stupid joke under his breath, not thinking anything of it. It was nothing out of the ordinary, and had no intent other than maybe getting Steve to roll his eyes.

But with the relaxed atmosphere of Eddie's bedroom, Steve's guard was so far down he didn't have time to pull it back up, and it was almost like the laughter started before either of them realised.

It was high pitched, only a level or two below squeaky, and certainly didn't fit Eddie's old image of 'Douchebag Steve'. The giggles were bright, clear but still bunched together. It came out in a stream for only a few seconds before both men locked eyes with surprise on their faces.

Eddie was entranced. It wasn't a particularly special sounding laugh, but it was coming from Steve. It was Steve's actual real laugh.

The man in question went red, and started stuttering out a "Where were we?" in an attempt to switch the conversation back.

Though Eddie allowed Steve the free pass, and carried the conversation back to Twin Peaks. But his brain kept ticking. Would Steve let that happen again? How could Eddie get him comfortable enough to laugh like that? How could Eddie even make him laugh enough to spill?

Steve was, by now, fully under the impression he had gotten away with it, but Eddie - the meddling kid - was far from ready to let it go.

As the conversation fell to a comfortable lull, Eddie spoke.

"You know, you should laugh like that more often."

Steve completely bluescreened. "Uh- I- What do you mean?"

Eddie sat upright. "Your normal laugh is so... quiet. Just then it felt like you really let go. I liked it."

"No I didn't." Steve's eyes fell to the bedsheets, out of Eddie's gaze. "My normal laugh is my only laugh, I don't have a different laugh."

Eddie chuckled, moving closer and almost looming over Steve. "You really don't want to start this fight with me, I know what I heard."

Still maintaining direct eye contact with the bed, Steve rubbed the back of his neck. "There's no fight to be had, I didn't laugh any differently. You can't prove it."

Oh that did it. Those three words struck a chord with the resident musician, and everything clicked into place in his mind.

"I can't prove it, huh?" Eddie smirked. "I think that's where you're wrong, Harrington."

With a predatory glint in his eyes, Eddie launched his fingers onto Steve's ribs and began vibrating his fingertips against the bones.

Steve let out a strangled gasp and tensed up, half-choked grunts squeezing through his sealed lips as his hands fought to pry Eddie's off him.

"Come on Harrington, just lemme hear you laugh." Eddie teased with a wink.

"ED-EDDIE- PL-PLEASE-!" Steve groaned through gritted teeth, snickers beginning to break through his resolve as he gripped Eddie's wrists rigidly.

Almost there Eddie thought to himself. "Just let it happen Stevie."

And happen it did.

It all became just a little too much for Steve's nervous system to handle, and those adorable squeaky giggles Eddie was looking for flooded the room. Steve's hands lost their strength, and his arms crossed weakly in front of his stomach to protect himself. At least, that was the intention. In reality he had just trapped Eddie's ticklish fingers against his sides.

But by this point, Eddie had forgotten all about his little attack. His fingers stopped abruptly only seconds after Steve had cracked. Frozen, Eddie was unable to pull his eyes (and his attention) from Steve's bright giggly smile, even as Steve's laughter faded.

"Fuhuhuhuck..." Steve whined, his hands covering his eyes and breaking the silence that had formed since his little giggle fit had ceased.

Eddie chuckled, ruffling Steve's hair. "I'd say that proved my point, wouldn't you?"

"You tell no one about this." Steve said sternly, lifting himself onto his elbows. "Especially not Robin... or the kids."

Eddie grinned. "Oh I'm happy to keep this between us, our little secret hmm?"

After a quick nod in response, Steve let his gaze drift around the room for a moment. "So... uh... are you gonna let me up or..."

"Pfft, nope." Eddie laughed, and shot his fingertips straight under Steve's arms.

And this time, Steve didn't even try to stop himself.

[i-starcreamed]

🤲fic recs? i need good xreaders

Okay so, i read most of my fics on quotev so most of them will be on there :D

anything highlighted in blue was recently added

some of these include mature content so make sure to read all tags and stuff :3

Unfinished

ENLIGHTENMENT. (tfp megatron x reader)

Whisper in Space (mtmte x reader)

From the Stars (TFP Ratchet x reader)

Upon Wings of Metal and Flesh (TFA x reader)

BEYOND THOSE WAVES. (TFP mer!formers scenarios)

The Babysitter (TFP x reader)

Fragile Bones (Bay! TF1 x reader)

Proceed with Extreme Caution (Bay! Optimus x reader)

A Silhouette's Serenade (IDW x reader)

Uncomfortable Truths (TFP Starscream x reader)

To Taste the Stars (TFP Optimus x reader)

Changes (mtmte swerve x reader) sequel to "a human crewmate" below

plus my own little story…

Daydreamin’ (TFP x reader)

The Season of the Smallest Stars (tinyformers!mtmte x reader)

Displeasures of the Flesh (human!Kaon x reader)

COMPLETED

A Human Crewmate (mtmte swerve x reader) also available on ao3

Words and Wishes (mtmte swerve x reader)

That's all I can remember rn, yeah, most of them are unfinished but absolutely worth it. You know what? I'll probably update this once in a while with more fic recs

[tswaney17]

It's a Match - Part 1

Happy birthday to the incredible @impossiblescissorspeachpaper!! I hope you have the loveliest of birthdays baby. I'm so blessed to call you one of my close friends. You're such an incredible person. 💕 Enjoy your special day, my love.

This fic is inspired by a conversation between myself, @ultadverb, @offtorivendell, @impossiblescissorspeachpaper, and @duskwhisperer. Thank you all for allowing me to take this idea and run with it. Also, apologies because this is barely edited. I was a hot mess all over this fic and it shows. 😅

My fanfic account: @tswaney17fics​​​

My ao3 account: tswaney17

Please let me know what you think about this update. I love getting your feedback. Constructive criticism is always welcome. 💕

Trigger warnings: language, NSFW

Word Count: 9,759

Read the full fic on AO3 here. Snippet under the cut.

Azriel was lounging on the couch in Cassian’s apartment regretting every decision that led him to this moment. Because just a few minutes ago, he accidentally let slip that he downloaded The Cauldron, a dating app, a month ago and his brother and Mor had not stopped pestering him about it since the words passed through his slightly buzzed lips.

“Come on, Az,” Mor whined, hanging over his shoulder and shooting him those puppy-dog eyes he had trouble resisting. “Open it up. Let’s see who you’re chatting with.”

That’s where the problem lay. Azriel wasn’t chatting with anyone because he never actually swiped right on anybody. It wasn’t that he didn’t find anyone particularly attractive—there were plenty of pretty girls on the app—it was just that he wanted something more than a physical relationship. He was thirty now; had a good career and his own place, made good money, and was freely able to spend it on anything without worrying about paying his bills. His life was in a good spot.

But he never really dated. Yes, he got women and fucked them well, Az wasn’t self-conscious enough to not know he was an attractive man, but those one-night stands just weren’t cutting it for him anymore. He wanted a genuine connection with someone; somebody he could build a relationship with.

Like what Rhys had found in his new girlfriend, Feyre. He’d met her once or twice, but it was obvious his brother was completely in love with the woman. Head over heels kind of in love. He was happy for him, truly. But sometimes, when he listened to his brother speak about the light of his life, he got this envious feeling inside; because he wanted that too.

He supposed that this dating app in general was probably not the best place to find that, but he was at a loss on where to find women that were looking for more than riding dick. Az sighed, running a brutally scarred hand through his dark hair, the strands flopping onto his forehead. “I’m not chatting with anyone,” he admitted, taking another swig of his beer.

Read More

~~~~~

Remember, sharing is caring! Please reblog if you liked the fic. It helps spread my work and I truly appreciate it. 💕

While I have moved these fics to AO3 only, I am still going to utilize a tag list here on Tumblr. This as a permanent solution and may change in the future. For notifications, you can follow and subscribe to my fanfic account where I will be reblogging updates and snippets only. You can also find me on ao3. If you would like to be added to my tag list, please leave a comment on this post.

My fanfic account: @tswaney17fics​

My ao3 account: tswaney17

Taglist: 

@nikethestatue

@reverie-tales

@123moiaussi

@duskwhisperer

@zdenkah

@nyxreads

@shedoessoshedoes

@athena-85

@jasmineandshadows

@nightcourtseer

@nivem565

@debramclaren

@illyrianvalkyriecarynthian

@secretpuppyflower

@justreallybored

@ultadverb

@the-regal-warrior

@roseandshadows

@tcursebreaker

@kingravinger

@mis-lil-red

@eloeloeheheh

@fawnandshadows

@swankii-art-teacher

@miss-bee-cat

@bookhhrelaz

@impossiblescissorspeachpaper

@elrielbaby

@lesolehabitantdelalune

@thoughtsaboutshows

@britishwings

@aelin21galathynius

@saz-griffin

@azrielslight

@bookstaninthesoul

Some tags seem to not want to link, which could be related to your visibility settings. Sorry about that!

[moon-language-0]

10 Questions for Writers

wasn't gonna do this bc i thought nobody probably really cares about this stuff but since i got double tagged by @meidui and @sunnysideprincess here goes nothing:

1. how many works do you have on AO3?

32 and climbing!

2. what’s your total AO3 word count?

ugh i had to go into my stats to find this number (hate looking at stats) but to my surprise that number is a whopping 816,828! (if added to my ff.net word count that figure grows to 1,062,375 🤯)

3. what fandoms do you write for?

stony exclusively, though i opened up to the idea of writing for steve and/or tony paired with any mcu villain for marvel trumps hate, and now i'm writing a steve/loki (with steve/tony as endgame) fic that's more fun than i would've anticipated! (x) still wouldn't call myself a "multishipper," though -- more of a serial shipping monogamist ;)

4. do you respond to comments? why or why not?

i do! sometimes i'm a bit slow to respond for various reasons (e.g. when people angels comment on my WIPs i like to reply when/right before a new chapter drops), and on a few occasions i've belatedly encountered comments that i forgot to reply to (😱) that i'll immediately rectify, but i very much want to encourage people to keep leaving them. a single comment—even short/sweet ones!—can be like rocket fuel to my creative drive -- and as someone who finds myself running on empty and trying to get by solely on fumes from time to time, getting that boost in my inbox is truly priceless.

5. have you ever had a fic stolen?

not in whole but in part :(

6. have you ever co-written a fic before?

i don't even know how that would work!

7. what’s your all-time favorite ship?

currently steve/tony. once upon a time it was spock/kirk, and the flame burned so brightly that it troubles me to wonder how it ever managed to go out. i collected vintage zines. i made insanely thoughtful fanmixes (one of which i recorded onto cassette tapes one-at-a-time by hand through a painstaking process and distributed to a few like-minded folks, with hand-drawn cover art and liner notes!). i read AMAZING fic that changed my brain and yet i never wrote a single thing! i made a secret spacehusbands clubhouse underneath a pool table during one long and otherwise unhappy summer. i even made spirk-themed patches and pins that sold quite well on etsy, and turned one of my large back pieces into the central design of a fully decked-out jacket (which was made specifically to wear while loitering around disneyland while baked). here's some photographic evidence of all of the above:

8. what are your writing strengths?

smut-crafting is the obvious answer, but i flatter myself to think that i also manage to tap into a particular kind of haunted beauty that hovers about, casting its ethereal moon-shadow over all the most poignant relationships; something i've been obsessed with in life, that i'm compelled to pursue further in writing.

9. what are your writing weaknesses?

keeping it short. my punctuation can get pretty erratic sometimes. also, this might be a cop-out of an answer since it can be interpreted as a 'strength' but it really can throw me for a loop: i tend to let the characters tell the story 'they' want to tell rather than keeping a tight hold on the reins and sticking to my own agenda -- this can lead me off my intended course, for better or worse! as a storyteller i'm a bit of a pushover—always open to sudden inspiration wherever it might issue from—and steve and tony are such *strong* personalities that this openness can be a problem when i 'channel' them.

10. first fandom you wrote for?

harry potter. i was a bit of a snapewife for awhile there (don't judge). ff.net has been having some server issues so i recently logged back on to download my 245k unfinished epic from 2012, and found over a thousand people had left comments! some people were calling it a "masterpiece" and/or "the best fic [they] ever read [for that pairing]" which made me doubtful, so i skimmed over some of the story expecting it to be cringey but uhhh... it actually holds up? i mean, 2011/12 was quite a time for me: i was simultaneously finishing my thesis on "fandom, fanaticism, and religious fervor" and can recall having full-on religious experiences of my own while writing that [truly 'inspired'] fic, so i guess i was onto something after all!

some of these folks have already been tagged but i'm whispering a soft 'hello' into the ears of @carsonian, @soliloquent-stark, @pia-bartolini, @avengersnewb, @tinystark616 & all writers who aren't as averse to mirror-gazing as i can be

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Have You No Idea That You’re In Deep? [Chapter 5: I’m Coming Back]

Aemond is a fearless, enigmatic prince and the most renowned dragonrider of the Greens. You are a daughter of House Mormont and a lady-in-waiting to Princess Helaena. You can’t ignore each other, even though you probably should. In fact, you might have found a love worth killing for.

A/N: I adore you all so much!!! Only 3 more chapters left. 💜

Song inspiration: “Do I Wanna Know?” by Arctic Monkeys.

Chapter warnings: Language, expert-level witchcraft, Adventures With Aegon™️, sexual references, pregnancy, combat-related violence, this fic is for readers 18+!!!

Word count: 6.2k.

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

Taglist: @crispmarshmallow​ @tclegane​ @daddysfavoritesexkitten​ @poohxlove​ @imagine-all-the-imagines​ @nsainmoonchild​ @skythighs​ @bratfleck​ @thesadvampire​ @yor72​ @xcharlottemikaelsonx​ @mochimommy2002 @loverandqueenofdragons​ @omgsuperstarg​ @endless-ineffabilities​ @devynsshitposts​ @vencuyot​ @ladylannisterxo​ @ariesbabycitlaly @itzwhatever123 @cranberryjulce​ @abcdefghi-lmnopqrstuvwxyz​ @liathelioness​ @mirandastuckinthe80s​ @haezen​ @fairaardirascenarios​ @penteknati @darkened-writer​ @weepingfashionwritingplaid​ @signyvenetia​ @abrielleholland​ @crossingallmine​ @burningcoffeetimetravel​ @yummycastiel​ @lol-im-done​ @lovemissyhoneybee​ @nomugglesallowed​ @witchmoon​ @yoshiplushie​ @404slayer404 @sunafterthethunder @torchbearerkyle​ @sweetashoneyhoney​ @quartzs-posts​ @lauraneedstochill​ @nctma15​ @queenofshinigamis​ @rapoficeandfire​ @hinata7346​ @curiouser-an-curiouser​ @eleganttravelercloud @meadowofsinfulthoughts​ @imjustboredso​ @unabashedlyswimmingtimemachine​ @myspotofcraziness​ @bregarc​ @mikariell95​ @doingfondue​

💜 Please let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist! (Also I’m sincerely sorry if Tumblr refuses to tag you!!!) 💜

On Dragonstone, Jace and Luke are sparring as the surf of the Narrow Sea gurgles at their heels. Their footprints mark the wet sand like bruises. Their swords clang and screech against each other. Daemon is coaching them, but somewhat halfheartedly; his mind is elsewhere. His mind is in the throne room, in the future, in the past. Rhaenyra is watching the match with great enthusiasm and shouting encouragements. And this is when Grand Maester Gerardys brings the rogue prince the scroll.

Daemon still has friends in the City Watch from when he served as their Commander, and so a raven found its way to him. Even if he did not possess such clandestine disciples, Daemon would have soon learned of the events transpiring in King’s Landing. Everyone knows about them. Maesters are waking up to tapping, squawking ravens from the Reach to Winterfell.

He unravels the scroll, reads it once, raises his eyebrows, reads it again. And then Daemon begins to snicker. It’s a sharp, sardonic, goading sound. It’s the sort of sound that begs for someone to stab their knuckles into him, to give him an excuse to bury them. Rhaenyra glances over at Daemon. He stops snickering, thinks about it some more, picks back up again.

“What is so amusing?” Rhaenyra asks, smiling a little. After all these years, there remains an immutable part of her that can’t resist seeing him happy. It doesn’t happen so often now. It is a thing to be treasured. She could never put into words how she feels about him, how she has always felt about him; it is something deeper than flesh. It is an entanglement of souls.

Daemon’s eyes—impish, mutinous—rise from the scroll. “You are never going to believe what Aemond Targaryen has done.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Helaena brings you lemon cakes and clean clothes. Alicent brings you a prayer book so you can beg the Seven for absolution. Sir Criston brings you his gallant, reticent well-wishes. Aemond brings you his body and his voice, everything he’s made of; he sits on the floor and holds your hands through the iron bars, both of them, like you’re back under the heart tree together reciting marriage vows in the sight of gods older than the stars. He asks if you are warm enough, if you are eating, if you are in any pain, if you want him to cut down the guards and free you from this prison and smuggle you away to Dorne. You steadfastly refuse his offer. Aemond’s future is here in King’s Landing, and there is nowhere you can run without losing him. Everything in you fights with bared teeth and drawn claws against leaving. It is an instinct so strong it borders on premonition.

There are four levels of dungeons in the Red Keep. The second is for people like you: those of noble birth, those still entitled to some comforts. Your cell is windowless but otherwise adequate. It is private and sparsely furnished with a bed, wash basin, and table and chair for meals. You eat on the floor with Aemond instead, passing whispers and morsels of food through the bars. It need not have ended up this way. If when Axel Hightower reappeared you had promptly agreed to return to him—to Oldtown, his keeping, his bed—no one could have begrudged you an honest mistake committed under the assumption that he was dead. The lords and ladies of Westeros would have been all too happy to overlook any sordid dalliances provided you left the prince free for one of their daughters to wed. But that’s not what you did. You refused to return to your legal husband. Aemond refused to relinquish you. He stood in front of you threatening to gut anyone who tried to touch you until you told him that it was alright, that you would willingly go to a dungeon cell, that you were not afraid. It has been three days since then. And tomorrow, the gods—the court believes the Seven, but you think immortals of a different sort—will decide to whom you are truly married.

In the depths of the night when you are alone with your thoughts, staring up at the ceiling with rage-orange torchlight trickling in from the hallway, you wonder about things for which there are no answers: How am I going to cast a spell if I’m locked up in here? How am I going to protect Aemond?

“Do you think he can win?” you had asked Sir Criston as he stood on the other side of the iron bars, his eyes averted and his face grim. He is a man at war with himself: his morals are outraged, but his loyalty is irrevocable. If you are indeed Aemond’s wife, then you are an extension of Alicent’s children, and he is honor-bound to support you.

“No,” Sir Criston had said. “But I’ll help him try.”

~~~~~~~~~~

You are attempting to read the prayer book Alicent gave you—poor reading material is better than no reading material at all, and you’re trying to appreciate it as a work of fiction—when you hear footsteps. You don’t recognize them at all. They reverberate down the hallway, the only sound in the cool stony quiet. You are the sole prisoner currently held on this level. The guards watch from the doorway of the hall, but they do not interfere when you have visitors. The footsteps come to a stop outside your cell. Axel Hightower stands there.

You glance up at him momentarily, then back down to your book. “I hope the prince doesn’t know you’re here. You should leave before he murders you.”

“We need to talk.”

“There is nothing for us to discuss, I assure you.”

“There is, wife,” Axel insists. “There is.”

You put down the prayer book. He is the man who you remember, but he also isn’t; he is wiry and solemn and jagged in places where he was soft before. You cannot imagine this man riding in a lighthearted joust and asking for your favor as he once did. You cannot imagine him smiling with chubby, childish cheeks and mellow eyes. You search yourself for any semblance of affection for him. If you ever had it, it is long gone now. “What do you want?”

“To implore you to relent, to see reason,” he says. “I will overlook this indiscretion. You believed I was dead, you were in need of comfort, you were…” He hunts for the right word. “Vulnerable. Impressionable. I will forgive you entirely for what happened with Prince Aemond. He took advantage of you, I’m sure of it. He is monstrous in both body and mind.”

“He sees more with one eye than you do with two.”

Axel’s gaze narrows. It is brimming with confounded, small-minded vexation, like a child who’s been told not to play with something that could destroy them: fire, perhaps, or an irresistibly gleaming blade, light reflecting from polished metal like sunbeams off waves. “Why are you being so stubborn?”

“I won’t go back to you, Axel.”

“You must. There is no other possible outcome. Don’t you understand? If I let you go, I would be ruined. No well-bred woman would marry me while the realm mutters about me being a bigamist behind our backs. There is no walking away from this union. And I will not be made a laughingstock, a cuckold. The Seven saved me from starvation on that island. They surely have a greater destiny in store for me than watching my reputation crumble into ash.”

You refuse to give him the victory of your full attention. You stare at the wall instead, counting the stones there. They are chipped and cracked and irregular, jutting out like dragon teeth. “I won’t do it.”

“But I will provide for you!” he says, exasperated. “I will pardon you, I will raise this child as my own. We can build something incredible together. We can ask for favors from Otto Hightower, lands and castles and enviable positions at court for our children one day, and he will give them to us as payment for our willingness to remedy this…this…disaster!”

“I am aware of no disaster,” you reply defiantly.

Axel’s face ages, darkens, sharpens. His skull is a demon straining against his leathery, sun-lined skin. You imagine moon-white bone splitting through the flesh. You imagine your stomach lurching with revulsion if he ever touches you again. “Oh, seven hells. You really think you’re in love with him.”

“I owe you no explanations.”

“You owe me everything!” he snarls, gripping the iron bars as he glares into the cell at you. “A marriage to me, into my house, was the best possible match your father could hope for. And now that isn’t good enough for you? Now you think yourself worthy of a Targaryen, of a prince? You are delusional, wife. Perhaps your grief for me drove you mad. Perhaps you cannot be trusted with the care of that child once it’s born.”

“The only thing that could drive me mad is the thought of your hands ruffling my child’s hair, lifting them onto a horse, teaching them to wield a sword. You are so unworthy it sickens me.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“I’m not going to live in fear, Axel. Not of you. Not of anyone.”

He takes several deep breaths, rubs his face with both hands, regroups, calms himself. “In any case, what you want is of little consequence. Ivar Kellington will win the trial by combat, this is a certainty. It need not result in death. All Prince Aemond has to do is yield. He will yield, wife, this I guarantee you. And you will return with me to Oldtown.”

“I’ll throw myself from a balcony first.”

He studies you with wounded, bewildered eyes. “You’re so different from the woman I used to know.”

You reply without looking at him. “You never knew me at all.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The footsteps race down the hallway; they rustle through the straw that litters the dirt floor. These ones are light and swift and wholly familiar.

“I heard he was here,” Aemond says in a rush. He hates Axel bitterly, perhaps almost as much as he hates Rhaenyra’s sons. The vitriol between them is so great that Otto Hightower has knights of the Kingsguard following each of them around the castle to ensure neither kills the other. Presently, two knights are hovering in the doorway of the hall and trading hearsay with three dungeon guards. They are discussing Ivar Kellington’s manslaughter record; is it ten victims, or twelve? You try not to listen.

“Fear not. He caused me no harm and retreated quickly. I made him very unwelcome.”

“I wish he had the valor to fight me himself. I would take great pleasure in introducing his entrails to his boots.”

“I know, Silver.” You touch his face through the bars, your palm pressed to his scarred cheek. He kisses you; the cold, rough, flaking metal that separates you scrapes both of your skin. It’s a pain that you would bear a thousand times over. You wonder if you will ever feel him inside you again. You wonder if he will ever meet his child. “I suppose I should offer to return to Axel and free you from this conflict, this suffocating weight. I should offer to let you go.”

“There is no need. I have told you already. I will have no other.” He kisses you again, knots his fingers in your hair, murmurs something in High Valyrian that you can’t understand.

“You are not permitted to use words I don’t know yet.”

“Then I’ll just have to teach you them all. We have time. We have the rest of our lives.” He lowers his voice so the knights and guards cannot hear, and for the first time you see fear—raw, primal fear—flicker in his eye, blue like the ocean, like fresh bruises, like veins. “I could use your help, Moonstone.”

“You have it. But I can’t do much from in here.”

“What do you need?” he asks softly. “For a protection spell. I remember the scent of sage. And the bloody bear teeth, of course.”

“Rosemary. Sea salt. A few pieces of black jade, small enough for me to crush with a mortar and pestle. A candle. It has to be white, pure white. And my flint and dagger to light it.”

Aemond nods distractedly. “I can get all of that. The dagger, flint, and mortar and pestle are still hidden in your room. Sir Criston can help me with the bear. The maesters can help me with the rest of it.” His eye shifts to the iron bars of your cell. “I can’t get you out of here though. I am followed by the Kingsguard anywhere I go within the castle walls. They are posted outside my chambers at night. The only guests granted privacy are Sir Criston and members of the royal family.”

You mull this over; you steep in it like a swelteringly hot bath. At night, the dungeon guards are stationed on the other side of the hallway door to give you privacy. They peek in on you every few hours—the creaking of the door sometimes wakes you—but otherwise they play cards and exchange off-color jokes and maybe even indulge in a nap or two as far as you know. They leave the keys to your cell hanging from a rusty nail protruding from the hallway wall. Aemond could go hunting with Sir Criston and that would raise no suspicions; he’s spent a great deal of time with the knight preparing for the trial by combat. He could speak with the maesters in the library and that would be perfectly fine. He could accept packages from them, even. He could enter Helaena’s chambers—which contain your bedroom as a (former, fallen) lady-in-waiting—and emerge with a bundle of goods tucked under one arm, and no one would bat an eye. But he cannot bring anything to you without the Kingsguard following him, without the dungeon guards jolting awake to oversee him. There is no way to free you so you can cast your spell beneath the heart tree. There is no way for Aemond to deliver you the necessary ingredients and tools without exposing you as a witch. If only there was someone else, anyone else…someone versed in deceit and slinking and shameful, treacherous secrets. At last you ask: “Who aren’t they watching quite so closely?”

The idea hits Aemond like a fist. He smiles. “You know, it is said that there are hidden passageways that crisscross the Red Keep. Maegor the Cruel had the castle builders executed so they could not spill its mysteries. I, being the upstanding and honorable prince that I am, am completely inexperienced with such things. But perhaps I know a man who is less…virtuous.”

Your lips meet one final time, hot and famished in the damp, ominous chill of the dungeon. You thread a lock of his sleek silver hair between your fingers. His hand closes around your moonstone pendant, his eye shut as if in prayer.

~~~~~~~~~~

It is not long after midnight—judging by your rough estimation—when you hear a scratching out in the hallway like rat claws. There are rats in the dungeons, even on this level, you’ve seen more than a few of them (though you did not mention that to Aemond); but this is no rodent. You creep out of bed and wait by your cell door, clutching the cold iron bars. As you watch, a small, square wooden flap opens up out of the dirt and straw of the hallway floor. Disturbed, ancient earth puffs up into the air like filthy smoke. Out of the opening, which is just wide enough for his shoulders to fit through, rises Aegon Targaryen. He stifles a cough in the crook of his elbow and crawls out into the hallway.

“Hi,” you whisper, amused.

“Hi.” He looks around in the dim torchlight, locates the ring of keys hanging by a rusty nail, and starts trying to shove them one by one into the lock of your cell. The fourth key is the winner. The cell door squeals as he opens it.

“Shh!”

“The hinges are old, what do you want me to do?!” he whispers back. He smells like wine and sweat and dirt, but he is relatively steady. There are cobwebs in his white-blond hair. “Bad dungeon cell, bad, you be quiet!”

He puts the ring of keys back on the wall. You scurry to your bed and begin bunching up the blankets and pillows so it might look like you’re obediently sleeping there upon a cursory check.

“Don’t bother,” Aegon says, then points to the wooden door he came through. “We can’t cover that back up if we both go in.”

You nod, understanding perfectly. You don’t have much time.

You follow him through the trapdoor. You have to crouch in order to pull it shut by the rope handle; the passageway is only about half as tall as you are. There is weak torchlight coming from farther down the tunnel. “This way,” Aegon says. You crawl towards the light, and after a while there is a steep decline like a colossal step on a staircase. When you drop over the other side—facing backwards so you can grip the top of the step as you lower yourself down—you find a corridor tall enough to stand upright in. Aegon hands you the lit torch from a sconce on the wall and picks up the burlap sack he left on the floor here, the one Aemond must have given him. He groans as he lifts it; the mortar and pestle give it considerable heft. “It took me two hours to find you, can you believe that? I’ve been using these passageways for years but I’ve never had cause to visit the dungeons before. I drank all the wine already. Now I’m almost sober. It’s a terrible inconvenience.”

The floor is made of packed, reddish earth. Cobwebs swing limply from the stones that form the walls and ceiling. There is a cold, biting draft; the sun never touches this place to warm it. There are clusters of bats suspended by their feet. There are stark white specks on the ground…rat bones, you realize. “You’ve brought women here?”

“As if you are above getting impregnated in surreptitious, gloomy places.” He opens the burlap sack to peer inside. “What’s this stuff for, anyway? There’s a knife, and some rocks, and, like, leaves, I guess, and…oh, what the fuck! There are teeth in here!”

“Bear teeth,” you say. “But I think I need something stronger this time.”

In the firelight, he blinks at you, the pieces clicking together: the horrid ingredients of a forbidden spell, Aemond’s peculiar luck in the joust, your strange Northerner blood, this errand he’s been conscripted for. “You’re a witch, aren’t you?”

You reply without answering him. “I need you to take me to Balerion’s skull.”

Aegon weaves through a series of snakelike corridors, barely needing the torchlight to navigate. A hidden door opens out into a hallway that leads to the vast, vacant chamber. What remains of the Black Dread is suspended over an altar of lit candles. In the shadowy, treacherous light, you can catch glimpses of eyes glaring hungrily from Balerion’s empty sockets; not a muddy green like Vhagar’s, but blood-red, wrathful, murderous.

“You seemed to know your way here well enough,” you note.

“Nothing gets women wetter than hearing about how I’m ‘the blood of the dragon’ and all that.” He leaves the burlap sack on the floor and climbs up onto the altar, stomping out candles as he does. He looks doubtfully at Balerion’s large, crooked, protruding teeth. “You really think we can pry one of those out?”

“We have to.” You slide the torch into a sconce and take your dagger—decorated with the roaring bear of House Mormont—out of the burlap sack. You scramble up onto the altar, burning your ankles and shins in the process, and jab the sharp, narrow blade into the sliver of space where the fanglike tooth is fused to Balerion’s upper jaw. You saw the dagger back and forth, trying to loosen the root of the tooth.

“Let me do it,” Aegon says, extending his open palm.

“I can manage.”

“Aren’t you not supposed to be overexerting yourself? Why do you think I didn’t have you carry your little bag of contraband? Just give me the dagger.” He picks up where you left off, grunting with the effort of wrestling with the tooth. “Is this sacrilegious? My participation in witchcraft?”

“I don’t think you’re getting into heaven either way.”

“There are seven heavens, you heathen.”

“And none of them will want you.”

“Says the bigamist.” He smirks at you. His tone is fond, but there is trepidation there as well. “It’s a shame that Axel’s a Hightower. Otherwise Aemond could just kill him. But alas…” He recites this next part as if he has heard it a million times on a million separate occasions. He’s almost mocking it. “No man is so accursed as the kinslayer.”

You think of your chosen husband, the prince, the man you love. He is quick to threaten, true, but you have never detected a certain violence in him, a certain nonchalant quality when balancing the value of human life. “Has he ever killed anyone before?”

“No. Not that I’m aware of.”

“But you think he’s capable of it.”

“Oh yes. Under the right circumstances. He’s prepared his whole life to spill blood in pursuit of legacy. He’s studied warfare and weaponry. He’s trained with the sword. He’s coveted the crown. He’s wanted it for so long, but he’s never felt its weight.” Aegon frowns as he struggles with Balerion’s stubborn tooth. “Maybe it should have been him who was born first. Maybe it shouldn’t have been. I don’t fucking know.”

You stare into the Black Dread’s sinister dead gaze, ice-cold dread twisting through your bones like tendrils of ivy. “I shouldn’t have fought Axel. I should have agreed to leave King’s Landing with him. I could have prevented all of this.”

Aegon shakes his head, chuckling. “No, Aemond will never surrender you. You are a peace offering from the Seven. Or the Old Gods, or the universe itself, or fate or destiny, whatever you choose to believe in.”

“What do you mean?”

“They took his eye but gave him a dragon. They took his throne but gave him you.” Balerion’s tooth pops loose. Aegon hands it to you, grinning. “Now what comes next, witch?”

You leave the torch in a secret passageway that leads out into the godswood; there can be no inessential light to attract the attention of the myriad of noble guests slumbering in the Red Keep. Under the heart tree where you were wed just days ago—days that feel like decades—you ignite the white candle with your dagger and flint and let the melted wax become one with the ancient root like bloodlines knit together in the womb. You grind the bloody bear teeth, sage, rosemary, sea salt, and pieces of black jade with the mortar and pestle. As you do this, and under your direction, Aegon crushes the dragon tooth into fragments with a rock. Then you mix Balerion’s savage essence with the other ingredients.

“What will this do?” Aegon says, meaning the spell. And then he adds with deliberate skepticism: “If it works, I mean.”

“It will protect him.” And you chant the familiar, ancient words as you finish grinding the herbs and salt and grains of black jade and shards of teeth into a fine pinkish powder, candlelight dancing across your skin: “Protect him. Break others if you must, burn others if you must, bury others if you must…but protect him.”

You hear the distant snap of a twig. You whirl towards the noise. In the darkness—punctuated only by light from the moon and stars—it is impossible to discern details. Your eyes search for movement, for faces. You cannot find any.

“What?” Aegon asks.

“Nothing. Never mind.” You pass him the mortar full of pale pink dust gingerly, as if it is a small child. He places it into the burlap sack. “You have to spread it under his bed. All of it. Every last crumb.”

“I will.” And something about the way Aegon says this makes you trust him entirely.

After taking a moment to consider it, you hold out your dagger from Bear Island. “Give him this too.”

Aegon escorts you back to the dungeon. Everything is exactly as you left it; if anyone has inspected your cell, there are no apparent signs. When Aegon disappears through the wooden trapdoor, you cover it with a layer of dirt and plenty of straw as well. Then you return to your cell. You can’t lock the latch from inside without keeping the ring of keys and thus revealing your temporary escape, but you can shut the door and hope the guards don’t notice or—more likely—assume it was their own oversight. You lay in bed and stare up at the ceiling. In disjointed, dreamlike flashes, you think of Aegon and Helaena and Axel, Sir Criston, the sad queen, the dying king, Rhaenyra and Daemon on Dragonstone, your child, your mother, your husband, dragonfire. And you are balancing on the knife’s edge of sleep when you hear a guard come in to check on you.

He lumbers down the hallway, rattles the cell door, mutters about his idiot colleague, and re-locks it. Then he retreats back to his post to nap the rest of his night shift away.

~~~~~~~~~~

The trial by combat is held in the courtyard where Prince Aemond has trained since boyhood. Nobles—men, women, children, swooning aspiring princesses—encircle the dirt-floored arena and babble amongst themselves, offering prayers and wagering bets. They do not gamble on who will win, but rather how long it will take before Aemond yields: two minutes, one minute, less. The royal family is watching from above in their seats on top of the castle wall. The withering king is absent. Otto Hightower is stern-faced and anticipating an imminent resolution of this crisis: Aemond will yield, Axel’s cause will prevail, and you will be dragged back to Oldtown to rot in obscurity while the prince marries a Baratheon or a Stark or a Lannister or some other daughter of a powerful and wealthy house. What Queen Alicent wants is less clear. Her face is pale and pained, perhaps even conflicted. Helaena is wringing her hands. Aegon is very, very drunk. He lurches out of his chair—decorated with a seven-pointed star—and reels down the steps to visit you. As you are not yet (nor ever likely to be) an accepted member of the royal family, you are standing on the ground with the other courtiers. They keep their distance from you. They act as if touching you would give them greyscale or plague or worse.

“You look lovely,” Aegon slurs. You are dressed in the moonstone gown you last wore on the night Axel’s reappearance ruined your life. It matches the pendant strung around your neck.

“You look barely conscious.”

“Yes,” Aegon says woefully. “I don’t care to witness what happens next.”

The crowd cheers as the combatants enter the courtyard. Ivar Kellington, towering and heavily armored, strides in with Axel trotting alongside him. Aemond is accompanied by Sir Criston, who is still offering last-minute wisdom, demonstrating techniques with his own sword. The prince spots you, smiles, approaches you as nobles grumble disapprovingly. When he is close, you can see that he has rubbed the dust from your spell onto his forearms, his palms, his throat. To anyone else it would look like mere chalk or salt. To you it is a declaration of faith. Axel glowers at you both from the other side of the courtyard.

Aemond is wearing hardly any armor at all. His strategy is moving quickly and agilely; heavy armor would only constrain him, slow him down, obstruct his already halved vision. Knights of the Kingsguard follow him towards you and then look uncertainly to Otto for guidance. Otto Hightower sighs and covers his face with one hand. The knights stand by.

“I have much to thank you for,” Aemond says, and gestures to what hangs from his belt: his sword, his dagger, and your own dagger as well, the roaring bear of the hilt glinting in the sunlight. His hands cradle your face and he kisses you deeply, feverishly, his tongue darting between your lips. Your knees go weak; your thoughts, for one blissful moment, dissolve into a haze. “I’ll be needing more of you soon. I’m starving for it. I’m coming back.”

“Aemond,” you plead in a whisper, the first time you’ve ever called him by his true name.

“I’m coming back,” he repeats determinedly, his grin crooked. “Fear not, wife. You cannot rid yourself of me. I have claimed you for life.” And then he murmurs something in High Valyrian—the same thing he said when he visited you in the dungeon, the words you have not yet learned—before breaking away to meet Sir Kellington in the center of the courtyard.

You look to Aegon for a translation. Your husband often laments his siblings’ lack of scholarly interest in High Valyrian. Helaena knows only the dragon commands. Aegon refuses to study the language beyond what he needs to communicate with Sunfyre, but he can understand quite a bit of it. He overheard plenty of conversations between Rhaenyra and King Viserys as a young boy. The king never bothered to teach High Valyrian to his children with Alicent.

The racoon-eyed, firstborn son smiles. “He said that he loves you.” And then he totters away to sit with his family on top of the wall.

There is a septon spewing some ritualistic opening words. “We are gathered here in the sight of gods and men…”

You recite your own words within your mind. Protect him, protect him, protect him.

Axel Hightower is staring intensely, trying to catch your gaze. You ignore him. You had meant what you said about throwing yourself off a balcony before you would submit to returning to him. But perhaps you would prefer cutting his throat.

Ivar Kellington and Aemond face each other, clutching swords in their right fists. The man they call Killington is deathly still. Aemond is shifting his weight from one foot to the other, keeping himself lithe and alert. He looks so small next to the giant, so young. You picture him as the boy he once was, runtish and outnumbered when his eye was carved from his skull. He was so brave. He was so alone. Sir Criston circles the combatants from a distance, preparing to shout instructions to Aemond. You tug on your pendant as your heartbeat thunders in your ears. Aemond twirls his sword as he waits for the trial to begin. And then it does.

The prince lunges at Kellington with weightless, manic speed. His sword parries Kellington’s once, twice, again, and then lands a strike on the giant’s helmet. The clang echoes through the courtyard. There are awed applause and whistles. The crowd expects Kellington to win, of course—they depend upon it, if they hope for their daughters to have a chance at marrying into the royal family—but they would be pleased to witness an honorable performance from Aemond. There is no shame in losing well. Sir Criston is smiling, just barely. Kellington swings his sword—nearly twice the size of Aemond’s—but the prince easily maneuvers around it. His blade hits Kellington in the back, the gut, the knees. The giant bellows in pain and frustration. He sounds like a lion or a bear or a dragon. He sounds more like an animal than a man.

Aemond’s eye is scrutinizing Kellington’s armor for weak points: at the neck, under the arms, the naked face. He dives to bury his sword in Kellington’s massive armpit but is rebuffed. He strikes instead at the giant’s head again, and then his chest, loosing metallic booms. Kellington swings blindly, clumsily. Aemond manages to get his hands around the giant’s helmet and wrenches it off, tossing it into the crowd. There are claps and cheers from some, groans from others who have already lost their bets.

And then Kellington’s armored elbow slams into Aemond’s face on his bad side, his blind side. Blood spurts from Aemond’s nose and split lip. The prince hurtles away, half-falling and half-sprinting to get out of the giant’s reach. He shakes his head, trying to clear out the pain like smoke from a room. He turns with his sword raised to block Kellington’s blow, but the giant’s strength is too great; Kellington’s blade knocks Aemond’s sword from his grasp. It goes flying off into the courtyard.

“No!” Sir Criston howls, unable to stop himself.

Aemond regains his footing and draws his dagger. He side-steps rapidly, keeping Kellington in his view, his blue eye wide and hurting and vicious. The giant’s sword slices through the air but the prince evades it. Aemond leaps forward with his dagger aimed for Kellington’s face. The giant seizes Aemond’s right forearm, squeezes it, crushes it. The crack of snapped bone rings out through the courtyard. Now the audience is appalled, fearful. Aemond does not scream, but there is a choked sort of gasping; the dagger tumbles out of his grip. You can see blood pouring into his hand from where the bone of his arm split the skin. You can see the disbelief and terror taking shape in the lines of his face.

Twisting his broken arm, Kellington forces Aemond down to his knees. With his right hand, the giant lays his sword against Aemond’s bare neck. Dust from your futile spell mars the pristine, reflective metal of the blade. “Do you yield?” Kellington snarls.

Calls for Aemond to yield reverberate through the courtyard—through the whole world, it seems—but above it all you can hear the words that he spoke to you weeks ago on Bearstone. They don’t make any sense, they are random and tragic and useless…and then, suddenly, they aren’t.

Jace threw dirt in my face and Luke cut me.

“Do you yield?!” Kellington says again.

Aemond stares up at him, hateful and agonized and—Jace threw dirt in my face—defiant.

“Yield!” Otto commands.

“Yield, Prince Aemond, yield!” the crowd cries out with mounting frenzy.

“Yield, you idiot!” Aegon shrieks.

You are the only one who remains silent, outwardly at least. The words rise up in you like fire in the mouth of a dragon. They echo in your skull, soundless and yet blaring. Like when you were a boy, like when you were a boy, like when you were a boy…

You see the realization ripple across Aemond’s face. He grabs a fistful of earth with his left hand. He flings it into the giant’s eyes. And as Kellington is trying to blink and paw the dirt away—in those few fateful seconds—Aemond rips your dagger from his belt, jumps to his feet, and slits Ivar Kellington’s throat to the bone. Blood flows like a river, gushes into the earth, bubbles in the wreckage of Kellington’s severed windpipe. The giant plummets face-first into the ground, never to rise again.

The sounds that engulf you are a storm of jeers, applause, triumph, bitter disappointment. The horde is pulsing and ungovernable. Aemond finds you in the deafening crowd and pulls you against his chest with his unbroken arm, sheltering you from the shoving and the cheers and the hisses. He rests his forehead against yours. Blood drips down from his face and his hair onto you. You are both bathed in hot, slick, scarlet rain. Your moonstone gown is freckled with it; your cheeks are stained. You taste its coppery stickiness when you kiss him. “Your arm—”

“It will heal, wife,” he says hoarsely. “Perhaps miraculously quickly, with your talents.”

“I love you too.”

“I certainly hope so. You are mine for life.”

The septon is proclaiming to the thunderstruck audience: “The Seven have spoken. The lady’s marriage to Axel Hightower is hereby annulled. Her marriage to Prince Aemond Targaryen is declared legal and indisputable, and any issue they produce is legitimate.” Otto Hightower’s jaw hangs open. Queen Alicent is weeping grateful, elated tears. Helaena is beaming. Aegon wears a glazed, vague, drunken smile. Axel has collapsed and is pounding the earth with his fists.

From his island in the sea of shouts and blood, Larys Strong watches you. He was in the godswood last night as sure as he is here now, and he has valuable information to share with the queen. Now is not the time; now she is overcome with relief and pride and the limitless compassion of a mother sloshing in her veins like the reddest wine. But the right time will come. In plain sight and yet unseen, Larys smiles malevolently, yearningly.

Oh yes, the time will come very soon.

[quillkiller]

whats ur opinion on jegulus?

for me i dont really fw it. I think it’s mostly bc i don’t like james that much and putting him w/ regulus i feel kinda takes away from both their characters. For reg I feel like the ship kinda softens his character and takes away his agency. ‘he was just a wittle baby whos mummy an daddy forced him to join a hate group 🥺’ which is very far off from how I view him. It gives james a savior sort of role. And that’s not to say i haven’t read some good jegulus fics and enjoyed them I think they jsut need to be modern day bc the whole ‘james saves regulus from the horrible fate of the desth eaters that his parents forced him into!’ Annoys me.

(ps im sorry if you really like jegulus i promise this wasn’t meant to be hate or anything)

agree with all this!!!!! 🤍

i don’t really like jegulus all that much and i have been known to mention it once or twice here on quillkiller dot tumblr dot com. honestly, for me, it’s probably just that im too much of a sirius guy and and i think both sirius and regulus deserve better than to have james juggle between both of them. james and sirius are too important to me and i dont like what happens in their dynamic if reg was added into it. in my world james is always and forever going to choose sirius if it ever came down to that and regulus deserves better !! + and ive talked a lot about this before too, im not a fan of regulus becoming part of the marauders friend group!! i think he’s a way more interesting character to delve into when he has his own life outside of sirius and his own friend group (the skittles <- which i also dont like interacting too much with the marauders). in addition to the james and sirius friendship being important to me, so is regulus and sirius’ relationship, and i don’t like what happens to their dynamic either if reg is paired with james. the whole thing just stresses me out and i can almost never enjoy it. ’best friends brother’ trope is weird and strange to me, probably because im an oldest sister myself, and i don’t see the appeal which is why i have a running theory that people who like that trope are younger siblings themselves or like….. only children ….

anyway, i don’t hate jegulus!! i just think they’re the least interesting james and regulus pairing !! i follow some jegulus blogs that have captivated me body and soul. they’re just not interesting enougj to me to like. explore further myself. i dont go looking for fics about them + i have the jegulus tag blocked and only unblock/click to see the post when its my favorite jeggy mutuals/blogs ive followed specifically because i like their jegulus… so like, im not necessarily immune to jegulus but it also takes a lot to get me interested ! ive read a few jegulus fics and ive fallen in love with some of them and there’s one (1) that i would put in my top 10 favorite fics i think !

however!! my favorite jegulus is unrequited jegulus where regulus us in love with james. to me, their dynamic is the most compelling to me in a canon compliant setting !! ive read a bunch of modern aus too that ive enjoyed, but i like the angst of jegulus the most.. the angst and unrequited vibe of it all is so hot and sexy to me.. like the jealousy and resentment regulus feels for james because he took sirius in and becomes his new and better brother. and that resentment mixed together with confused desire during your puberty years when everything is angsty and confusing and you’re heartbroken and grieving ? you’re the absolute polar opposite to your brothers favorite person and you’re supposed to hate him but his smile looks like summer and his mere presence is always suffocatingly warm and you get it. you’re not surprised your brother chose him over you and you think that if james potter cornered you somewhere and kissed you and said ’sirius doesnt have to know’ you think you would probably let him because who wouldnt. james can have whatever he wants, he proved that by taking sirius (like that IS a big deal. sirius was heir to the noble house of black !!!!!!!) and what else is there to do but grieve your brother and hate wank over his best friend, who only knows you exist because you’re sirius’ brother, he chose over you

[thiswaycomessomethingwicked]

When you are writing a new chapter for a fic, how do you decide what to put in, and what to leave out?

I see a lot of advice about killing your darlings - whittling the scene down until it contains only what's necessary to advance the plot.

But I also see advice that says it's okay to include more than this, because you need to advance the characters as well, by giving them quiet moments in between all of the plot advancing parts.

I really struggle to find the balance. I love writing the quiet moments, and fleshing the characters out, but sometimes these moments run away on me, and I end up with a bloated mess that barely advances the plot at all.

Do you have a process or a rule-of-thumb you follow, to help you decide what does or doesn't make the cut?

How easy do you find it to remove stuff later, when you realize the story is better without it? Do you cry and have wine while you bury your dead, or are you a ruthless assassin? :)

Oh man, great question.

I’m going to answer for what for my original fiction. I don’t heavily edit my fanfics in any meaningful capacity, as any of my readers can attest, since that is my hobby and editing is work. Also, since it is my hobby, I am pretty self indulgent with what I include. I meander and wander all over the place with my plots and don’t keep them as tight as they probably need to be.

Exhibit A, the visual representation of the plot of Thus, Always 2.0 (one line being present day and the second being the past):

But for my original fiction, there’s a very long, drawn out process of editing.

For House of No Return, the current book (known as The Venetians in my tags), I wrote out the first draft. In that draft I put all the self indulgent stuff I wanted. Character studies, side plots, random asides, plot cul-de-sacs, and so on.

Then, when done, I rewrote the entire thing. Top to bottom second draft. This is because, by the time I was done with draft one, I knew my characters a lot better than when I started. I knew, more clearly, the story I wanted to tell. I had a better vision of how the plot should work.

Once the second (or third) draft is done, I let it sit. Ideally, you should let it sit for a few months. I don’t have patience and am riddled with a deep need to always be writing, so I can usually only make it a few weeks.

When I take it back out, I print out the manuscript and read it in one or two sittings. This is because I need to remember what the fuck I was doing. As I read, I make margin notes of where I bump or where things drag a bit. My second read through is much more methodical. I sit with a note book and jot out a detailed outline as I read. When I eventually type them up they usually look something like this:

As I read through the outline, that’s where I can see if there are baggy parts that need trimming. When I note them, I decide whether to completely remove, or shorten, or shift to another part of the story, or if I can convey any central information in other areas.

Sometimes colour coding helps – highlighting all the parts that are faster paced in red, the slower bits in green, the pure character study bits in blue (or what have you). The visual representation helps me, at least, see if there’s a part that’s bunched up with only one colour and may need to be broken out a bit.

I make edits to my outline in blue, usually, of what needs to be added or changed when I go to do the next big rewrite.

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Throughout this whole outline review process, I’m also thinking through what sort of plot pattern/design best serves the story. There are a lot out there and each has a purpose and can strengthen aspects of the story that’s being told.

Good reference: Meander, Spiral, Explode: Design and Pattern in Narrative by Jane Alison.  

For House of No Return, it’s a pretty classic mountain form: start | rising action | point no return | climax | resolution.

Something a bit like this with the little plateaus representing times when the plot slows for a bit to allow the reader a break and an opportunity to sit with a character or an emotion or some new information.

These breaks can also ratchet up tension and help keep people on the edge of their seat. The horror genre is a great example of this. You know that when we’re having a quiet character moment, or a humourous moment, we’re about to get something horrific on the other side of it and we’re in trepidation until it happens. But the book can’t be all horrific moments or else the audience gets bored.

(Unless the author is Doing Something/There’s a Purpose Being Served in having 85,000-100,000 words of only horrific moments. Which can abosolutely be the case! Again, it’s about what you’re trying to do, how to best tell the story, and fundamentally what that story needs to be.)

Grief and trauma writing also benefit from the breaks. I think about this in fics where it’s all bleak torture and there’s no resting or lighter moments—it’s hard on the audience. Which, again, can be the author’s intent! And that’s fine! But usually if you want to keep people going with you on the journey you need to give them breaks. That is just reality.

So, when writing the classic model I would say write, write, write. Get every thing onto the page. Every little indulgement moment, every little character study etc.

Then think about how you want the story to be paced. Do you want it a heart pounding fast paced piece? Then yeah, trim it down to mostly bare bones with just enough breaks for character study/get the audience invested in who they’re reading about and to give them a bit of a breather. But it should be super tight, over all.

Steep, steep, steep – little moments here and there for a break – then shattering fall and people should be reading going “what the fuuuuck is going to happen next??” (Grady Hendrix is a master of this.)

 Some traditional mountains, though, are slower.

There's a long, langurous start. We’re all along for a gentle ride then it begins to build bit by bit until we realize we’re riding down the Tuscan hillside in a cart with no breaks.

This is the sort of story where you can really relish your character studies and soft moments between people and little side bits. But you do need to keep enough movement to keep the audience interested. This is one that is harder to pull off because the balance can be tricky.

I tend to write like this. Hilary Mantel has books that hit this kind of approach. Silvia Moreno-Garcia’s Mexican Gothic is a good example of a slow burn start but a good ride at the end. Laura Purcell’s The Silent Companions is another example.

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All that said, not all stories need to follow the traditional approach! Some are meant to be tangled meditations. A lot of weaving, a lot of introspection, the story is more about the journey and not the destination. Sometimes the plots look a little like this:

Peak Literary Experimental Fiction shit right here. This can be a lot of character study, a lot of philosophical musings, a lot tangents or backtracking or jumping around a little. Justin Torres’ Blackouts is a great example of a meandering story that is as much about the characters and their conversations as it is about queerness and history.

Other stories are meant to be rolling hills or waves: up and down, up and down.

Jane Austin has a bit of a wave quality to some of her stories, not all, but some. Long, drawn out family epics that span generations tend to have this quality to them. Books like Pillars of the Earth tend to be more wavey than mountain climax.

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Anyway. I've done a diversion myself. Back to editing.

When I’m doing my trimming, I don’t have an exact process for determining what makes the cut or what stays. I go with my gut on a lot of it. Sometimes, there are scenes that are hitting the same note but coming at it in different ways.

Cristof’s anxiety over his friend’s gambling addiction, and his guilt around feeling as if he is enabling it, is something I overwrote in the first few drafts because I was trying to understand the psychology of their friendship and Cristof’s own inner demons. Therefore, as I trimmed, I picked three key things that the audience needed to know about Cristof and Jacopo and made sure those were captured. I cut and trimmed accordingly.

However, I do have some babies that get reused in different places once I realize the original scene wasn’t working.

This stupid joke was originally in a completely different scene and was said by different characters but that scene wasn’t working and so I had to cut it. But I was very enamoured with this little interaction, so I found a way to incorporate it.

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It’s also important to remember that some character studies/the resting pauses can be brief. By all means write out the full seven page version but I bet it’s possible to trim it down to a really powerful short beat that can pack a bit of a punch. Writing out the full seven pages is sometimes necessary to get at the heart of what you’re trying to say. Then cut it back.

I had a full multi-page version of this paragraph:

But it’s a rest-beat in the middle of the apothecary/barbershop scene that is moving the plot along, and therefore this memory/character beat needed to be tight. Still, we get a bit of a glimpse at Cristof and Nicolo through it, and while it might not seem important on the surface, we do need to care about these two idiots and the fact that they’re dumb about each other and in love.  

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Quiet moments can also be interspersed within action. You can weave them through, so you have:

Active Scene/Plot Moving

Restful introspection or memory

Back to the Active Scene.

If done right it can give a bit of a melodious, wave-like quality to what you’re writing. It’s not for every story, nor every scene, and shouldn’t be overused (I may be guilty of that), but it allows you to still get in those meaningful character moments without stopping the plot too much.

As for the ease with which I kill darlings? Depends on the darling. Some are easier than others. Some I like, but if I can incorporate the important bits in another fashion then I’m fine with it. The more I write, the more I edit, the more ruthless I become.

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A lot of this is, fundamentally, all about practice and doing it a lot. And also all writing rules aren’t rules so much as broad guidelines and each story has its own needs and requirements to make it work.

Apologies for the long reply. I'm not sure it's what you're after but I hope it helps. There is, unfortunately, no "quick trick" that I have to do it. It's really just a very involved process.